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I reach for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. He pulls it off so quickly that it makes me laugh. My hands greedily explore the contours of his muscles, tracing the intricate designs of his tattoos before trailing my fingers down to the button of his pants. He groans as I press my palm against him.
Weston undresses me with careful urgency, and somehow, inthe blink of an eye, we’re both naked. His sculpted body hovers above mine, and he kisses me with an intense passion. He starts on my lips, my breasts, and even sucks along the curve of my stomach. Every place his lips roam is his.
When he finally sinks into me, it’s slow and deliberate. His gaze locks on mine, and it steals my breath away. I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. Each thrust rocks through me. With his hands in my hair, he whispers my name like a prayer. This man is intoxicating.
I cling to him, my nails digging into his back as pleasure builds within me. Weston continues to give me everything I need, stoking the fire of desire until I can’t hold on any longer.
With a cry, I scream out his name and the orgasm washes over me, spiraling into bliss.
He’s everything.
He leaves me breathless and dizzy, and I’m lost in the haze of him.
Quickly after, he follows me over the edge. His body shudders against mine, and he whispers the words I’ll never get tired of hearing.
“I love you, Carlee Calloway. My gorgeous wife.”
36
WESTON
Two Weeks Later
As soon as Carlee and I hop out of the car, camera flashes explode around us. Bright lights temporarily blind us, but I guide her forward. Paparazzi swarm like bees, snapping photos and calling out our names. It’s five in the morning; the sun will rise within the next thirty minutes. My fuckup was not expecting them to be here, waiting for us. Oh, how wrong I was.
Carlee grabs my hand, and I lift her knuckles to my lips, placing a kiss on them. It’s a little promise that we’re together in the chaos. In Paris, we weren’t followed very much, but now that we’re back in New York, that will change.
Our gazes connect, and I shoot her a wink. She blushes, a light hue spreading across her cheeks. I hope she always responds to me like this.
Right now, pictures of us are flooding the gossip sites, gaining attention that usually goes to A-list celebrities. The public’s view of us is positive, and for once, life feels so fucking good.
“Weston! Did you hear about Lena?” a deep voice calls out from the crowd, snapping me back to reality.
I shake my head, curious.
“Twenty years in prison. She got what was coming to her,” the person says, giving me a thumbs-up like I had anything to do with it.
Once inside the foyer of The Park, I hook my pinkie with Carlee’s. Touching her feels purely electric and something I crave constantly. We step into the elevator, still riding the wave from spending time together for two weeks.
“Ready to leave again?” I say, my mind drifting back to the peaceful days in Paris.
“I’d go anywhere with you,” Carlee replies. She means that.
The elevator ride up to the penthouse is filled with stolen glances and silent conversations. I smile, knowing I’ll never get tired of her looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“It feels like we’ve been gone for a lifetime,” she admits as I unlock the door.
“It does,” I say as we step inside.
Boxes are piled in the living room, chaotic but with neatly written labels. The sun will soon break over the horizon, and the early morning light will stream through the windows.
“Um,” she says, eyes wide, “what’s all this?”
“Your apartment,” I explain. “Your furniture is still there. I didn’t know what you’d like to do with it.”
“Let’s donate it. Everything was given to me,” she replies, moving toward her beloved paintings, leaning against the wall like old friends. “I only ever paid for art. Oh, can you help me with something? I want to see what’s on the back of this one. I can never remember.”
“Sure.”