Page 45 of Accidental Groom

His voice is ragged and broken, his breath hot against my skin as he loses the last of his control. His hips stutter once, then twice, before he buries himself deep with a low, husky groan, losing himself inside of me so thoroughly I can feel it leak down the inside of my thigh.

For a long moment, we don’t move. His chest heaves against my back, his body warm where it presses flush against me, his fingers still tangled tightly in mine. His heartbeat thuds heavily against my skin, rapid but even.

His lips brush my shoulder, right over where his teeth had been before. Slowly, like he’s avoiding setting off a bomb, his grip loosens on me, and his hand locked in mine lifts, carrying my fingertips to his mouth.

He presses a kiss there, soft and lingering, and I’m not sure if it’s the come down or the act that makes my breathing go weird because of it.

His forehead drops to the nape of my neck.

“God,” he murmurs, his voice well and truly wrecked.

And that single word, whispered against my skin, defeated and reverent andconfused, undoes me more than anything else tonight.

I don’t know what any of it means — if this is just what we are now, a married couple who fucks when things get too heated or the pressure bursts. But if it is, I’m not upset about it.

I’d take it over hating myself with George.

I try not to admit to myself that I’d take it over many things, actually.

Chapter 14

Harry

It’s two minutes to noon when I realize something might be wrong.

The driveway is dusted with a handful of yellowed maple leaves, the early autumn sun catching in the tops of the trees. The breeze curls softly through the oaks and maples surrounding the estate, but the passenger seat of my Bentley is empty. The driveway is, too, save for me and one of my business managers, Paul.

I check my watch for the third time. Paul leans against the stone pillar beside his car, too polite to comment, but I can see the shift in his features.

“She’s usually prompt,” I say, glancing back at the front door of the house, then the side driveway that leads around the back. Both are empty. We’re meant to be going to lunch today to discuss public relations — she knows that. She’d told me last night she’d be ready by eleven-thirty.

It grates at me.

Not because of the schedule being thrown off, not because she might be flaking, but because something feels off. She’d looked a little pale last night, moved through the kitchen likeeverything was personally offending her and she’d walked a thousand miles. Ended up skipping dinner.

Michael says something about how he’s going to handle some emails while we wait, but I barely hear him. My gut twists from the uncertainty. This isn’tlikeher. Two months ago, she would’ve braved a hurricane to avoid disappointing anyone — she practically had by marrying me.

I pull my phone from my pocket and shoot a quick text to her.

Me:

You’re late. You okay?

I stare at the screen. A minute passes, then another, no typing bubbles and no reply.

Screw this.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, glancing back at Paul before stalking down the side driveway, rounding the estate.

I take the little path that leads through the garden to the front door of the ivy-covered cottage. Normally, I’d give her space,morethan space, so I can limit the number of times I inevitably cave to her. But something about this claws at me in a way that doesn’t sit right.

It only makes it worse that the front door isn’t locked.

“Elena?”

Nothing but silence answers me.

My feet move on their own. I pass the kitchen, her tea left cold on the counter, a half-cut lemon starting to dry. The house smells of her rose shampoo, hints of vanilla beneath it, but there’s something else there — something acidic, something not quite right.