Page 48 of The Rancher Married the Wrong Sister (Billionaires of Evergreen, Texas #13)

THE FEVER brEAKS JUST as someone’s knocking on my door.

I’m not sure how much time has passed as I’ve been weaving in and out of consciousness.

One moment, I was several-websites-deep researching what it means to be a supportive wife of a businessman.

The next thing I know, I’m in bed with Clarice clucking her tongue and telling me I should rest and eat up.

The guest bedroom feels foreign even though I’ve been sleeping here for weeks.

Dove-gray wallpaper with hand-painted cherry blossoms, French Provincial furniture that probably belonged to Gavine’s grandmother, and windows that overlook the rose garden where I first felt his hands on me.

The four-poster bed is ridiculously ornate with carved posts and ivory silk curtains that pool on the polished hardwood floor.

Everything about this room whispers old money and careful preservation, like a museum display of how wealthy wives are supposed to live.

I briefly recall a shadowy figure coming in and out of my room, and how the intensity of his gaze had me stirring even with the fever making my thoughts hazy.

At one point I thought it was Death, coming to my room to fetch me, and I ended up crying helplessly as I told him, “ Not yet. Not just yet please because I ’ m still a virgin.”

Embarrassment floods my body at the memory, which is so painfully vivid that sleep offers no escape from it. I’m wincing even with my eyes still closed, my mind working perfectly because no matter how hard I try now, I just can’t un-see or un-hear—

“How are you feeling?”

My eyes fly open.

I’m dead.

It’s Death.

No, wait, what I mean is, my husband is looking absolutely to-die-for as he stands at the foot of my bed.

His tall, powerful body fills the doorway, wearing a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a couple of buttons undone to reveal the golden expanse of his chest, and his strong legs encased in dark jeans that I’m doing my very best not to look at.

Because if I let my gaze drop even an inch lower, that’s when I’m really, really doomed.

How in the world did you end up like this, Wednesday Marie Arthurs?

I just don’t know why, but there’s something about this man that has my mind going to the gutter every time I see him.

“Wednesday?”

Oh heavens, I forgot he’d asked me a question.

My gaze flies back to his face guiltily, but his expression is neither impatient nor irritated. It’s rather hard to read actually, and that has me so nervous I end up croaking out in answer, “I’m f-fine.”

“I wasn’t immediately made aware you’d been ill. I apologize for that.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” I protest, my voice still scratchy from the fever. “And it’s my fault I fell sick anyway—”

“Why would you say that?”

Oh no, I think I just said too much. But since I’ve always had a hard time lying...

“It’s nothing,” I mumble. “What I want to make clear is how—”

“You tired yourself out with a self-designed crash course on how to be the perfect wife?”

My jaw drops. How did he—

His gaze slides to the antique writing desk by the window, and that’s when I remember all the notes I’d copiously made in the past three days...and which I forgot to hide when the fever hit.

Oh no.

My laptop sits open, still displaying the last website I’d been reading: “ How to Support Your Husband ’ s Business Goals.

” Scattered around it are legal pads covered in my careful handwriting.

Notes about corporate entertaining, appropriate conversation topics for business dinners, how to dress for different types of events.

I’d even printed out articles about ranch management and cattle breeding, thinking maybe if I understood his work better, I could be useful instead of just.. .decorative.

He studies my research for a long moment, then looks back at me with something that might be amusement. “It’s useless, by the way.”

“W-what do you mean—”

“The articles are for men who are well-off.”

“But you—”

“I’m rich as fuck.”

I choke on absolutely nothing, then notice the way his eyes gleam, and I realize he only said it to make me smile.

Oh, how perfect this man is!

If only, oh if only...

My eyes close involuntarily but they still start stinging anyway. My latest act of idiocy has me so lost in mortification that I barely notice the bed dipping under his weight. I only realize he’s perched on the side of the bed when his fingers cup my chin, and my eyes slowly open.

Oh.

His gorgeous face is still unreadable, the intensity in his gaze inexplicable. His tone, low and rough, is the only thing that yields a clue—

“Why?”

But my experience with men being a big fat zero, the clue means nothing to me at all, and I don’t understand what exactly he’s asking or why he seems so upset.

“Why do you even care about being the perfect wife” His fingers loosen as he grits the words out, and pain scorches my heart at the abrupt loss of contact. “when I told you explicitly this marriage isn’t real?”

I look at him uncertainly. “You’re mad at me for wanting to be a good wife?”

“Yes, dammit.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t deserve it!”

All I can do is stare at him. How can he not deserve a good wife?

“I blackmailed you—”

“Because my sister conned you first,” I point out helplessly.

“But I should never have gotten you involved.”

“You’re only human. Emotions can get the better of us—”

“Do you even hear yourself?” he growls. “We both know I’m the one who’s in the wrong—”

“Our marriage might not be normal, but you’ve always been kind to me.”

“If I’m so kind, I should’ve let you go—”

My face loses all color.

