Page 23 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

"If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise.”

A warmth squeezes my heart. It’s not arousal.

It’s this traitorous sense that he cares for me…

enough to have planned this. The anger I felt at his somehow causing me to have the day off has fled.

In its place is a sense of relief. Like someone cut the weights I’ve been dragging behind me, letting lightness flood my chest.

“Fine.” I toss my head, trying to hide how easily I’ve given in. “But if you drive us into the Thames, I’m dragging you down with me.”

He chuckles, low and amused. The drive is longer than I expected, and with each turn, my curiosity grows. When the vehicle stops, I hear the crunch of gravel, then Connor helps me out.

"Can I take this off now?" I demand.

"Not yet." His voice is close to my ear, sending shivers racing down my spine. He keeps his hands on my shoulders, steering me gently forward. "Almost there."

A minute later, he unties the scarf, and I blink against the sudden glow. My jaw drops. In front of me stands a massive, hot air balloon, its colorful fabric billowing in the wind, lit up from within like a giant, glowing lantern. "You’ve got to be kidding me," I whisper.

Connor’s hand settles on my lower back. "I thought you could use a change of perspective. Something to clear your head, something to prompt you to leave work behind, so you can relax."

“And you thought of a hot air balloon?” I ask in disbelief.

“I thought it would help to have something to break your daily routine.”

I can’t take my gaze off the multicolored sphere. “How did you know I’ve always wanted to ride in one?” I ask slowly.

“I’d say it was a lucky guess, but—" He takes my hand and helps me into the basket—wide and sectioned into compartments, the kind used for larger flights with groups.

There are padded partitions separating passenger sections. Connor steers me toward the last one—set apart by a high woven wall that blocks the view from the rest of the basket.

This corner is different. The floor’s layered with a thick blanket. A small picnic basket is tucked into the corner, and above us, a canvas panel hangs loosely—a partial screen for added privacy. Only the open side of the basket looks out over the field below.

“But?” I prompt him.

“One time, I followed you into a bookshop. You spent a long time looking at a bookshelf. I went in after you left and realized most of the books featured hot air balloons.”

“Oh.” I remember the outing. It was a wonderful day—my first day off in a while—and I enjoyed walking around Primrose Hill and entertaining myself. “I thought I was being followed that day but put it down to my mind playing tricks on me.”

He takes my hand in his. “I’m sorry I made you doubt yourself, but I’m not sorry that I followed you.”

“You and my brother both have a nerve.” I try to pull my hand away.

He holds onto it. “We have your best interests at heart.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he shakes his head. “I understand, that doesn’t justify the fact that I had you under surveillance, but I have to point out, there’s no law against that.”

“And how about the fact that you know far more about me than I do about you, huh? Isn’t that unjust?”

His eyes glitter. I realize the error of what I said. I implied I want to find out more about him. Which reveals that I'm interested in him.

“What do you want to know?”

He runs his thumb across my wrist, and my limbic system does cartwheels.

Someone alert the endocrine board —my hormones have launched an unauthorized Formula One race through my bloodstream.

“I—” I don’t want to give in to the treacherous warmth that shoots up my arm from where he’s touching me. “I—” I glance around. “I want to know who’s flying this balloon.”

“Hmm.”

I sense his amusement but refuse to show how disconcerted I am.

This man watched me from afar. He checked out my social media feeds.

He knows things about me which I’ve forgotten I’ve shared with the world.

He hasn’t done anything illegal but… It makes me feel vulnerable and…

Yes, flattered. I feel giddy that this incredible man is so focused on me.

What is wrong with me? Why am I not more upset about this?

To my relief, Connor doesn’t comment about my abrupt change in subject.

Instead, he nods toward the far end. “The pilot’s up front.

” Now that he mentions it, I can make out the operator, half-shielded by the metal frame of the burner at the center.

He’s in a small cabin with a window, through which I can just about make out his outline.

We’re far enough from him that we have complete privacy.

As the balloon begins to rise, the ground drifting away beneath us, my pulse kicks up—a shiver of fear chased quickly by the thrill of being airborne.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until Connor slips his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

"Hey," he murmurs. "You’re safe. Just look."

The balloon begins to float up, putting more distance between the ground and me. I feel my worries drop away. He was right about that. I focus on the breathtaking sight of the city sprawling below us. The world seems to stretch infinitely, a vital part of the larger tapestry.

"It’s beautiful," I whisper, barely noticing when he pulls a thermos from the picnic basket and pours steaming hot chocolate into a mug.

He hands it to me, brushing his knuckles against mine as he does. I take a sip, the warmth sliding down my throat, grounding me. We stand, wrapped in blankets, cocooned together in the morning air.

"Sometimes," Connor says softly, his lips brushing my temple, "you just need to see things from a different angle. Life doesn’t always have to be about fixing everyone else. Sometimes it’s about just…being. About taking care of yourself. About letting someone else take care of you."

I don’t answer. Words feel too fragile for what’s blooming inside me.

So, I lean into him instead. I turn my face into the solid warmth of his chest, letting his steady heartbeat ground me.

I breathe him in. All strength and heat and quiet protection.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself exhale. Like I’m home. Like I’m his to protect.

When I tilt my head up, his gaze is already on me—steady, unflinching.

There’s something stripped bare in his eyes.

A kind of raw vulnerability that knocks the breath from my lungs.

We look deeply into each other’s eyes. The connection is so intimate, it feels like our secret selves are reaching out to each other, entwined in a slow dance neither of us fully understands, but both of us crave.

He dips his head, until our eyelashes entwine. His lips brush mine. Whisper soft. His breath tastes of mint and that darkness I’ve come to associate with him. The one calling out to the part of me I’ve hidden from everyone, especially myself.

The kiss is tender but underlying it is a charged promise.

One which speaks of long nights spent with my skin sliding over his.

Of sweat-beaded brows, and heaving chests, and choppy breaths.

Of his mouth on my swollen breasts, in the dip of my navel, the rock-hard bud of my clit.

Of unspoken promises that he seems to feed to me as his tongue slides over mine. A shudder spirals down my back.

He takes my now empty cup and places it down on the blanket next to us, along with his.

He straightens, and when he pulls me up on my tiptoes, and then even closer into his broad chest, I melt into him.

The city below blurs into a kaleidoscope of color. I thread my hands through his hair and tug. A growl rumbles up his throat. He grips my hip, the other large hand sliding down to take a handful of my butt. He squeezes. A moan trembles from my mouth. Oh God.

My arse should not be such a collection of sensitive nerve endings sending signals to my brain, causing my thoughts to meld into each other.

Just when I think I can’t take more of the emotions enveloping me, he deepens the kiss. He holds me firmly against his crotch, where the evidence of his arousal lays heavily against my lower belly. A hormonal storm is brewing in the quadrant of my lower abdomen.

Uterine contractions: imminent. Hypothalamus to ovaries—stand by for launch.

The kiss goes on and on. The electricity from the meeting of our mouths zips around my chest, circles my nipples, and arrow to my pussy. My clit throbs with such intensity… I ache for so much more.

When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his chest.

The quiet hum of the burner above us is a contrast to the wild boom of my heart. "Talk about changing my perspective."

He chuckles, then tips my chin up and surveys my features. His own are filled with satisfaction. "I hope you’re hungry. I am."

Then the world tilts. He lowers me onto the cushions and follows me down to cover my body with his.