Page 75 of The Wrong Husband

"Maybe, I changed my mind." Her tone is firm, but uncertainty lurks behind her eyes. “Maybe, all your courting has paid off."

"Firstly"—I raise a finger—"it’s literally a couple of weeks since I started courting you. And secondly"—I scan her features—"did you really change your mind, or did being face-to-face with Arthur make you feel like you had to?"

"Are you saying I don’t know my own mind?" Her gaze narrows. The stubbornness on her face turns to resoluteness.

I blow out a breath. "That’s not what I mean. I simply think that, for someone who was so sure you didn’t want to marry me, you’ve changed your mind rather quickly. And after you were so vehement in turning down my proposition, to now do an about turn—" I shake my head. "Well, it’s unexpected. Not that I don’t appreciate it—I do. But I want to make sure you’re doing it for all the right reasons.”

If she agrees to marry me out of duty, or guilt, or because she thinks it’s the right thing to do—I’ll have her name on paper, her body in my bed, but nother.

Not the fire in her eyes, the warmth of her laughter, the quiet trust when she finally lets someone in.

And that would be the worst kind of loss.

Because if she gives herself to me for the wrong reasons… I’ll never know if she would’ve chosen me on her own. And I can’t live with that. I need to know Imatterto her. That she wantsme—not just the solution I represent.

I’ve lived in shadows long enough. I won’t start my future with a lie. What I want isn’t just her yes. I want her heart. I wantall of her.

“This is a matter of your life. Of your future. I want to be sure you’ve thought this through.”

She stops a foot from me and plops her hands on her hips, her stance on the verge of being belligerent. "What does it matter what my reasons are? Besides, even if I wanted to walk you through my decision-making process, most of my decisions are amygdala-driven."

"You mean, you followed your instinct?" Good thing I’m well-read enough to follow along with her medical terminology-peppered style of conversation. It increases my respect for her.It also turns me on, hugely.

It makes me want to kiss her thoroughly, then throw her down and bury myself inside of her—but that will need to wait. I’ll fuck her when she’s completely on board with having me in her life, by her side—a decision I made subconsciously, but which I know is right.

She’s special, unique. There’s no one like her. She’s the one for me, in so many ways. It won’t be easy to hold back my desire, but I want to wait until she’s a hundred percent sure that I’m the man for her. It’s why I want to question the rationale behind her so abruptly agreeing to marrying me.

"Yes, exactly. A hypothalamic response. No cortex involvement, whatsoever. It’s often what drives my actions. And many times, I can’t explain it myself, but it mostly turns out to be right."

A shadow crosses her eyes.

"Well, ninety-nine percent of the time."

"And the one percent?" I lean forward on the balls of my feet, wanting to be as close to her as possible, without being too creepy about it.

She looks away. The shadow crossing her eyes seems to extend to her face.

It’s as if a cloud is poised over her, and she’s wrapped in her own microclimate. One in which I’m not allowed. The hair on the back of my neck rises. She’s hiding something. The thought has occurred to me before, but now, I’m sure.

"Sometimes, my instinct leads me astray.” When she turns back to me, her eyes are wet. "But that doesn’t mean I trust it any less."

Her hazel eyes have turned green, and in their depths, a storm of hurt spills over the edges.

“I’ll never hurt you… Not unless it’s to cause you pleasure."

Her lips part.

"And if you trust me enough to put your faith in me, I’ll never let you down. I’ll be there to catch you in that one percent of the time when your instincts let you down."

A tear trails down her cheek, then another. Our gazes meet. The air between us crackles with emotions. The kind that can’t be put into words, but which can be understood. Electricity crackles, lacing the molecules in the space with an energy that makes the hair on my forearms rise.

My heart skips, then slams into a gallop. A rush of blood roars in my ears. Something about this moment, about the rawness in her eyes, about how her gaze clings to mine like I’m her only mooring in a maelstrom that could sweep us both away, is etched into my memory.

I’m not conscious of taking another step, or of her moving, but she’s in my arms. I grab her under her butt and lift her. She wraps her legs about my waist and presses herself into me,so her breasts are flattened against my chest. I hold her with my palms under her sweet fleshy butt and stare into her eyes, searching them like they have the answers to the questions I’ve had from the time I was a boy. Life. The heavens. The universe.The number 42?

Everything melds into a focus somewhere deep inside me, where I now carry her image. Then her gaze softens, her eyes growing luminous. She parts her lips, and my mouth meets hers.

I thrust my tongue over hers, dancing with hers, swiping it over her teeth, drinking from her. Absorbing her. Storing that heady taste of her in my taste buds, my cells, my bones. She twines her arms about my neck and kisses me right back. The hunger in her eyes fans the embers of need inside me that sparked the moment I saw her. I squeeze her butt as I pull her flush against my chest.