Page 63

63

ALLISON

I don’t even know what time it is when I finally surface from the utter destruction Connor just put me through.

My body feels like Jell-O.

My mind is foggy.

And my husband grins, far too pleased with himself.

I crack one eye open and find him smirking down at me, head propped on his hand like he’s watching premium cable.

I groan. “You’re staring again.”

“Damn right I am.” He reaches out, tracing slow circles along my hip, his fingers warm and possessive. “Can’t help myself, baby.” His voice drops, dark and sinful. “You look so fucking beautiful after I’ve ruined you.”

My cheeks flame as I bury my face against his chest.

“Still get embarrassed and can’t take a compliment, huh?”

“You’re an arrogant bastard.”

He chuckles, low and smug. “Why wouldn’t I be? I just made you scream my name until you were hoarse, sweetheart.”

I try to smack his chest, but he catches my wrist and grins. Then he grabs the other one, pinning both over my head with one hand.

I squeak.

His smirk turns wicked. “You wanna start something, wife?”

I arch a brow. “Who says I’m the one starting something?”

His gaze darkens. “You always start something.”

I grin. “You love it.”

His lips brush mine. “I live for it.”

And just like that, I know exactly where this is headed.

My stomach flips. My body hums, already begging for more.

Our mouths crash together, hungry and hot. I moan into the kiss, every thought wiped clean except for him.

Until a loud knock echoes through the bungalow.

I freeze.

Connor groans. “If that’s the resort staff, I swear to?—”

A voice belts out from the other side of the door.

“Room service! With a side of pelvic recovery supplies.”

My eyes go wide as the horror fills me. “No.”

Connor pushes himself off me, his face reflecting the way I feel. “No. It can’t be.”

Then the voice adds, even louder, “I also brought lube, aloe, and Gatorade! I’m sure you’re dehydrated and likely walking crooked.”

I slap a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God!”

“Gram,” Connor mutters, already reaching for sweatpants and muttering death threats under his breath.

I scramble for the sheets like they’re the only thing saving me from emotional annihilation.

The door flies open without warning.

Gram breezes in wearing a flamingo-covered muumuu, a neon sun visor that says “Hotter Than Your Grandma,” and platform flip-flops with fuzzy tops. She’s holding a glittery basket that looks like it was looted from a bachelorette party hosted by Lucifer himself.

“Oh good, you’re alive,” she says cheerfully, tossing the basket onto the dresser. “And thoroughly defiled. Excellent.”

Connor glares. “Gram. Why the hell are you in Key West?”

“I made Ford cash in his airline miles. I told him you two were unsupervised and probably suffering from post-coital electrolyte depletion. He agreed. Clearly, I was right.” She hands me a Gatorade. “Drink up, sweetheart. You look like a Victorian ghost.”

I blink. “You flew to Key West to give us Gatorade and lube?”

She beams. “And moral support.”

Connor drags a hand down his face. “I locked the front door.”

She winks. “Please. You think I haven’t picked a lock before?”

A strangled noise escapes me. “We’re going to need so much therapy.”

Gram pats my foot through the sheet. “Nah, just drink your electrolytes and stretch beforehand next time.”

I put my head in my hands and groan.

Surviving Gram on our honeymoon was not on my bingo card.