Substitute Bride: Utterly Pampered by Her Billionaire Husband-Chapter 1194: Now, Hold Me

But, Dianna Hollis wasn’t afraid of him. She tiptoed and brought her bright little face close to his, "How am I being excessive? Tell me."

The two of them were now very close, and Mort Thorne could smell the fragrance on her. The veins on his forehead started to throb, "I saw your husband coming. I discreetly hid in the bathroom, waiting to leave after he’s gone. I’ve compromised again and again, yet you keep pushing, Dianna. Do you think you can make me angry without consequence?"

"What then?" Dianna suddenly leaned even closer, almost touching him.

Mort was originally full of anger, but now her absolutely stunning eyebrows and features suddenly expanded and contracted in his view, leaving him dazed, realizing he was seduced by her beauty.

"Can’t we just talk, why get so close to me? Keep your distance!" Mort reprimanded in a low voice, but his voice was hoarse.

At that moment, Dianna stepped forward suddenly and wrapped her little hand around his neck.

Mort clearly didn’t expect her to come closer. If she moved a bit more, her red lips would be kissing him.

Mort’s throat bobbed up and down, "Dianna Hollis, what do you want?"

Dianna tilted her small head, "Mort Thorne, it’s you who should be answering, you haven’t responded to my question. If I anger you, what do you want to do?"

"However, even if you don’t say, I know what you want. Aren’t you thinking of... repeating your crime?"

Repeat a crime?

Mort Thorne had only committed one crime in his life, which was forcing himself on her years ago against her will.

She said he wanted to repeat the crime...

Her delicate lotus-like arms hung around his neck, her graceful tight body pressed against his muscular chest. Through the thin fabric, he could feel her icy jade-like skin.

He had never thought that as she grew, she’d become so beautiful.

Three years ago, she was 21; now, at 24, her perfect S-curve is neither too full nor too slim, just right.

Dianna looked at the man, his dark eyes already flickering with two scarlet flames. This flame wasn’t unfamiliar; he desired her.

"Mort Thorne..." she called his name then slowly moved her red lips closer, "Now, kiss me."

Now, kiss me.

She said.

Mort’s muscles tensed, those muscles under the black T-shirt were robust, full of formidable masculine strength.

He extended his wide, rough palm, wrapping it around her slender waist.

The buried feelings in his heart became unbearable at this moment, like a small seed breaking through the soil, gradually sprouting.

His large hand pinched her waist, slender like willow, seemingly easy to break with force.

He lowered his tall frame, leaning in to kiss her red lips.

A bit closer.

Closer still.

Almost kissing.

But then, Mort suddenly stopped.

"What’s wrong, scared?" Dianna asked.

Mort closed his eyes, "We can’t, you’re married, I shouldn’t..."

Dianna suddenly leaned in, giving a peck on his lips.

Mort’s voice cut off, his dark eyes immediately flooded with red streaks. All his self-control shattered under her kiss, and a crazy thought struck him: get a divorce, let her divorce!

Mort tried to open his mouth, wanting to speak, but at that moment, Dianna retreated, suddenly releasing him.

Mort was bewildered, "Heh, heh," her bell-like laugh echoed in his ears, "Mort Thorne, I was joking with you, you didn’t take it seriously, did you?"

"My marriage is very happy now, you’ve seen it. My husband is tall, handsome, wealthy, and gentle, perfect and without flaws. Why would I get tangled with you again?"

Mort’s handsome brows immediately clouded over. She actually... played him!

However, any woman would choose Raymond Alden over him.

Mort turned to leave; there was no need for him to stay here.

"Mort, you can’t leave now because my husband might return anytime. If he sees you, he’ll definitely misunderstand, so please stay here for a few days. When my husband leaves on a business trip, then you can leave," Dianna said.

Mort clenched his fist, finally listening to her. He looked at himself and said in a deep voice, "Prepare a change of clothes for me, I want to wash up."

Dianna looked at him; his thin black T-shirt couldn’t hide his strong chest. His muscles were robust and mighty as a fortress, the pecs well-developed. Now he has one hand in his pant pocket, except for the empty right leg, resembling the formidable Cain Shaw from Hong Kong three years ago.

"You’re injured, can’t touch water."

"Then I need to wipe off."

Dianna’s gaze moved down to his pants, "Where to wipe, can’t sleep without wiping there?"

"If it were you, could you sleep?" Clothes are unnecessary, just buy me a new pair of underwear."

All he needed was a change of underwear; that was his minimum requirement.

Dianna stood there, unwilling to move.

Mort compressed his lips, "Damn it, Dianna, I really misjudged you. You won’t even buy me a pair of underwear!"

He finished speaking, entered the bathroom, and slammed the door behind him, clearly quite upset.

...

Mort removed his pants, stood under the showerhead, not showering directly but taking a towel, wetting it, and rubbing his body.

His leg had bled today, his body carried a faint scent of blood, and he couldn’t sleep without cleaning it.

With no clothes, he took a towel and wrapped it around his sturdy waist, then stood at the vanity to wash his underwear.

He’d wash it tonight; hang it up, and he could wear it tomorrow.

At that moment, with a click, the bathroom door opened, and a slender and graceful figure lazily leaned against the doorframe.

Dianna stood there, watching Mort wash his underwear.

Mort stood on one leg at the vanity steadily, with wet black hair clinging to his forehead, tiny transparent water droplets sliding down his bronze, textured skin—a bit sliding into the towel-wrapped triangle, dangerously seductive muscularity that could easily induce a nosebleed.

Dianna felt her eyes getting hot, this damn man knew how to seduce.

Now he was bowing his head, washing his underwear, his hands full of soap bubbles, wild and carefree.

Three years ago, the man was surrounded by admirers, served by thousands. Three years later, life had gotten rough; he was washing his own underwear.

Mort knew the girl was watching him from behind, expressionless, without raising his head, cleaned his underwear.

Turning around, he looked at her, "Where to hang it?"

He handed the soaking underwear forward.

Dianna lazily leaned against the doorframe, her black hair tucked behind her white ear. Under the dazzling lights, the girl was bright and delicate, with a hint of allure, "Are you sure you want to hang men’s underwear in a married woman’s room? What would people think seeing your underwear hanging in my room?"

Shit!