Page 83 of The Wrong Husband

Emotion flickers in her eyes, soft and luminous.

I step closer, lower my voice. “I’m not sorry I followed you that day, Fever. And I won’t apologize for giving you what you want. Because seeing you in this dress? That’s the moment I’ve been waiting for.”

I call the manager, and she comes back to help Phe in the fitting room.

I hear whispering and giggling then, I hear the manager exclaim, “This is unbelievable, the fit is perfect. No alterations needed. That’s happened, maybe once, in my twenty-year career. This dress was made for you.”

She exits the dressing room, still shaking her head, before retreating from the lounge and closing the door behind her.

Phe steps out and poses with one hand on her hip. "Is it too much?"

I can’t look away. She looks like sin wrapped in silk. The dress hugs her like it was designed with only her in mind—no, like it was waiting for her. The ivory satin sculpts her waist so perfectly, it looks poured on. The neckline dips low, a subtle challenge, drawing my eyes to the shadow between her breasts. Thin straps frame her shoulders like ribbons on a forbidden gift.

And then—Christ—the flare. Just below her knees, the gown explodes into a fan of layered tulle and lace, a cloud of decadence that swirls around her ankles with every movement. A mermaid silhouette, seductive and unapologetic. The train follows her like she’s royalty.

My pulse rate kicks up. My breathing roughens. I try to open my mouth to tell her what a vision she is, but no words leave me. When I stay silent, a wrinkle creases her brow. She walks—no, glides—further into the room. As she inches closer, embers spark beneath my skin. They burn through my veins, and seem to incinerate my cells, until I’m but a husk of myself. The overwhelming need to claim her surges through me and turns my cock to stone.

I manage to get control of myself and growl, "Stop."

She pauses. The surprise on her face deepens. She stands, uncertain, self-conscious, while her curvy body wrapped in that dress screams that she’s a temptress. She looks like desire and truth, stitched together in satin. Like she could burn a man down and rebuild him in the same breath. And she’s mine—except, she isn’t.Not yet. But she will be. I made the right decision in asking her to marry me. And I can’t wait.

"Connor?" A visible tremor skates along her neck before she swallows. "What is it?"

I shake my head to clear it. "You’re the most beautiful woman in the entire universe. I’m the luckiest man alive that you agreed to marry me. I’m consumed with jealousy for any other man who’ll catch sight of you in that glorious dress."

I take a step in her direction, and another, until I’m suddenly in front of her.

"In fact"—I wrap my fingers about the column of her throat, and her pulse rate speeds up—"I can’t wait any longer to make you mine."

A surprised look enters her eyes. Then she looks up at me from under her eyelashes. "I assume, you like the dress?"

"I fucking love it." I squeeze down gently on her throat, and her breathing grows choppy.

"I can’t wait to bend you over and tear it off your sweet fleshy arse. Can’t wait to hold you down while I take you from behind."

Her lips part.

"Would you like that, sweet Fever?"

She nods.

"I think we should get married, right now."

"What?" Her jaw drops. "You’re kidding, right?"

"I never kid, especially when it concerns you.”

Her expression melts. She slips her slim fingers around my wrist. "I can’t wait to be yours, Connor." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

I’m so tuned into her; I notice the slight hesitation in her words. "But?" I lower my chin. "I’m sensing a but here."

She flushes a little. "I have a condition."

"A condition?" I massage my thumb into the pulse that kicks up at the base of her throat. My voice comes out sounding ominous. I won’t apologize for that.She’s mine.Doesn’t she already know that? And she wants to be mine. I can see it in the way her body sways toward mine. The way her peaked nipples are highlighted against the satin of her dress, the way her fingers cling to my skin, and how she tilts her head, so her cheek brushes my wrist.

The core of me that’s used to taking charge wonders why she feels compelled to hold back when she’s so clearly turned on? When she so clearly relishes that I’m unable to take my gaze off her. But the protector in me understands her reservations and wants to resolve her doubts.

"What is it, Fever?" I increase the pressure around her throat, knowing it will ground her, and communicate my reassurance to her. "Tell me."