Page 50 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

The gesture is natural, and the sheer normalcy of it makes my heart stutter. Which is a first. I’m not one to be moved by casual gestures of affection. And that’s what this is. I wonder if she realizes it’s a sign that she trusts me, whether she admits to it or not.

I place my hands on her hips, stopping myself from pulling her up against me with difficultly. Instead, I content myself with a kiss on her forehead. "Why don’t you change into something more comfortable and meet me up on the bridge?"

"How did you manage to get my clothes in there and unpacked so quickly?"

I turn to find her walking up the steps to the pilot’s cabin. She’s wearing a simple white cotton dress that leaves her shoulders bare and dips toward her cleavage, while showing off the shape of her legs. She’s wearing the kitten heels from earlier, and my groin hardens in response.

I remember my promise of fucking her in them and barely hold onto my patience. I can’t wait to feel her pussy clamp down on my cock.

“Would it be too creepy if I admitted I began assembling a wardrobe for you—before I even proposed?” I drawl.

She freezes at the top of the steps. “You were that sure I’d say yes?”

I nod, slow and unapologetic. “Maybe not immediately; but I was confident I’d do everything in my power to make you want to.”

“It is a little creepy.” She takes a step forward, graceful and deliberate, eyes scanning my face like she’s trying to read between the lines. “But it also makes me feel…wanted. Like I’ve had your full attention all along. It’s unsettling—but kind of intoxicating.”

“You’ll always have my full attention”—I drag my gaze down her body—“especially when you look like that .”

Heat curls low in my gut. I step closer, lowering my voice.

“I had Simon’s team unpack our clothes.” Making sure it was the woman who handled her clothes. I’d never allow a man to touch them. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.” Her gaze softens.

All the desire I thought I’d managed to curtail comes roaring to the forefront. My groin hardens, and I widen my stance to accommodate my erection. I’ve taken off my linen jacket and pulled out the tails of my shirt, so it should, hopefully, hide the evidence of my desire… For now.

"For the record you have impeccable taste.” She gestures to herself. “And they fit.”

“Of course, they do.”

“There he is.” She laughs. “When your arrogance makes an appearance, it’s a reminder that underneath that tenderness and gentlemanly image is a man who gets what he wants.”

“Does that bother you?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Because I’ve made peace with who I am. I stopped apologizing for it a long time ago. That instinct to hide myself to make others more comfortable? I unlearned it.

Yes, I grew up with privilege. For a long time, I flinched at the word— privilege —like it exposed something rotten in me. Something I had to overcompensate for.

But I know better now. It’s not the money or the name that defines me—it’s what I do with them. And I’ve done my best to use them for good.

Still, I won’t lie—that silver-spoon upbringing left its mark.

I like control. I crave efficiency. I want things done right—and that usually means being done my way.

I can be possessive. Demanding. Unapologetically focused when I want something—and when it matters, I don’t back down.

But none of that makes me cruel. Or blind.

Life—and my time undercover—taught me how to temper those instincts. How to command without bulldozing. How to lead without shouting.

I’ve learned the power of staying silent when needed, of letting others speak first. Of reading a room before I take it over.

Because logic gets me farther than force. And empathy? That’s not weakness. That’s leverage.

I’m used to getting my way. But I’ve earned that. Not with arrogance, but with precision. Not through status, but by listening. By trusting my instincts. And right now, every instinct in me is tuned to her.

She starts to shake her head, then pauses, her expression caught between exasperation and desire.

“Maybe it does bother me, a little,” she admits.

“But I also find it hot—and that confounds me.” A low laugh bubbles out of her.

“There’s something ridiculously sexy about a man who knows what he wants.

Who takes charge—but only when it counts.

And knows when to let things take their course.

Of course”—she waves a hand in the air—“if you’d given me the chance to pick up some clothes?—"

"But then I wouldn’t have been able to surprise you.”

"And was it important? To surprise me?" She closes the distance between us.

"It was worth it to see the pleasure on your face," I say honestly.

She comes to a stop in front of me. Her thick auburn hair hangs down her back.

The pale pink of her dress picks up the flush in her cheeks.

Likely, a result of the heat, but I’d like to think my nearness has something to do with it, too.

And when she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear in what I know is a nervous gesture, the ring on her finger sparkles in the light slanting through the windows.

I reach for her hand and, bringing it to my mouth, kiss the ring. "You look beautiful, Wife."

"Thank you." She swallows, her blush deepening, and pulls her hand back.

I release it, then reach for the bottle of the Bollinger La Grande Année I’ve chosen especially for this occasion. I pop the cork and, pouring the frothy liquid into both of our flutes, I offer one to her, then raise my glass. "To new beginnings."

Something dulls in her eyes. Damn. I need to find out what’s behind that. What’s bothering her?

But I know better than to ask the question outright. I’m going to have to bide my time, until she volunteers the information on her own. And she will, I promise myself.

She pushes aside whatever was on her mind, and when she smiles, it’s genuine. "To new beginnings."

We clink our glasses. Then she raises her glass to her mouth and takes a sip. She makes a 'mmm' sound which turns my already-thickening cock into a column of steel.

"Do you like it?" I clear my throat, trying to rein in my desire.

I must succeed, for she smiles. "I love it. The taste is elegant, powerful, and commanding…" She frowns. "Quite like you."

"Thank you." I dip my chin.

"How did you get everything here?" She shakes her head. "I was already taken aback when you had the paperwork for the wedding organized overnight, and now this—" She shakes her head. "I’m still finding it difficult to believe."

"I asked my team to do the grunt work. They knew it was important to me. Besides, I did compensate them for their time."

She takes another sip from her champagne and rolls it around in her mouth before swallowing it. The movement of her throat, the way she licks her lips… All of it sends my pulse skyrocketing. I take a sip from my own flute and set it aside, then touch the screen to start the engines of the yacht.

She places her own flute aside and turns to me. "Where are you taking us?"