Page 179 of The Reason I Married Him
“Really, Wyatt?”
He smirks. “How about we play a game?”
“If you suggest strip poker, the answer is no.”
“Like I said a few seconds ago, ew!”
“Stop.” I laugh as I try to push him away, but while I do it, his hand slips under my shirt, and his warm palm presses against my stomach.
“Wyatt,” I say in a questioning tone. “What did we say about this?”
“I’m not doing anything,” he says, his thumb stroking just below my breast, making me hyper aware that he could easily turn me on at this moment.
“You are when you nearly touch my breast.”
“Ew, you have breasts?” His hand flies out of my shirt, and he shakes it above me as if he’s trying to get a bug off his fingers. “Gross.”
Because he makes me laugh, I reply, “That’s not how you reacted when you were sucking on them.”
His brows shoot up, and he points at his chest. “Sucking on your . . . tits? No, that doesn’t sound like something I’d do. I’m a dignified man, and dignified men don’t suck on tits.”
And this is why I like him, this right here. He saw how stressed I was at Hattie and Hayes’s. He noticed how quiet I was on the way home, and instead of letting me sulk away by myself, he’s flipped the mood around. He takes my wandering mind full of doubts and questions and puts me in another headspace, where I forget about the past, the worries that rest heavily on me, and the pressure, and settles me into a fun and carefree place.
“What do dignified men do?” I ask.
“Smoke cigars and talk about their loafers.”
I snort. “Oh wow, I had no idea. It’s weird, though, because I haven’t seen you smoke a cigar or wear loafers even once, let alone talk about them.”
“And are you with me every second of every day? I think not. Therefore, you don’t know what I do all the time,” he counters, living in this imaginary tomfoolery with me.
“Then how come I never smell smoke on you?”
The corner of his mouth tugs up in a smile. “You smelling me, babe?”
“Hard not to when you force yourself on me.”
“Now, when you put it like that, it seems like I’m some sort of predator.”
“Uh . . . my hand for your land?”
“Hey now, hold on a second . . . I only said that because it was catchy,” he says while I chuckle. “If this were my book, I would put that slogan on shirts. I didn’t really mean it . . . fully. Just in a comical sense. You are more than welcome to leave this agreement. The door is right there.” He gestures toward the door.
“This is my place,” I counter.
“Yeah, but I’ve grown accustomed to it and don’t want to leave. Plus, I’m getting close to squatter’s rights, and that’s a badge I would wear with honor. So it was nice knowing you, but if you don’t mind, I intend to enjoy myself this evening.” He pushes me toward the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” I playfully yell. “What are you doing?”
“Claiming my bed.”
“Don’t knock me off.” I grab his leg to keep myself on the bed, but he attempts to shake me off. Good thing for me, I have an impeccable grip. I wrap my arms and legs around his thigh and shin, and I don’t let go. The entire time he shakes, I can feel my shoulder graze his junk, my head . . . my ear.
That’s when he stops, laughter in his voice. “Christ, if I shake any more, my dick is going to act like a Q-tip in your ear.”
I laugh just hard enough to surprise him. “Wyatt, there is no way that thing will fit in my ear.”
That makes his brows shoot up in surprise. “Why, Aubree Rowley, are you saying I have a giant, beefy slayer of a cock?”
