Page 26 of My One Week Husband
My body is on fire. My brain is electric. I ache for him. “I wanted that too. I wanted that raw roughness, and I loved everything you gave me. How you made me be quiet.” I lick my lips. “With your mouth.”
He slides his nose along my neck again, reaching my ear, licking the shell. “I’m going to do that again right now, love.”
All my fantasies of my business partner, of us together, are coming true as he kisses me for the first time. On the train. After dark. In between here and there.
He’s sweet at first, his lips brushing over mine, his tongue flicking open the seam of my lips.
It’s tender and lush.
It’s passionate and lingering.
I want to groan and moan and cry out. I want to let him know what he’s doing to my body.
Nerve endings are sparking. Electricity is flowing.
Hot, wild breath is caged in my lungs, fighting to escape.
My pulse surges, beating between my legs. I open them wider, urging him on.
He heeds the call. Covering my lips with his, kissing me harder, hot and urgent, while his fingers slip under the lace of my panties.
I melt.
My brain melts.
My body melts.
I want to sink into the delicious, divine feel of his strong, confident fingers as they slide through my wetness.
My body shudders as he strokes me.
I want to move and writhe.
I want to rock my hips into his talented fingers that brush across my arousal, that slide over where I want him most.
I want to toss my head back and call out his name.
But I can’t. Because he locks in all my noises with a heady kiss. And because we’re in public. Even though it’s quiet and even though we’re kissing, I need to stay as still as I possibly can.
I grip his arm hard like I did on the platform. Maybe I was signaling then that this would happen. Maybe I was telegraphing in advance what I wanted.
I dig my fingers tighter, my nails digging into his skin, and his fingers fly fast, rubbing me harder.
Our tongues tango; our mouths explore.
White-hot pinpricks of lust flash before my eyes in neon bursts of pleasure. I slide my other hand around his head, tangling in his hair.
He kisses me more deeply, and I rock my hips into his hand, riding his palm closer and closer to the cliff.
Pleasure coils in my body, winds tighter in my belly. My thighs quake; my center quivers. My every molecule pulses, cries out, and bliss sails through me as I surrender to it, then burst in a frenzy of ecstasy.
He doesn’t even need to thrust his fingers inside me. I’m that aroused, that turned on.
All I need is him stroking me and then I’m coming in his hand on the train as we pretend we’re newlyweds who can’t keep their hands off each other.
As I come down from a wild high, he pulls away, lifts his hand, brings his fingers to his lips, and licks off my taste.
I gasp, loving the way he seals my orgasm in his mouth.
His wicked blue eyes meet mine, and his are etched with wanton lust as he removes his fingers, dragging one across my bottom lip. “My filthy, beautiful wife tastes so fucking good.”
And in this moment, that word, all of those words, feels true. I feel filthy and beautiful.
And I have no idea where we go next.
10
Daniel
We shuffle off the train, step onto the platform, then head into the depot of the train station in Giverny. Crowds are thin, like they were inside the carriage, but now all the passengers are converging into the small area, and there’s little time or space to talk.
But is now the time to talk anyway?
I steal a glance at my companion.
Scarlett runs a finger through her hair.
Or really, the wig.
She pushes it off her shoulder, then behind her, flicks it one more time.
Hmm.
It’s not like her to fidget. Normally she’s confident, take-charge, and quick with a quip or a quote.
And always, damn near always, she’s in control.
Perhaps she’s rattled. The least I can do is remind her I’ve got the details of the trip sorted out. Rooting her in practical matters should help.
“The car should be here any minute,” I say.
“Great. Great.”
“The hotel is only a couple miles away.”
“Great. That’s great too.”
“Are you hungry? Want to get a bite to eat when we arrive?”
She shakes her head. “I’m good. I’m great.”
And I’m guessing she’s not great.
As we walk through the station, she blinks a few times, like she’s sorting out her thoughts. Swallowing roughly, she clears her throat then takes her phone from her purse, swiping the screen. “You said earlier that you booked the rooms?” she asks as we stride past the travelers checking the boards for the next train.
Rooms.
It’s funny that she says rooms, plural. I’m not sure that now is the moment to correct her on that small detail. Instead, I simply nod and say yes. “It’s taken care of.”
