Page 42 of What's in a Kiss?

I can barely speak through my chattering teeth. Glasswell springs into action, and is—right before my very eyes—stripping off his clothes. Down come the sweatpants. Off peels his sweatshirt...

Until he stands before me in a thin white muscle tank and tight black cotton boxer briefs. I can’t even pretend I’m not ogling him. The man’s muscles are gravitational, and my eyes are moons.

When Glasswell turns toward a towel rack, I gape because I’ve never seen an ass like that on a non-principal ballerino. And I’ve been looking.

“Olivia?” he says, and I realize he’s holding out his clothes for me. “Put these on before you catch a cold. I’ll hang your dress up.”

“Uhhhh...” He expects me to strip. Like a wife.

From inside the house comes a beeping sound—a kitchen timer or a smoke detector or please God, an alarm sayingWake up, this was only a dream.

Glasswell looks toward the sound.

“I’ll be right back,” he says over his shoulder. “Take that dress off.”

I do as he says—once he’s inside and can’t see me wrestle with the soaking sheath. I take everything off, dropping my underwear into the pile, trying not to remember traipsing around in it in Masha’s suite this morning.

I slide into Glasswell’s clothes, breathing in his eucalyptus scent. I feel the ghost of his body in the warm material. It feels like clothes straight from the dryer, except the dryer is a hot-ass bod. I’m in over my head.

I wrap my hair up in a towel and drag two fingers underneath my eyes, where running mascara must make me seem even more like wildlife. I drape the dress over the chaise lounge and study it for damage.

I remember Masha’s hand like a stop sign in my face, the cold judgment in her family’s eyes. I have nowhere else to go, no one else to call, no choice but to march toward this beast of a chateau with Glasswell inside.

I enter the sunken living room to notes of Fleetwood Mac. The house is massive, its surfaces all white marble and mauve leather, soft gray velvet. Does Glasswell really own this place? What kind of prenup do we have? And where did we find that sex-height marble dining table?

Oh God. Have I had sex with Glasswell on that table?

Of course I have. And probably everywhere else in this house. We’re married. We must have banged a thousand times. A pleasurable tweak passes through me at this thought.

I scowl. Even my body is against me.

“Hey,” he says, coming around a corner I didn’t know was there.

I yelp in surprise. His eyes roll over my body so territorially I almost slap him. Then I remember he’s not trying to be a creep. He thinks he’s my husband.

“I love it when you wear my clothes,” he says, his low growlfeeling like he’s got his hands on me. He steps close, blocking any chance of an exit with his heat, with his scent. “I know what you need.”

I gulp. “You do?”

Slang sex words roll from his tongue. It’s a lot of vowels and L-sounds, clearly something dirty.

“I don’t know...” I say.

“You were begging for it last night.”

My insides wince. High Life Olivia begs for it? She doesn’t even know what “it” is!

“I’m pretty tired,” I say. “Maybe I’ll just crash out here—”

“Come on, I thought we’d go a little crazy tonight,” Glasswell says, sotto voce. “And try it... with a chicken.”

“Okaaay,” I say to buy us all some time. Lots of people in the canyon keep chickens in their yards for eggs. I briefly flirted with the idea myself. As I look around for evidence of my husband’s husbandry, I wonder just how crazyisthis realm?

Sex stuff... with birds? I beg for this?

“Really?” Glasswell seems surprised. “You’re into it?” Like a boy on Christmas morning.

He takes my hand and pulls me deeper into the room. Oh God. Something deeply perverted is imminent. He leads me to the vast sofa and sits me down. Instead of sitting next to me, he grins.