Page 106 of The Wrong Husband

37

Phoenix

I open my eyes and glance around the space. Where am I? I sit up, and when the cover falls to my waist, I realize, I’m not wearing my yoga pants and my panties. It’s that and the sense of well-being I wear about me like a made-to-measure bodysuit which brings the memories tumbling back. Connor making me come, then carrying me to bed.

I have a vague recollection of him making me come again before I fell asleep.

I glance at the closed door to the suite. I wonder what he's doing in the main cabin. A shiver of anticipation squeezes my lower belly. Thinking of him makes my clit throb and my toes curl. That was one helluva orgasm. My limbs still feel limber from the endorphins which are probably still circulating through my bloodstream. Man knows how to use his fingers, his tongue, and his cock.

The slight soreness in my throat reminds me of how thoroughly he used my mouth. And he hasn’t even fucked meyet. The thought of that beautiful, monster cock inside me makes moisture pool between my thighs.I swear, my pituitary gland just moaned.He’s making me sex-obsessed.

I glance around for my clothes and spot a few boxes laid on the loveseat below the window of the cabin.

It includes one I recognize. We brought my wedding dress, and it seems, he kept it out for me. I walk over to it and spot the note on top.

Shower first. Then wear these.

I hear his dark voice command me in my head. I run my finger over the strong strokes of his handwriting. It’s the first time I’m seeing it. And it feels, somehow, personal. Like he wrote this into my skin. Goosebumps pop on my flesh. I set the note aside and pick up the smaller of the boxes. It has the name of a well-known shoe brand, and when I open it, a small cry escapes my lips.

Kitten heels, but with the familiar red soles indicating they belong to a very famous brand. One with a reputation for making very comfortable to wear footwear. A burst of joy squeezes my chest.

Did he realize that I don’t often wear heels so I wouldn’t be comfortable in anything over two inches? These are cute and sexy, but also, practical. The man thinks of everything.

I stare at the smallest box. When I open it, I find a beautiful bouquet. Made of white anemones nestled amongst dusky mauve freesia, twined with baby’s breath and sliver eucalyptus leaves, it's bound in a blush silk ribbon. It feels like hope, and resilience, and joy, and a promise, all rolled into one.

Not sure when he did so, but I’m sure, he chose it personally. He also managed to have it delivered before we took off.

I’m strangely moved by it, even more than the shoes. Impatience grips me. I can’t wait to wear these and show myself to my bridegroom. I head for the attached bath and step into the shower.

When I walk out, I find him seated by the window, head bowed as he peruses a newspaper.

He likes to read an actual, honest-to-God, real-life newspaper? Not the digital version? Another thing I only just found out about my bridegroom. Along with the fact that the early morning rays pick out the almost blue strands in his jet-black hair.

There is so much about him that I don’t know. And I’m going to marry him.Oh God!

The repercussions of what I’m about to do dawn on me. Maybe, it’s the slither of the silk of my dress against my curves, or the way my feet feel so very comfortable in my perfectly fitted heels, or the scent of the flowers from my corsage permeating the air around me, creating my very own bubble within which to glide forward toward him. Only… My steps falter.

What am I doing? Am I insane to agree to marry him?

I’m doing it for a good cause, of course. It’s going to help everyone.And it’s going to help me keep my job.

So why does my heart skip a beat? And my knees begin to knock together the moment I lay eyes on him? Is it because the marriage is real for him?For me?No matter how we met, or why I claim to be marrying him, my feelings for him have only grown since.

Enough that I can’t stand the thought of him being with anyone else. It was another reason to go through with the wedding.

He keeps reading the newspaper, unaware of my scrutiny.

I drink in the aristocratic lines of his profile—high cheekbones, a patrician nose, a full lower lip, the uncompromising jut of his chin, the sinewed column of his throat. He doesn’t just sit in the chair—he dominates it.

The space seems to bend toward him, drawn by the gravity of his presence.

I slowly complete the rest of my scan down his powerful thighs, the crisp fold of his pants, the pointed tips of his custom-made shoes. Even sitting down, with his attention elsewhere, the hum of awareness clings to him. Like he’s the sun, and I’m a star that orbits around him. Caught in his gravitational field, no matter how far I go, I’ll always find my way back to him.

It was only a matter of time until I crossed paths with him. Even if James hadn’t asked him to watch out for me, I have a feeling, I’d have met him.

This thing between us is so elemental, it makes me forget to be careful. Makes me want to throw caution to the wind and follow my heart.Which is what brought me here.And I owe it to him to, at least, tell him a little more about my situation.

As if he senses my perusal, he glances up from his newspaper. His gaze fixes on me. His eyes widen. I have the satisfaction of seeing the newspaper flutter to the ground from his nerveless fingers. He rises to his feet, steps over it, and walks toward me.