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Four weeks later
“BABE, SERIOUSLY?”
I strolled out of the washroom wearing the pink sundress I’d purchased in town. It clung to my curves. Curves I now had and loved when I looked in the mirror. Curves Kilter definitely loved, which made me love them even more.
I twirled. The dress flared out at the hem mid-thigh. “You like it?” I knew he did by the look in his eyes. That smoldering look that was often accompanied with a growl or groan.
“No way. You’re not wearing that.”
I laughed. He’d said that about my bikini when we arrived on the island. It seemed Kilter had issues with me being scantily clothed, and I was learning to embrace it. Of course, he was being irrational. We were on vacation on an island that was sunny, hot, and required less clothing.
Kilter had been relentless in his pursuit of finding two cottages within walking distance of one another. He’d finally managed it in the Turks and Caicos, and we’d been here for a month now.
Delara arrived two weeks ago and stayed in a cottage down the beach from us. She didn’t say where she’d been as she’d left Toronto the same day we did. Nor did she talk about what happened with Waleron, but I knew it wasn’t good, because anytime his name came up, she avoided the subject. If he called, which he did often, and Delara was with me, she moved away.
“Is it the pink?” I looked down at my dress to hide my smile. It wasn’t the pink. “I thought you like pink, hon.”
He snorted. “Don’t like fuckin’ pink. Told you that.”
I cocked my hip, hands on them. “Not true. You said you liked me in pink.” He so did, and that’s why I bought the dress today when I saw it in the window. Well, one of the reasons. The other was for the exact look in his eyes right now—heated.
“Pink panties. And I was taking them off you.”
“Tore.”
“Babe?”
“You weren’t taking them off me. You tore them off me.” He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the beach and ocean. A breeze from the open sliding glass doors ruffled his hair and the white dress shirt he wore.
He looked hot in a dress shirt and jeans. Cuffs undone and sleeves rolled loosely and uneven. The top two buttons were also undone and the shirt wasn’t tucked, but hung casually over the waist of his jeans. His leather belt peeked out from the bottom slit at the center of the shirt.
“You done?”
My eyes darted back up to his. I’d been admiring him and he noticed. Unfortunately, he wasn’t appreciating the attention. “I’ll never be done.”
He grunted. “Babe, you have to get where I’m coming from.”
I did.
He stalked toward me and that familiar tweak hit my stomach. He did it for me. Totally. And completely.
He was in bare feet and walked soundlessly on the hardwood floors. There was a bit of sand on the bridge of his feet. He’d been out on the beach while I showered and got ready.
He didn’t stop until he was directly in front of me. He cupped the back of my neck and shivers trickled across my skin. “You look stunning. And, yeah, hate pink, except when you’re in it.” His fingers tightened, bunching my hair in his hand. “I want to tear this pink off you, too. So, sitting and having dinner with your dad, my fuckin’ Taldeburu who hates me, while I can think of nothing else but tearing that dress off you… not going to work for me.”
“He doesn’t hate you.” His brows lifted. “Much,” I added then slid my hands up his chest. “Control and patience, hon. You can tear it off after dinner.”
“Don’t have either of those.”
I may have changed a lot, but Kilter was still Kilter. Impatient and his control questionable, probably a reason Waleron wasn’t pleased about us being here together. And tonight was going to be his ultimate test of control, not because of the dress—okay, maybe a little would be the dress—but mostly because of Waleron.
He took my left hand, lifted it, and then slid my ring finger into his mouth right up to the diamond ring he’d given me two weeks after we arrived here. It had been a simple proposal. Who was I kidding? It hadn’t been a proposal. It was more of a ‘You’re going to marry me.’
I’d been in the bathroom brushing my teeth first thing in the morning. He came up behind me and placed the ring on the counter. There was no box, no ribbon, no nothing—simple and to the point. Then he put his hands on my hips and leaned in to me.
He kissed the side of my neck while I still had a mouthful of toothpaste and stared, shocked at the gleaming, gorgeous ring in front of me. Then he told me I was going to marry him on the beach in ten minutes and to hurry up.
I choked on the toothpaste, swallowed half of it, and managed to spit out the rest. I stared at him through the reflection in the mirror. He was already watching me. No smile. Not even a twitch. His brows were low and his fingers squeezed my hips before he turned me around, picked me up, and placed me on the counter.
