Page 25 of My One Week Husband
Her gaze drifts down to my hand, like she’s assessing the placement. Confirming that she likes it with the hint of a smile, a bob of her head. A yes. “I did. I kept myself wildly entertained all throughout Paris wondering when we would finally be able to get away for our weeklong . . . tryst,” she says, lingering on that very last word.
Tryst.
So this is how it goes.
We’ll be spinning a fable. Playing pretend. Indulging in a tryst.
We are giving ourselves permission to be these other selves.
“I thought about you too. Wondered if you’d wear a dress on the train.” I regard the line of her hem, how it shows off her creamy thighs, her bare skin. “Imagined having my hands in those gorgeous red locks of yours. Have I told you how stunning your hair is?”
She trembles, flicking some of the strands. “Do you like it?”
“It turns me on. The way it falls down your shoulders. The way I think about gathering it in my hands.” I pause, taking a beat, locking my gaze with hers before I add roughly, “Tugging on it.”
“You could do that,” she whispers, her voice all feathery.
The train rumbles along the tracks.
The lights are dim. The car is quiet. Barely anyone is in this carriage. Twilight falls outside. Paris is well and truly behind us, falling away as we leave the city.
A quick glance around tells me the nearest passengers are several rows away. “I thought about you at work today. It’s a wonder I didn’t take my cock in my hand as I pictured you,” I say, throwing down the fucking gauntlet.
Her eyes widen; her breath hitches. “Did you think about what you would do to me on the train?”
Hello, fantasy.
“There are so many things I want to do to you on this train,” I rasp out, wrapping my hand tighter around her thigh.
Her chest rises and falls.
Her shoulders shudder.
Her cheeks flush.
And we’re pretending.
But we’re not pretending at all.
Not one bit.
9
Scarlett
I imagine this is who we are. We are newlyweds escaping from Paris, getting away for a week. A week where we won’t even leave the bedroom. Satin sheets will be tangled, hands and bodies will collide, and fantasies will play out over and over again in a hotel room.
There is no question that right now I am this woman. This woman who’s incredibly turned on by her new husband.
So turned on she can’t even wait.
I don’t want to wait.
I want to indulge in every single second with him.
With my pretend lover on the train in the dark.
I invite him to continue traveling. Continue taking that sensual journey up my thigh. I spread my legs a little more, giving him more room to roam, but mostly giving him the signal to keep going.
That’s exactly what he does. His hand glides up my thigh, the fabric of my dress sliding along with it, revealing more of my skin.
His fingers are on a slow, tantalizing course for my hot, wet center.
He’s mere inches away. I push my back against the seat, my head pressing into the cushion, my chest arching.
We’re doing this. Oh dear God, we’re doing this.
A noise climbs up my throat, dances across my lips. It falls across them. But it’s louder than I would like.
He leans closer, his nose against my neck. “Darling, can you be quiet if I take you there right now? If I take you there right here on the train, can you be quiet? I don’t want anyone else to hear you.”
Can I be quiet?
The question means so much more. The question is about so much more than silence and skills.
What he’s really asking is . . . Can I touch you?
Can I get you off?
Can I make you come on the train when we’re ten minutes away from our stop?
I have no plans to say no.
I turn toward him, my cheek against his stubbled jaw. Then I pull back the slightest bit, my lips nearly grazing his. “Quiet me with your lips,” I tell him, uttering a seductive command.
One that gives him all the permission he could ever seek.
But I don’t stop there. I’m playing my part. And it feels so good to be this woman.
It’s freeing.
I shed my daytime self, sliding into a woman I no longer let myself be. A naughty, hungry woman. “Remember what you did to me at the restaurant the other night? I was too noisy. And you kept me quiet by kissing me ferociously. The only thing that kept me quiet enough was your lips,” I say, inventing a story.
“Dear God,” he rumbles, sounding filthy, sounding aroused. “I remember that perfectly. I was like iron in my trousers the whole time. I wanted to fuck you.” He picks up the narrative, telling the tale of our lust so seamlessly. “Wanted to take you out of that restaurant, steal around the corner to that little passage, push you up against the wall, put your leg around my waist, and fuck you hard right there.”
