Page 91 of The Wrong Husband

Since she’s chopping up tomatoes, I hold a glass to her lips. She takes a sip of the wine, swirls it in her mouth, then swallows with a sound of appreciation. One which goes straight to my cock. I widen my stance, trying to find a more comfortable position, without having to adjust myself. My gaze is riveted to her plump, glistening lips.

She exhales. "It tastes so good."

Unable to stop myself, I lean in and lick up the drop of red that clings to the edge of her mouth.

"It does," I agree.

She blushes and drops her gaze to the chopping board. "James made sure we could all cook. He enjoyed eating, and when he became a teen, insisted on learning how to cook from our chef. Then, he insisted the rest of us, too, were independentin the kitchen. And when he moved out, he left instructions with the chef to continue teaching us."

I place her glass down and take a sip from my own. "And was he as dictatorial in the home kitchen?"

I’ve personally never seen James throw one of his tantrums, but given how detail-oriented he is, I could believe that, in his quest for excellence, he’s very demanding on his staff. Then, he launched into one when a TV crew was filming in his kitchen. It resulted in a viral moment that launched his career. Knowing James, my guess is that he didn’t give a shit that the crew was filming. It was clear, he was focused only on putting together the best dish possible for his diners. But the general populace hasn’t been as understanding. It’s resulted in a lot of criticism about his demands on his staff.

"He never got angry with us, if that’s what you’re asking. In fact, he was quite relaxed and fun to be around. He’s far more exacting on his employees." She shoots me a glance. "Almost as much as you are—" She hesitates.

I complete the sentence for her. "—in the bedroom?"

Her flush extends to her décolletage.

"Yes, that’s what I was trying to say," she says in a prim voice.

She chops the garlic, her movements precise, yet also graceful. Her fingers are long and tapered. There’s a confidence about her which calls back to the fluidity I noticed about her the first time we met.

"What about you?" She moves on to the tomatoes, pausing to offer me a slice.

I take it from her, making sure to wrap my tongue around her fingers.

Her lips part. "You’re a scoundrel."

I smirk.

"Don’t look so pleased." She turns to the pan I placed on the range for her and lights the flame below it. Then adds the olive oil and garlic, followed by the chopped tomatoes.

Separately, she sets a pot of water on the other burner and adds a dash of salt. When it starts boiling, she slides the pasta in.

“Why shouldn’t I be? I have the most beautiful woman in the world cooking for me.” And then, because I can’t keep my thoughts to myself when I’m with her, I add, “When I’m with you, the world makes more sense. When I hear you speak, it’s like the rhythm that calms the restlessness in me. When I’m surrounded by your scent, I feel like I’m home. The sound of your breathing rewrites every broken piece of my past. You don’t just fill the silences inside of me—you own them.” I take a step in her direction. “Just like you own me.”

I’ve never told anyone this. Never even believed I could. But with her, the words don’t feel like confessions—they feel inevitable. Like she reaches into the places I’ve buried and breathes life back into them.

She finishes stirring, then shoots me a sideways glance. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“Of course, not.” I frown. “Why would you think that?”

“You have to admit, that was over-the-top.”

“I’ve never said anything like this to another person,” I confess.

I’ve never let anyone in this deep. But she tears through my armor like it’s made of paper, and leaves me standing there—bare, aching, and hers.

She scans my features. Whatever she sees there makes her eyes shine. A pleased look comes into her expression, which she bats away as quickly. “You don’t have to woo me. I already agreed to marry you.” She drains the pasta and sets it aside.

"Wooing you isn’t a means to an end.” I try to inject what I’m feeling into my words.

Her forehead furrows. “Didn’t you suggest I marry you as part of a proposition?”

“It started out that way, but somewhere along the way, it became more.” I speak slowly, taking care with how I phrase my thoughts. “I enjoy taking care of you. Satisfying your needs fulfills something deep inside. It makes me feel like the luckiest man in the entire world, and I never want to stop."

She stiffens.