Page 34 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

“You did?”

I wasn’t expecting that. I knew he hoped I’d fall for him, that I’d want to marry him for more than his money or name—but to hear him say he wants more than a fake marriage? That catches me off guard.

It also makes me realize, I’m in dangerous waters.

Despite my best efforts, I’m drawn to this man.

And thanks to his actions, I've begun to develop feelings for him. At this rate, I, too, will want more than just a marriage of convenience. I’m halfway to being in love with him, in such a short period of time.

"You need to understand that this is real for me.” His gaze grows intense. “Since I met you, I can’t stop thinking about you. It would be wrong of me not to tell you how I feel. That this marriage, for me, would be for keeps."

Hearing his words blows my mind. A shockwave seems to detonate in my chest, like a million feet are stamping against my sternum.

"Why would you say that?" I force the words out through a throat that seems to have developed swollen tonsils.

"Surely, it hasn't escaped your attention that I’m more than a little obsessed with you." To punctuate the point, he pushes into my core.

The hard column of his shaft rubs up against my clit. He’s so big, so well-endowed, I can feel each inch of his length through the clothes between us.

A shiver spirals up my spine. I can’t stop myself from panting. I’m so turned on, my toes curl. Moisture drips out from between my legs . It’s only my sympathetic nervous system kicking into overdrive. Vasodilation of the blood vessels in my vagina.

"My Bartholin glands are in good working order," I squeak before I can stop myself.

The skin around his eyes creases. But he doesn’t smile or chuckle, which would make my mortification worse.

"Good to know," he remarks in a mild voice.

I clear my throat. "I often talk to myself, when I’m alone; it helps to, uh, understand my thoughts better."

"It helps with clarity." He nods, his expression very serious. "I like that you feel comfortable enough in my presence to do so."

"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 where I 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’m not saying 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 want him —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?"

I close my eyes against the pain in his words.

"Please, Phe, I miss you."

"You know it’s over." I lower my voice. "You need to move on, Drew."

"It’s not over for me, Phe. You tell me out of the blue that you’re not in love with me anymore. That everything was a mistake. We’ve been together for over a year. You need to give me time to come to terms with what you’re asking."

Why now? Why, when I finally feel like I can move on, is he calling me?

I grit my teeth.

Just as I am starting to let go of the guilt associated with him, he pops up. It’s like he has a sixth sense of when I'm feeling good about myself and wants to mess up the moment.

I bite down on the rising frustration and force myself to take a breath.

“I'll be there,” I blurt out, because it's the only thing I can say that will get him to stop.

I disconnect, drop the phone in my bag, then turn and gasp, for Connor’s standing behind me.

"I have to go into work,” I explain.

His expression relaxes. "As long as I don’t have a competitor for your attentions."

My throat closes. My stomach bottoms out. I manage to keep the shock off my face. At least, I hope I do.

"And if you did?" I ask in a light tone. "What would you do about that Mr. Davenport?"

"You’d never be happy with anyone else."

A surprised chuckle wells up. "So arrogant."

He clamps his arm about my waist, then draws me up on my toes and into him.

"No one else can make you orgasm like me. No one else can satisfy you but me.”

"Cool it, James Bond." I pat his massive chest. "It was only a colleague, and I really need to be getting to the hospital."

He scans my features, then nods. "You haven’t answered my question."

"Which one?"

"How do you feel about our marriage being real? In every respect."

I like it too much. A flush steals over my cheeks.

I want our marriage to be real. I want him.

Want. Him. Need. Him. I ache to feel him inside of me.

I have no doubt, when we make love, it’s going to blow my mind.

That he’ll teach me just how much pleasure my body is capable of.

That he’ll bring to fruition those darker, most hidden parts of me that he’s begun to awaken.

My emotions must show on my face, for his eyes flash.

"Tell me,” he demands. "I want to hear it from you."

"I want it." My breath hitches. "I want our marriage to be real, too."