Page 51 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

Turns out, he was taking us to Playa de Levante, to the northwest of Gibraltar.

Half an hour after easing out of the harbor, he drops anchor in the calm waters of a bay.

The sun is high in the sky, the white sands of the beach stretched out behind us.

In front of us is a view of the Rock soaring into the sky.

In the distance, the coastline shimmers in the sunlight.

We're not that far from the city, but when he switches off the engine, the silence makes it seem like we're the only two people on earth.

He hands me my flute of champagne and, carrying his own, he leads me out to the foredeck, and then onto the bow of the yacht. A gust of wind blows the hair from my face. I lean my head back and drink in the sight of the Rock.

"I’ve always wanted to see it." I take in the upper ridge rising high above us.

"It’s supposed to be one of the pillars of Hercules in the ancient world. Thought to mark the edge of the known world, beyond which are gods and monsters." His voice is soft, seeming to echo the ancient, silent sentinel before us.

I have a strange sensation that I’m standing on sacred, mythic ground, confronting my own fears.

Perhaps, sealing my fate. Perhaps, I always knew it would lead to this when he walked into my ER.

Perhaps, I let him into my life, knowing it was the only way to move forward.

Perhaps, I wanted to put myself into a situation where I’d be forced to share my secrets with someone.

And I picked Connor, knowing… He won’t rest until he finds out.

And I want him to. I so want to tell him everything. I sigh.

"That was a heartfelt sigh." His lips graze my ear.

The warmth of his breath raises the hair at the back of my neck. I can feel his body, big and solid at my back. Almost as immovable as the Rock we’re facing.

I place my glass on the cap rail, then turn to face him. "Thank you for bringing me here; it’s beautiful."

He places his glass next to mine, then wraps his arm about my waist. He pulls me to my tiptoes and bends, capturing my lips. Where the previous kisses have been urgent and demanding, this one is slow, sensuous, and seductive.

I melt into him, and his grasp on my hips tightens.

He hauls me closer, fitting me over the hard column at his crotch.

A gasp leaves me. He swallows it, sharing my breath, bending me over his arm so I feel like I’m floating.

He licks into my lower lip, and I feel his touch all the way to my toes.

And when he nibbles gently on my mouth, my pussy clenches.

I groan into his mouth, holding onto his shoulders.

If I let go, I fear my knees aren’t strong enough to hold me up.

His kiss is so potent, I feel like I’m levitating.

Something makes me open my eyes, and I find I really am levitating, for he’s carrying me in his arms.

"Oh." I blink. "You’re making a habit of this."

"I could get used to it, too." He smiles, then presses another kiss to my forehead, before carrying me to the table and chairs on the main deck.

Covered by an overhang, it's shielded from the sun. It’s already laid out for two people, complete with a white cloth, plates, and cutlery, as well as a bucket of ice. Clearly, he has a very thorough team.

He lowers me to the ground, making sure every part of me comes into contact with him on the way down.

Heat sizzles under my skin. The pulse between my legs grows insistent.

Even though I’m wearing only a simple cotton sheath, I feel too warm.

Like there’s a volcano inside me which has come to life, and the lava runs through my veins.

He must be aware of how turned on I am, for his lips twist into a knowing smile. He kisses me hard, then urges me to take a seat. "I’ll be right back."

He heads to where we placed our glasses and carries them back before pressing one into my hand. Then, he kisses my forehead again and walks inside, emerging a few seconds later with the bottle of champagne, which he slides into the ice bucket.

When he leaves the table to get the food, my phone vibrates. I glance at the message on the screen.

Drew : When are you back?

I type out a quick reply.

Me : In a couple of days.

Drew: I miss you.

I frown. That knot of tension at the base of my neck throbs.

Of course, he’s messaging me when I'm feeling light for the first time in ages.

It’s always the same pattern. He seems to pop up just when I’m reclaiming a little happiness. Like he knows I might finally be okay without him and can’t stand it.

I’m not going to feel guilty about breaking up with him. I’m not going to give in to his bullshit tactics of making me feel responsible for what happened between us.

I clench my jaw. Well, tough.

I’m not going to spiral into guilt. Not this time. I’m not going to let him manipulate me into thinking I owe him something.

I grit my teeth, force my hands to stay steady, and type back a reply intended to convey that he can’t take any more of my peace.

Me: You know we don’t have that kind of relationship anymore. You really should move out.

Drew: Just give me a little more time to get to grips with everything.

"Who’re you messaging?"

"What?" I press the side of the phone, so the screen goes dark, then turn it upside down.

He gives me a strange look, then walks over to the table.

He sets a domed plate in front of me, and one in front of his seat.

He reaches for my phone, and before I can react, he’s picked it up.

"I’m going to put this aside, along with my device.