“From the moment I realized—” Gavine breaks off. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You want to let me go?” I whisper unevenly. “If I’ve caused too much trouble—”

My words come to a halt when Gavine grabs my shoulders like he’s about to shake some sense into me.

“I’m bad news for you, dammit! Can’t you see that?”

“No.”

“Then what do you see?”

Oh, if only I could answer that. The truth is too embarrassing, too revealing.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t—”

“Tell me or I swear I’ll punish you.”

“H-How?”

His gaze rakes over my body with unmistakable heat. “How do you think?”

The dangerous glint in his eyes makes my pulse stutter. His gaze is darker than I’ve ever seen it, and the way he’s looking at me...like he wants to devour me whole.

“Gavine,” I whisper.

“You’re sick—”

I shake my head frantically.

“You’re insane to want me—”

I don’t care.

“But those violet eyes of yours are telling me you’re stubborn enough not to give a damn.”

My heart slams against my chest when his hand suddenly cups my nape, his thumb stroking along my pulse point.

“If I touch you—” His voice is strained, like he’s fighting some internal battle. “I still can’t promise it won’t change anything.”

“I don’t care.” This time, I say it out loud, and his lips slowly twist in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“So be it.”

His mouth crashes against mine before I can answer. The desperate hunger in his kiss steals my breath. It’s angry and raw, like he’s punishing both of us for wanting this.

But I don’t care.

I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks, and reality is so much better than any fantasy my inexperienced mind could create.

His hands frame my face as he deepens the kiss, and I hear myself make a sound that should probably embarrass me. Instead, it seems to snap the last thread of his control. He pulls back just far enough to look at me, his breathing harsh.

“Tell me to stop.”

“No.”

“Wednesday—”

“Please.” The word comes out broken, needy. “Please don’t stop.”

The conflict in his eyes transforms into pure, predatory determination. When he kisses me again, it’s different. This time it’s slower, more deliberate, like he’s memorizing the taste of me.

His mouth trails down my throat, finding that sensitive spot where my pulse hammers wildly. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs against my skin, and the vibration of his voice makes me shiver.

I’m dimly aware that he’s being careful with me, his touches gentle but sure as he maps every inch of exposed skin. When his fingers find the buttons of my nightgown, he pauses, looking into my eyes.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

I shake my head frantically. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He makes quick work of the buttons, but then slows down again, his hands reverent as he pushes the fabric aside. The way he looks at me like I’m something miraculous makes me feel beautiful instead of embarrassed.

“So damn perfect,” he breathes, and I believe him completely.

His mouth follows the path his hands have traced, pressing kisses to my collarbone, the valley between my breasts, the soft skin of my stomach. Each touch sends sparks through my nervous system, and I’m already trembling before he’s even really begun.

“Gavine,” I whisper, not sure what I’m asking for.

“I know, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

And he does.

Oh, he does.

His hands and mouth work in perfect harmony, building a tension inside me that I didn’t even know was possible. Every caress is deliberate, designed to drive me higher, and when his fingers finally find that most sensitive part of me, I cry out in shock at the intensity.

“Easy,” he soothes, his voice rough with desire. “Let me get you ready for me.”

Ready for what, I want to ask, but then his fingers move in a way that has my back arching off the bed, and coherent thought becomes impossible.

He takes his time preparing me, building me up and bringing me to the edge again and again until I’m sobbing his name and clinging to his shoulders. Only then does he position himself above me, his eyes never leaving mine.

“This is going to hurt,” he warns, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back.

“I don’t care,” I manage to say. “I want this. I want you.”

He enters me slowly, so slowly, giving my body time to adjust. There is pain, a sharp, burning sensation that makes me gasp, but it’s overshadowed by the incredible feeling of being joined with him, of belonging to this man I love so desperately.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers against my ear, holding perfectly still. “Just breathe.”

I do as he says, and gradually the pain fades, replaced by something else entirely. Something that makes me want to move, to take more of him.

“Better?” he asks, and I nod.

That’s when he begins to move, each thrust careful and controlled. He watches my face intently, reading every expression, adjusting his rhythm until he finds what makes me gasp with pleasure instead of discomfort.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he murmurs when I arch beneath him. “So tight around me.”

The raw words combined with his wicked mouth on my throat has me crying out his name. The feeling builds again, different this time but even more intense. I can feel myself climbing toward something incredible, something that makes my entire body sing with anticipation.

“Let go,” he urges, his voice strained. “Come for me, Wednesday.”

And I do. The climax crashes over me like a tidal wave, stealing my breath and making me see stars. I’m vaguely aware of crying out, of my nails digging into his shoulders as waves of sensation roll through me.

Please don ’ t say it, I beg desperately to myself as I start to come down from the high.

Please don’t say it, please don’t say it.

But when I feel him surge into me one last time, his own release claiming him as he fills me with warmth and completion, it’s just too much. The words spill uncontrollably past my lips:

“I love you, Gavine.”

So, so much.