Page 34 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Sunday morning — Christopher

I didn’t sleep. Not really. Not with her next to me. Not knowing what morning would bring.

Ariana sat on the edge of the bed now, wrapped in the sheet like armor, hair tangled, spine straight. She hadn’t said a word in fifteen minutes. Just stared out at the skyline, blinking slow, like maybe it would rearrange itself into something that made sense.

I slid our marriage certificate across the bed to her. I’d slipped out after she fell asleep and brought it back with me.

She picked it up. But she didn’t open it.

“You remember our wedding?” she asked finally, her voice low, a hint of a smile.

“Every second,” I said.

She looked at me over her shoulder, jaw tight. “Tell me.”

“I walked you into the chapel. You kicked off your last heel halfway up the aisle and told the officiant to ‘make it quick before I lose my nerve.’ You laughed through the whole thing. Said marrying me might be the worst decision you’d ever make—and then you looked at me and said, ‘But it also might be the best.’”

She blinked fast, once.

“And when it was over,” I added, “you kissed me like you meant it. Like maybe—just maybe—you didn’t want it to be a mistake.”

Silence.

I let her sit with it.

“I hated seeing your name in those headlines,” I said. “Like it was a joke.”

“I hated seeing it too. But what scared me more…was how much of me wanted to make it real.” Then she whispered, “I want to believe it.”

I moved toward her, slow. Careful. “But?”

She looked at me then—really looked. And I saw it all.

Fear. Longing. Rage. Regret.

“But I don’t trust you,” she said. “Not enough. Not yet.”

The breath I took felt like shards of glass in my lungs.

“Then let me earn it.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that. Trust isn’t a debit card. I can’t just swipe it again and hope it goes through.”

I was going to back off. Say something measured. Give her space.

But then she reached for me.

Fast. Desperate. Real.

And suddenly her mouth was on mine, her hands in my hair, her breath all over my skin like she was drowning and I was the only air left in the world.

I didn’t ask questions.

I kissed her back.

Hard.

The sheet slipped from her body as she climbed into my lap, leaving nothing between us but history and heat. God, I was starved for her. Every inch of bare skin she pressed to mine set a fuse I had no hope of controlling.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” she said, her voice a low snarl against my lips.

“I know,” I said, tasting the truth in her mouth. “But it’s real.”

Her fingers threaded into my hair, tugging just enough to make my pulse jackhammer. She kissed me like she hated me. Like she loved me. Like she didn’t know where one feeling ended and the other began.

I couldn’t get enough.

I rolled us over, bracing myself above her, just looking.

Drinking her in. Her dark hair spilled across the white sheets like ink.

Her chest rose and fell fast, matching my own ragged breath.

The sheet had slipped to her waist, baring the smooth curve of her breasts.

The way she looked up at me—defiant, vulnerable, furious—was a punch to the heart.

“You don’t trust me,” I said. “But your body does.”

Her breath hitched. For a second, her eyes softened. “I hate you for knowing that,” she whispered.

“Hate me later.” I dipped my head, kissing the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breast. “Right now, just feel.”

Her nails bit into my back as I took her nipple into my mouth, swirling my tongue until she arched beneath me. Her thighs shifted, parting, inviting, and it was instinct to slide my hand lower, mapping every familiar inch until my fingers found her slick and ready.

“Fuck, Ariana,” I groaned. “You’re killing me.”

“Good.” She bit my shoulder, her hips rising to meet my hand. “You deserve it.”

Fair.

But even as she said it, her legs wrapped around my waist, holding me there. Wanting me there. The past didn’t stand a chance.

I slid two fingers inside her, slow and deep, watching her come apart for me. Her head tipped back, lips parted, a soft whimper escaping as she rocked against my hand. I’d never forget that sound. I’d dreamed of it too many nights.

She was gasping now, close, so fucking close, but stubborn as hell.

“Let go,” I murmured against her ear. “Don’t fight me on this.”

Her laugh was breathless, wrecked. “I fight you on everything.”