I want us to have this time uninterrupted by the outside world. "

His tone brooks no argument. If I say I want to keep my phone, it’s going to seem strange, so I nod. "I’m going to charge it along with mine." He turns and heads inside—presumably to the galley—since he returns in seconds.

Removing the dome from my plate, he announces, "Pan-roasted sea bass on pea purée with grilled asparagus and a poached egg." He takes the seat next to me.

My mouth waters. Only then, do I realize how hungry I am. "You didn’t cook this, did you?"

He snorts. "I can cook, but not this fancy. Nope. James recommended a local chef who had this cooked and delivered to us for brunch."

"You planned for this, too?" A soft sensation squeezes my chest. To think, this man thought through all of this, then made it happen—overnight. "That’s a lot of scheduling and organizing."

"I wanted it to be perfect." He places his hand over mine. "We’re only going to be married once. I wanted it to be everything you could hope for."

"It is." I turn my hand over so I can entwine my fingers through his. I’m deeply attracted to him. And my body craves him. And I have no doubt, he’s going to make sure I enjoy every moment when we first make love.

I’m sure, it’s going to be far more passionate and erotic than just 'making love' but… Somehow, these thoughtful things he’s done for me feel even more intimate. "Thank you."

"You’re welcome." He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my fingertips. "Eat now. I want to make sure you keep your strength up." He winks.

That ever-present chemistry between us leaps to the surface. I feel my cheeks flush. To distract myself, I cut into the sea bass. It’s so soft, it melts on my tongue.

"This is so good."

"I’ll pass your compliments on to the chef." He digs into his own food.

For a few seconds the only sounds are the clinking of our cutlery as we polish off the food. When I’m done, I sit back. "That was delicious."

He takes a sip of his champagne and tops me off before relaxing in his chair.

I take in his gorgeous face, his hair ruffled by the breeze. The shirtsleeves, which he’s rolled up to reveal his veiny forearms— oh God, those forearms. The pulse between my legs turns more insistent.

He notices me staring and his lips curl into a smirk. “What’re you thinking about?”

My cheeks grow warm. “You’re very handsome, Husband,” I say truthfully.

"You think so?" He smirks and I roll my eyes. Then, his mouth curves in a genuine smile. “Thank you.”

His features light up with pleasure and, damn, it only makes him so much more appealing. That familiar chemistry crackles between us, turning my blood into a river of desire. I clear my throat and try to find some composure. I decide to ask him a question that's been on my mind.

“A biochemist and an undercover agent? Strikes me as a strange combination."

"Is it?" he asks, a hint of humor in his eyes.

"Being a biochemist feels so very scientific. And nerdy. While an undercover agent brings to mind a dashing, alluring figure."

"I can’t be both?" His eyes gleam.

"I guess?" I tilt my head. "Why biochemistry?"

"Came across the model of DNA in high school. Found out the genetic coding for the entire human body is contained in it. The thought blew me away. And I was hooked. But I also loved sports."

"Let me guess, captain of the school cricket team?" It’s my turn to scoff.

"Also played in the national football league. And won a few university level Jiu-Jitsu championships." He raises his shoulder.

"Wow, an all-rounder?" I ask impressed.

"Helped me get a scholarship to Oxford to study biochemistry. And while I was there, the MI5 recruited me. Turns out, being able to work as a biochemist made for a great front when I was on an undercover mission."

When he puts it like that, it begins to make sense.

“Were these assignments dangerous?”

He hesitates. “Most of what I did meant I had to be in enemy countries, playing a role. So if I were discovered”—he taps his knuckles on the table—“let’s just say, it would not have done me any favors.”

My chest seizes up. The thought of this vital man hurt in any way makes me feel like I’m choking.

He must notice the anxiety on my features for his soften. “Not that there was any danger of that. I am very good at my job.”

The quiet confidence in his words abates my worry somewhat.

He flashes me a smile. “Besides, I know how to maneuver my way out of difficult situations.”

He rises to his feet, takes our now empty plates inside to the galley, and returns with one plate, which he places on the table in front of him.

"Dark chocolate délice with a blood orange sorbet," he announces.

"It’s almost too pretty to eat." I stare at the beautifully arranged dessert. "But why is there only one plate?"

"Because you know what I’d really like to do?" he asks in a voice so dark it pulses liquid honey through my veins.

"What?" I clear my throat.

"I’d like to eat it off you"—he licks his lips—"if you’ll let me?"

That pulse in my lower belly catches fire. It’s as if the honey in my veins turns to gasoline, and the fire zips out to my extremities. My scalp tingles. My nipples turn into pebbles of need.

"Will you, Fever?"

I nod. The images he paints in my head are so striking, so erotic, I need to find out how it’ll be to live them.

"Good." He pats the table. "Climb on."