Page 11 of My One Week Husband
If we existed in a parallel universe, I’d worship her as I put her on her knees. I’d adore every inch of her skin before I tied her up, had my way with her body, and fucked her into blissful oblivion.
Get a grip.
I blink away the dirty thoughts.
I must focus.
But it’s hard when she tilts her head and seems to be considering something in the mirror.
It’s hard, too, when I don’t want to tear my eyes away from the beauty with the sculpted cheekbones and full red lips.
“What are you thinking, Scarlett?” I ask.
She meets my gaze in the mirror. “This one is so much better than the one at our hotel in Avignon.”
“So you’re a mirror connoisseur?”
She nods, looking a little guilty. But it’s not a bad sort of guilty. Rather a dirty, delicious sort. “I am.”
Then abruptly she blinks and wheels around, almost as if she’s been thinking something she shouldn’t while she was gazing in the mirror.
She clears her throat and gestures toward the lavatory. “I should go check out the bathroom.”
“Go forth.”
She heads there, then gasps. “I’m going to retire right here, right now.”
Laughing, I follow her. The bathroom is sumptuous, with marble tile, thick towels, and a clawfoot tub.
“I love a clawfoot tub,” she says in a reverent whisper. Then, like a good investor, she heads to the bath, sits on the edge, and turns on the water, testing, I presume, to make sure it doesn’t come out rust colored.
“It’s perfect,” she says, then turns off the tap and whirls around.
She loses her grip, almost slipping.
“Oh!” she cries. Her skull heads toward the tap.
I lunge toward her as she stretches out her arm to brace herself on the edge of the tub, but she whacks it on the tap.
Hard.
“Ouch,” she yelps, grabbing her forearm, her face wincing as I reach for her.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She tries to wave me off, her tone stoic. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
But the furrow in her brow, the pain in her eyes tells me she’s not.
“You’re not fine,” I say. “You just smacked your hand on the tap. I know what it’s like for a hand to be . . .” I don’t finish the thought. The scar on my right hand tells the story. Her eyes soften, drifting down to the mark. I ignore the sad look in her irises. “We need these hands of yours to work. To operate your spreadsheets,” I say lightly.
Despite my scar, my hands work just fine.
For nearly everything. There’s only one thing I want to do with them that I no longer can. But that thing has nothing to do with women, or strength, so I lift her up, scooping her into my arms.
Her eyes widen. “Why are you carrying me?”
“You’re wounded, woman.”
An eye roll is her reply as I carry her to the bed and set her down on the edge of the king-size mattress. “I’m not damaged.”
“Of course you’re not damaged. But you did whack your arm.”
“My hand too,” she says, softly this time.
I crouch in front of her, reaching for her. “Let me see it.”
“Are you a doctor?” she counters, but she lets me inspect her injury.
“I’m the doctor in the room,” I tease.
I ask where it hurts, and she points to her wrist, frowning. I run a thumb gently along that tender spot, that tantalizing place that can drive a woman wild.
If you touch her just right.
Which it seems I am doing, since Scarlett’s breath hitches.
“Daniel,” she whispers, her voice perhaps betraying her. “I’m fine. I swear I’m fine.”
I tuck my finger under her chin, lift it, and meet her gaze. “Are you sure?”
She nods, her eyes a little glossy. “I swear I am.”
“Let’s be certain.”
I lift her wrist to my face, my eyes on hers. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for more.
“Yes, please.”
So I bring her wrist to my lips and press a kiss to my business partner’s skin.
She lets out a low moan.
A groan works its way up my chest, and I swallow it down as I dust my lips over her pulse point.
I close my eyes, inhaling her, savoring the scent of her skin, of her lotion, of her Scarlett-ness.
I should move away. But she’s right here.
Images of last night’s fantasies flicker before me, along with the moment just now in front of the mirror, and how she looked at the reflection of her and me.
I open my eyes.
She nibbles on the corner of her lips, gazing down at me as I look up at her.
Is she thinking the same thing I am?
One kiss.
One taste.
That’s all.
I tamp down the groan in my throat as I breathe in.
Then, I take the next step.
I stand, gently take her uninjured hand, and carefully tug her up.
I reach toward her hair, tucking an errant strand behind her ear, testing to see if she’ll make that sound again.