“I know.” I thrust my fingers deeper, curling them just right. “But not this. Not here.”

Her back bowed, a cry catching in her throat as she shattered, clutching my wrist like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to pull me away or keep me there forever. I kissed her through it, slow and reverent, tasting every broken piece of her.

When she finally stilled, her breath hitched again. But this time, it wasn’t rage or pride holding her together.

It was fear.

I didn’t give her a chance to retreat. I hooked her leg over my hip, sliding home in one long, slow thrust. We both stilled. Breathing. Feeling. Remembering.

No one else had ever fit me like this.

Her fingers curled against my chest, not pushing, not pulling. Just holding . Anchoring herself in a moment she didn’t want to believe in.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she said again, but her voice cracked.

“Then let me show you what it could mean.”

And I moved.

Long, deep strokes, setting a rhythm that had nothing to do with revenge or closure and everything to do with need. With home. Her legs locked around me, hips meeting mine in a tempo that was frantic and devastatingly familiar.

The sounds she made—those breathy little gasps, the soft curses, my name falling from her lips like a confession—hit me harder than any song lyric I’d ever written.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

I kissed her like I needed forgiveness. Like maybe, if I loved her right this time, it would erase every mistake. My hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head, deepening the kiss as I drove into her, her body arching to meet every thrust.

“Say it,” I whispered against her lips. “Say you still feel this.”

Her nails scored down my back, leaving welts I’d wear like a badge. “I hate you.”

“You don’t.” I caught her bottom lip between my teeth, making her gasp. “Not here. Not now.”

“Don’t tell me what I feel,” she bit out, but she was breaking. I felt it in the way her hips moved faster, in the way her breath hitched on a sob she tried to swallow.

I kissed the corner of her mouth. Her jaw. The hollow of her throat.

“I love you, Ariana.” The words broke free before I could stop them. Raw. Unapologetic. “I never stopped.”

Her answer wasn’t words. It was a kiss—hard and bruising—as she flipped us, straddling me, taking control the way she always had. She sank down on me, slow and deliberate, her hands braced on my chest.

Her rhythm was punishing. Relentless. Each roll of her hips a demand.

“Is this what you want?” she asked, breathless.

“It’s what I’ve always wanted,” I gasped.

Her fingers slid up my torso, curling around my throat—not tight, not threatening, just claiming . Her eyes burned into mine, daring me to lie.

“You hurt me,” she said. “You broke me.”

“I know.” My hands slid to her hips, guiding her pace. “But look at you. You’re still here.”

She shuddered, her breath catching as I thrust up into her, meeting her every move. Her walls clenched around me, pulling me closer to the edge. I could feel her shaking, feel her fight warring with the truth of what we were.

She leaned in, her lips brushing mine. “This doesn’t fix us.”

“I’m not trying to fix us,” I breathed. “I’m trying to find us.”

And when she came, it was with a sound I’d never forget—half sob, half surrender—her body trembling as she collapsed against me. I rolled us again, kissing her like I could pour every unsaid thing into her skin.

I moved faster now, chasing my own release, each thrust driving the point home.

You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.

I spilled into her with a groan, holding her tight, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in like it was the first time. Or maybe the last.

We lay there, tangled and breathless, the silence thick with everything we couldn’t say.

Her fingers traced lazy patterns over my chest, her breathing slowly evening out.

“This doesn’t change everything,” she said, but her voice was soft now. No bite. No venom. Just a girl as lost as I was.

“I know,” I said, brushing her hair back. “But it changes something .”

We stayed like that for a long time. Her body relaxed against mine. My hand tracing slow circles on her back. The world outside didn’t exist.

But Ariana Remington was a flight risk. Always had been.

And when I finally drifted off, lulled by the impossible weight of hope, I should’ve known better.

Because when I woke up?—

She was gone.

Just a note on the pillow.

I need time. – A.

My chest hollowed out as I sat up, the sheet still warm from where she’d been.

And somehow I knew. She hadn’t gone back to her room. She’d gone back to Milwaukee.