Page 37

“You’re my favorite, you know that, right?

” I call out to her when she disappears quickly inside, and we take a seat at one of the picnic tables.

When I look back, Ace eyes one of them and then plucks it from the box.

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you eat a donut,” I say as he opens his mouth, ready to take what’s gearing to be a big-ass bite.

“It’s my wedding day,” he says, then resumes his path by destroying the donut in his hands. The easy smile that takes over his face isn’t one I’ve seen often either. Maybe ever, if I really think about it. “Presh has been paying me in donuts and pastries for years.”

I take a bite and close my eyes— damn, that’s delicious .

“Why would she pay you? What kinds of things do you do for her that it warrants such great currency?” When I glance up at him, I can tell I must’ve asked the wrong question.

I’m met with a suddenly pinched brow as he wipes his mouth and his hands.

Standing, he ignores my question, gathers the napkins, and says, “We should get going,” then moves toward the house and tosses our garbage.

I’m left watching him, wondering what the heck that was all about.

A loud roll of thunder breaks up the quiet conversation that Ace has with Presh, the sky turning grayish purple and angry.

Spring storms like to swoop in and remind everyone that we’re not as big and powerful as we like to think.

The first few droplets force me to abandon what’s left of my donut and move quickly toward the car, shouting a thank you and goodbye to Presh as Ace does the same.

Moments later, those few drops turn to a whipping sheet of cold water that douses me instantly.

Yanking open the door, the second I get in his car, Ace is coming in right beside me on the driver’s side.

Both of us are out of breath from trying to keep from being soaked, but one look down at my saturated tux and a glance at his wet hair, and it’s obvious we failed miserably.

His hair is darker when it’s wet, the silver streaks disappearing as his hand drags through it.

He looks like the younger version of himself.

The one I crushed on since the moment I saw him—less sure, but still wildly more confident than anyone else I’d ever known.

Eyes closing for a moment, he leans against the seat’s headrest, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow, raindrops trailing down his face. He’s impossible to not want.

Another crack of thunder sounds in the distance, and his hands grip onto the steering wheel tight as he opens his eyes and lets out a held breath.

Catching myself staring, I clear my throat, and with it, the stupidly dreamy moment I was just having.

It also snaps his attention to me, and we both let out a laugh at our currently drenched state just before he starts up the car.

Words seem lost on me as I watch him race through town, the reality of what we just did hitting me as hard as the sheets of rain outside the car.

I just married Atticus Foxx. I bite along my thumbnail, trying to hide my smile.

I shouldn’t be so impressed with myself.

I need a distraction. Leaning forward, I play with the music and settle on something country.

“What kind of music do you like?” I ask, realizing I don’t know.

He looks at the display, at what’s playing.

“Depends on my mood.” I can’t keep from looking at his white dress shirt that’s practically see-through along his upper arms. He glances at me, similar to the way I imagine I’m looking at him.

He reaches to the backseat and passes me a Foxx Bourbon T-shirt.

“And what kind of mood are you in right now?” I wipe the shirt down my arms, unclasping the halter that’s buttoned at my neck.

He doesn’t answer right away, instead focusing his attention solely on the road ahead.

Licking at his lower lip, he shifts his body, gripping the wheel tighter before tapping the gas and kicking up the speed.

“Not sure I should answer that right now,” he says, swallowing and stealing another glance.

My body heats, even as I shiver. Moving the T-shirt he gave me over my head, I push my arms through, then toss the wet halter onto the dashboard.

He glances at the discarded shirt and clears his throat, just as we’re pulling into the driveway of his house.

I don’t fully comprehend why I do it, but I feel a cavalier urge to say things to this man that I know will rile him up. It’s a dangerous addiction. “Why not? Are you in the mood to keep looking, husband?” I angle my body toward him. “Or am I misunderstanding the way you’re eye-fucking me?”

Pulling the car toward the front porch and not the garage, he throws it in park. This time when he looks at me, it’s like he’s working hard to keep his hands on that wheel.

“You don’t need to answer me with words.” I run my fingers down the front of the damp shirt, between my breasts, and down my stomach. “I’d rather you show me...”

“Hadley—” he bites out, like a warning, and I know I’ve pushed my limit when he moves for his door handle.

There’s a twinge of disappointment that passes through me. So I don’t linger; I beat him to it. I shove the door open and rush out of the car.

I hear him shout my name as his car door slams shut. But I keep moving. Running up the porch stairs and through the front door, that’s as far as I make it.

His arm wraps around me from behind, his chest pressing against my back, hand splayed open along my waist and holding tightly. My heart races, belly fluttering wildly, as his mouth brushes just below my ear.

“You want me to show you,” he husks. His words spark to life pure excitement and need for him to keep going.

“Yes,” I say on a breath, just as his arm loosens enough for me to turn to face him.

I don’t have time to think, or want, only to follow his lead as he pulls me fully into his arms. His hands grip and fist the back of my shirt as his lips find exactly where they belong: playing and prying against mine.

Sighing into the kiss, I wrap my arm around his shoulders, and he lifts me up as his tongue swipes along my lips.

He hums, like he approves of the way this feels, and it lights me up even more.

Working my tongue in a warm and wet caress, he lifts me so that I can wrap my legs around his waist. I writhe against him, releasing a moan, teasing for friction.

When his hands grip my ass and squeeze tightly, that move alone makes me want more of whatever he decides to give.

My fingers dive into his hair as he moves us down the foyer, past the stairs, anchoring my back to the wall and then grinding himself into me. And as I feel every goddess-blessed inch of his cock rock into me, another moan crawls up my throat.

If the first time he kissed me tilted my world, then this sets it on fire. I don’t know if I’ve let in any breaths, only that the way his teeth nip at my lips and how his tongue dances with mine turns on every single fucking part of me.

Using the wall as leverage, he moves one hand to my breast and finds my nipple, pinching it first, and then moving his mouth down to it.

Over the T-shirt, he teases me with his teeth, pulling another clipped sigh from me, one consumed by desire.

He does it again, and then moves back to my lips, nipping my bottom lip first, and then grinding himself right along my center once again.

Jesus, that feels so fucking good . A rogue moan escapes his throat, and it’s so sexy, I want to drop to my knees this instant just to hear it over and over.

But instead of another moan or growl, it’s the sound of car doors slamming, feet running up the porch, and voices of his family getting louder by the second that has us stopping, him retreating, and looking at me like he just did something he never should have.