Page 77 of The Wrong Husband

"Uh, I wouldn’t exactly call this being comfortable." I look between us. At how he has me pinned to the glass, with my legs still wrapped around his waist, and my fingertips entangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. I immediately withdraw them and place them on his shoulders. "You should let me down."

"Why? I’m enjoying the view." He continues to watch me intently. Those blue eyes of his burn with silver sparks.

Like fireballs floating on water. Like the skies lit up with sun rays on summer solstice, and the promise of the hours ahead stretches out in front. Truth is, I couldn’t be happier than whereI am. Only thing better than this would be to have him inside of me and—a buzzing sound infiltrates the room. I ignore it.

"And I…am agreeing to marry you because it’s the only way you’ll get access to your fortune, and to save the ER. We’re both trying to do something good for the larger community. If I backed away from doing this, I wouldn't be able to live with myself.”

What I’mnotsaying is that I can’t stop thinking about him either. That every time he touches me—even by accident—my heart does this ridiculous flip like it’s auditioning for a rom-com. That I, too, want this marriage to be real. And that scares the hell out of me.

So instead, I focus on the practical stuff. The noble reasons. The ER. His trust fund. Our shared sense of duty.

Because if I let myself admit how badly I wanthim—I’ll unravel. And right now? Deflecting is the only defense I’ve got.

The buzzing sound is insistent. I ignore it.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you.” He looks almost disappointed. “Just so we’re clear”—he sets his jaw—“if you marry me, it will not be make-believe.”

The buzzing fades away. Like the static between us has shifted, clarified. Some of the tension in my shoulders drains with it, but it’s replaced by something heavier…weightier. The kind of awareness that settles low in my belly.

“So you said earlier.” I keep my voice steady, even though my pulse is doing a slow, heady thrum. I think I know what he’s alluding to. Or at least, I want to believe I do.

But a part of me—maybe the bravest part—wants to experience what he’s alluding to. Because if we’re doing this—if we’re stepping into this fire together—I want to know exactly how hot it burns. I tilt my chin up and meet his gaze, holding it.

“But what does that really mean to you?”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle, but his gaze intensifies. He’s looking at me like I’m the antigen and he’s the antibody, inescapably drawn to me, designed to lock in, mark me as his, with no escape.

"It means—" His cock throbs against my core. He bends and drags his nose up my jawline. It’s all I can do to not purr loudly with delight. And when he follows up with little kisses following the same path, I lean my head back into the glass, giving him better access. "I’m addicted to your little cries, and your scent, and your heady taste—which I can’t get enough of. It means that the chemistry between us can’t be ignored. And I want to make love to you, but not until we’re married.”

I search his features and see the intent in his eyes. He’s serious about this.

“I feel the same way,” I say slowly.

“Good.” His eyes flash with pleasure. "I want a real marriage. With no prenup. And no divorce."

"No divorce?” I should be surprised, but instead, I feel relieved. Apparently, this is what I’ve wanted all along.Have I been lying to myself? Was my refusal to marry him real—or just a way to protect myself from more disappointment?

"You’ll be stuck with me for the rest of your days. How do you feel about that, Fever?"

My head spins. My heartbeat seems to infiltrate the rest of my body, so that blood thuds at my temples, between my legs, and at my wrists. It’s a combination of disbelief and stark arousal that this man would want me so much. Suddenly, I wish I could trust him. I wish I could tell him everything.

Perhaps, he can look past what happened and still want me?

With reluctance I take my gaze off him and look over his shoulder to where my purse is placed on a coffee table. "I hear my phone going off.”

“I don’t hear anything.” He pulls me even closer.

The heat of his body seeps into my skin like a drug, slow and potent, curling through my veins until I’m lightheaded. His nearness is a high—intoxicating and weightless—like I could float right out of myself. My limbs feel leaden and liquid, all at once, as if I’m sinking and soaring in the same breath. Somehow, I find the strength to peel myself away from him.

“I should get it. It might be the hospital."

He reluctantly steps back, and I lower my feet to the ground. He smooths down my dress.

I pull away from him, already knowing who it’s going to be. I pick up the phone and head to the other side of the room, to reduce the chances of my husband-to-be listening to who I’m speaking with.

"Hey." I clear my throat. "How are you?"

"When are you coming home?"