Page 36 of My One Week Husband
I drag my nails down the front of his casual mint-green button-down. “Can you blame me? My husband is a filthy man in bed.”
His eyes narrow, flickering with heat. “My wife is an absolutely filthy woman who craves hot, dirty sex all night.” He tucks a finger under my chin, stroking his thumb along my jaw, leaving sparks in his wake. “So, as you can see, when I have to satisfy your insatiable appetite in bed, it makes it hard to whisk you away to places like this.”
I take the bait as I inch away, roaming my eyes up and down his muscular frame. “Is it? Hard?”
His smile is wicked as he runs a hand over my hair. “Around you, yes.” He leans in, brushes a soft kiss to my forehead, and whispers, “But I’m so glad you like Monet’s house, Scarlett. I’ve been here a few times and always love it. But more so with you.”
I relax, returning to myself, following his cue.
I flash him a smile—not a flirty one, not a naughty one, but a genuinely happy one. I’m glad he loves being here with me, because I enjoy touring this spot with this man, whether as newlyweds or as us. Both suit me fine.
He takes my hand as we wander into the dining room, which is painted brightly in bold shades of yellow.
I lower my eyes, shifting my gaze. “I’m almost ashamed that this is the first time I’m seeing the gardens and the house. I can’t believe I haven’t made the trek out here yet.”
Daniel squeezes my fingers. “Ah, but that’s only because you are a Parisphile. It’s hard to peel you away from the city.”
I grin. “True. Paris is my soul mate. Have I ever told you that before? That I feel that way?” My voice pitches up, colored perhaps with some nerves. Aside from my parents, I’ve never told anyone how deeply I care for the city, but confessing this part of myself feels right. Necessary too.
He smiles, stroking my cheek. “I sense that about you.”
“How so?”
“You belong in Paris. Whenever I meet you at a café or a brasserie, and you’re sitting outside at one of those small round tables with the high-backed wicker chairs, drinking a glass of wine, reading a book, I always think, ‘She is this city. She doesn’t simply blend in. She is Paris,’” he says.
Warmth bubbles in me. I might actually be glowing. “It makes me happy that you see that.”
He gives a shrug, like he can’t help it. “It’s how you look to me. You’re like this goddess who owns the town.”
“I think Paris owns me,” I say, then point behind us to the blue kitchen. “But if I lived here, Giverny might own me. Making a meal in that kitchen must be like cooking in the sky. Can you see me in there? Wearing only an apron?”
He hums, a low rumble in his throat. “Perhaps, Mrs. Rousseau, we can play that game sometime. When I come home and find you in next to nothing.”
I purr, running my fingers down his arm, loving the freedom to touch him like this. To experience all of him in this cocoon of make-believe. “I’d do that for you. Put on only lacy lingerie, answer the door like that, ready for you.”
“Is that so?” His voice dips low as he backs me up into the yellow wall in the empty dining room. “You’d turn off the oven, then I’d bend you over the counter and take you hard after a hard day.”
The image lights me up, sending waves of desire through me. “You could take anything out on me with the way you fuck me,” I offer, gripping his shirt, tugging him close as the prospect of pleasure coils in me. “I’d want that. Hard and rough, your hands everywhere, squeezing, gripping, kneading.”
He groans savagely, then flicks his gaze from side to side, like he’s making sure no tourists from other rooms are about to wander in. But the house is quiet. “Is this what you were promising me last night, darling?” He runs his fingers down my arm. “Spending the day getting worked up?”
My hand dances down the front of his shirt on a determined path for his pants, sliding over the hard ridge of his erection. I shudder as I brush my hand over him, savoring his arousal. “Yes. Are you worked up?”
“You tell me,” he rasps out, rough and hungry, pressing my hand against his cock.
An appreciative murmur falls from my lips. “I’d say so,” I purr.
He lets go of me then ropes that arm around my waist, his fingers landing on my ass. He tugs me closer, pressing his hard-on into me. “Is this what you truly want, Mrs. Rousseau? Because I’ll take you into the kitchen right now, set you on the table, and have my wicked way with you.”
