Page 10 of My One Week Husband
“Had you misplaced your verve?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Not at all. But the character made it seem so simple, learning to ride the waves. And I thought, Clearly, I can do that too.”
“Was it easy?”
“Not in the least. I raise a glass to all the amateur surfers of the world. They are magicians as far as I’m concerned.”
“Just as I suspected,” I said, then lifted my water glass to the wave riders. “But are you glad you learned?”
“I am. I’ve been trying to do the things I want lately,” she said, and those words signaled that perhaps something or someone had held her back from doing that in the past. I didn’t pry. The first lunch wasn’t the time. But I did share that desire—to try new things. Life is short. Fate can fuck you over.
“Good for you. Best to seize the day, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Indeed. We don’t know what tomorrow brings,” she said, and perhaps that was the start of our bond. That knowingness. That baseline understanding of the transience of, well, everything.
“In the end, how did you and surfing leave things? Will you go again?”
“Let’s just say this. I’m better at surfboard yoga than at actual surfing. But do you know what I’m quite fantastic at?”
“Tell me.”
She leaned forward. Set her chin in her hand. Spoke in a sensual whisper. “Making money. And then turning that money into more money. Now, how can I help you do that, Daniel?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life than I was when she said those words.
Here I am, three years later, traveling by train with my financial advisor turned business partner. All to check out a tip from a waitress.
But you never know where your best tips will come from.
And here Scarlett is, as wildly attractive as she was back then. Her long legs, clad in designer jeans, are crossed. She’s wearing black flats with red soles, and kicking one back and forth. Her burgundy silk blouse is unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of her breasts, the barest tease of soft flesh. Her diamond earrings blaze from the sun shining through the window, and her carved cheekbones accentuate her gorgeous face.
As we recap our plan, my gaze drifts briefly to her throat, to the column of her neck.
What does her neck taste like? Would she moan if I bit her earlobe? Would she cry out if I smacked her arse?
“Does that sound like a good plan?”
No idea what the plan is.
“Sounds fantastic,” I say, figuring I can wing it.
Sort of like how I deal with these flare-ups of attraction that happen when I’m around her.
I manage.
I’ve been wildly attracted to her since we met, and I’ve never acted on it.
I need her too much. Anything more than a late-night fantasy would be the height of foolishness.
Risk is one thing, but I abhor stupid decision-making.
As we step off the train an hour later, I slide my aviator sunglasses on and crook my lips into a grin. “Let’s go see if this hotel is as naughty as we expect it to be.”
She casts me a glance. “I’m not sure hotels are naughty. It’s more that the people staying in them are.”
I couldn’t agree more—and last night, thinking of her, I definitely was. “You have me there.”
We sail into the boutique hotel, where I scan the lobby, mentally recording every detail, then inquire about a room.
The front desk manager says one is available right now, so I check in, perusing the restaurant, the bar, and all the amenities as we go, making our way to the elevator and up five stories.
Once we’re off the lift, we head into the room, but we have no plans to stay, only to appraise it.
I unlock the door, open it, then say, “After you.”
“Always such a gentleman.”
Once inside, Scarlett oohs and aahs, her gaze landing on a mirror on the wall. It’s sleek and modern, and positioned perfectly for a crystal clear view of any and all bedroom sports.
The mirror screams sex.
Her lips form an O. “That mirror is so decadent.”
I move behind her, meeting her gaze in the glass. “I trust you’re thinking about decadence for one thing and one thing only?”
She hums a yes. In her reflection, I swear I can see trysts and liaisons flickering across her green irises.
This woman.
What would she do if I were to reach my arms around her, unbutton her blouse, and let the fabric fall down? How would she respond if she were revealed to me in the mirror?
Would she want to be watched? Would she want to see how I look as I undress her, as I slide off all her clothes, as I run my hands along her soft, delicious flesh?
She’d see the truth of my desire.
The way I crave her and crave control at the same time.
