Page 33 of My One Week Husband
He’s availed himself of the other bathroom, and has already freshened up, wearing those lounge pants and nothing else.
His chest is bare and worthy of a calendar.
All those muscles, all that smooth skin, with just the perfect smattering of chest hair.
I draw in a sharp breath. My body tingles, then heats as we share a dirty glance.
His eyes roam up and down my frame. “Didn’t work.”
My brow knits. “What do you mean?”
He flicks his fingers in my direction. “I still find you as alluring as ever, even in that gray T-shirt. So your attempt to wear something less sexy didn’t work at all. You still look seductive, if not more so, when you look like yourself. Because that’s the thing, Scarlett. I’m insanely aroused by you.” He sighs like he’s resigned to the score. “And on that note, I better get to bed.”
He sets to work unfolding the couch, putting a sheet over the mattress, and then flopping down on it as I retreat to the bedroom.
“Good night, Daniel,” I call out softly.
“Good night, Scarlett.”
I wish I knew for certain that I could survive whatever comes my way.
Fuck this bed.
Fuck this room.
Fuck this hotel.
An hour later, I’m staring at the ceiling, wide awake and miserable.
It’s midnight.
This king-size bed is so spacious. I flip onto my stomach. I flip back. I turn onto my side. I reach for my sleep mask. I shove it on with a grumble.
My world is dark. Maybe that’ll blot out these naughty thoughts frolicking through my brain.
But nope. I can’t even count sheep. Because all I can see are cocks. And I’m pretty sure counting cocks won’t help my cause at all. Instead, I count truths.
I want the truth.
Daniel Stewart didn’t give me a single line. He didn’t offer something he couldn’t deliver. He only offered himself for a limited time.
He promised nothing more, just that we’d return to the way we were. He’s capable of it, I’m sure.
Am I?
There’s only one way to find out.
That’s the decision I’m making right now. I want to find out. I trust him. But I also trust myself. I trust that we can return to who we are.
Now, though, we can be these other people.
We can pretend to be newlyweds in a hotel room, holed up together, making love.
If I’d just married him, I’d damn well be touching him already.
My temporary husband.
My make-believe mister.
I fling off the covers, swing my legs out of bed, and pad across the floor. He’s on the sofa, stretched out on his back, one hand flung over his eyes. His chest rises and falls.
He’s sound asleep.
My shoulders sag.
I’m turning to retreat to the bedroom when his voice calls out, all rough and sexy, “Come here.”
Shivers race across my entire body. They fill my cells. Need squeezes my chest, and I answer the aching pull of desire. I close the distance, joining him on the pullout couch, getting on top of him.
I straddle Daniel. “You’re hard,” I whisper like it’s a delicious secret.
One corner of his lips curves into a grin. “Does that surprise you?”
I shake my head as I set my hands on his shoulders, curling them over the strong muscles. “No. I suppose it delights me.”
He lifts a hand, slides it around the back of my head, threads his fingers through my hair, then whispers, “Then why don’t you delight in my cock, Scarlett?”
Heat blazes through my body. My hips move by instinct as I rock against him, grinding and pressing against that hard ridge, the tantalizing outline my eyes enjoyed a few nights ago in the hallway after the chandelier crashed.
The chandelier knew.
The chandelier was a sign.
Thrusting us together.
Wetness pools inside me as pleasure winds higher in my body. I rock as he grips me tighter, and I give in to the temporary us.
But there are things that need to be said.
Rules that need to be erected.
Boundaries that must be set.
So I stop, going still. “I have a proposal,” I say, all breathy.
He growls, tightening his grip on my head. “Let’s hear it.”
I draw a fortifying breath, then lay it out. “We do this. We do this for the length of the trip. We get this out of our systems. We role-play the whole time, and we pretend.”
His eyes blaze with desire. “Tonight do you want to be Mrs. Rousseau, my siren of a French wife, who slipped into the bed after dark, since she wants to be fucked hard and ruthlessly?”
I grin wickedly, savoring our naughty games, our tawdry make-believe. “But the thing is, Mrs. Rousseau loves being pushed, getting worked up, being turned on all day long.” I drag a hand down his chest. “When I’m Mrs. Rousseau, I want to spend the day wandering around town, you whispering filthy words in my ear, telling me all the things we’re going to do when we return to the room at night. I want to be driven mad with lust by Mr. Rousseau.” My whisper is soft and sensual as his eyes glimmer as I promise these dirty deeds. “And then when we return to our room tomorrow night, you can ravage me. You can ruin me in bed.” I nibble on the corner of my lips, voicing my final, tantalizing wish. “You can do anything to me.”
