Page 110 of The Wrong Husband

I walk around to stand behind her, carefully shifting her hair to the side. My fingertips graze the back of her neck—and I feel it. The jolt. The way her breath hitches, the way her skin draws heat from mine.

I fasten the clasp. “There. All done.”

I return to my seat, but my gaze stays locked on her.

“How does it look?” she asks, tilting her chin, fingers skimming the line of the necklace.

It hugs her neck perfectly. They way it clings to her makes it resemble a collar. It looks like a mark.Mymark.

It looks like possession. Like promise. Like the ghost of my hand resting there, claiming her in every unspoken way.

“You look…” My voice roughens. “Incredible.”

I lean forward, until one of my knees slides between hers. I want to get closer. Always closer.

She swallows hard. I can see the shift in her breathing, the way her pupils dilate. Her heartbeat’s spiking—beautifully, uncontrollably. She’s fighting it, but it’s there. The draw. The hunger. The surrender.

“Do I?” she asks, voice low, turned thick with desire.

I’m immeasurably moved by her beauty. “You’re a vision. A goddess. A dream come to life.”

Sitting there with that necklace at her throat, eyes wide and shining like she doesn’t know how powerful she is. She’s everything I never dared want—and now that she’s mine, I’d burn the world to keep her safe.

“You chose me. You’ll never regret that.”

As if the universe agrees, the captain’s voice crackles overhead.

“Ten minutes to landing.”

39

Phoenix

"You may kiss the bride." Edward Chase, the former priest and Connor’s half-brother flashes us a big smile.

He flew in to conduct the wedding at the Gibraltar Registry Office.

It’s an elegant, whitewashed building that lets in the Mediterranean light through the many windows flanking its sides. We’re in what’s called the Marriage Room, standing in front of an ornate mahogany desk, behind which Edward stands. The registrar read out his words, then stepped aside for Edward to conduct the ceremony.

A gilded mirror hangs above the table, reflecting a handsome couple standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

The man towers over the woman; he’s at least a foot taller. In his dark suit, hair styled back from his face, and the serious cut of his features, he looks intent. The green of his shirt compliments the emeralds the woman is wearing. Her hazeleyes have turned almost as green as the choker she’s wearing. It brings out the golden specks in her eyes.

I meet his gaze in our reflection and am unable to look away.

The seriousness on his face reminds me that this is very real. I’m getting married. To this man. To this very handsome, charismatic, gorgeous, dominant man who, so far, has shown he can also be tender and genuine. And who wants access to his trust fund so he can literally save children. And who I felt compelled to help.

The fact that his influence will save the ER where I work from shutting down is a bonus—but really, it was his genuine desire to help children that compelled me to say yes, then accelerate the wedding by suggesting we elope.

I turn to him, lift my chin and hold his gaze as he dips his mouth closer. He places his left hand, the one where I placed a simple wedding band on his finger, on my hip. The other on my shoulder.

He lures me to my tiptoes and slants his mouth across mine. It’s an explosion of sensations. I imagine this is how it might be to get tasered—to feel the lightning strikes of electricity ignite my synapses and trigger a cascade of sensations to my extremities.

It all emanates from where his lips tease mine and our tongues tangle. It’s a kiss that feels like sealing a deal, like the start of something new and different and exciting—that’s what the roller coaster of emotions bottoming out my stomach signals to my brain.

By the time he steps back, my head is spinning, my bones feel like they’ve dissolved, and moisture pools between my legs.

"Whoa," I say hoarsely.