Lancelot had embarked on a quest for the Holy Grail to elevate himself in the eyes of Guinevere. Romeo had scaled Juliet’s balcony despite her relatives wanting him dead. Tristan had evaded the gallows to rescue Isolde from a leper colony. Tucker Taylor? He stood in front of her family and declared that she, Lizzy—the underloved, overlooked daughter—was extraordinary.
Extraordinary.
She’s been called other words: wallflower, bluestocking, spinster, ape leader? Yes.
An obligation? Unnatural? On the shelf? Of course.
But here, in front of her family, a man—herhusband—had stood and declared for her.
Who was he? With every other eligible man she had ever met, she’d instantly known that she wouldn’t want to spend her entire life with them. But Tuck Taylor had ended this record with a single word.
She steadied her stance, locking her legs to prevent any sign of weakness. No, she wouldn’t entertain the notion of a wobble. With chin held high, she maintained her composure and preserved her dignity.
And it wasn’t for the benefit of her family; it was for herself. She refused to shed tears in Tuck’s presence, unwilling to reveal a vulnerability that suggested she could be swayed by a kind word acknowledging her inherent worth. The prospect was mortifying. For so long, she had crafted a narrative of her own value, apart from others’ judgment. Along the way, she had either forgotten or ceased to believe that someone else could genuinely see her as deserving of love, not merely as an accessory for securing a dowry, supporting aging parents, or managing a household.
“We’ve had a long journey,” she remarked, inwardly relieved that her voice maintained its steadiness. “I suggest we retire upstairs to freshen up. It would also provide the added benefit of allowing you all to indulge in gossip and conjecture without the burden of our observation.”
Nodding to Tuck, she took his wrist and led him out the door. Together, they had achieved a rare coup, an occurrence so infrequent that she couldn’t recall experiencing it in living memory.
Her family was stunned into silence.
She didn’t allow her lips to curl until they entered her childhood bedchamber on the third floor.
“You seemed to enjoy that,” he remarked as the door shut.
“Au contraire, I enjoyedyou. You were very nice to me down there. That was a tough audience and you were brave.”
“I don’t believe in being nice. I prefer kind.”
“Aren’t they both very much the same in meaning?”
“Nah, not as much as you might think. Folks often toss aroundniceandkindlike they’re similar, but let me break it down for you.Niceis when you’re coming from a place that is all about pleasing others, trying to be likable, doing the crowd-pleaser thing. It’s self-centered, all about you. Now,kindis a differentstory altogether. It’s about putting others first.Niceis trying to act in a certain way to get something. What do I want to get from your family? You are the only thing I care about here.”
It wasn’t a declaration. She knew that. He needed her just like she needed him. This wasn’t a fairy tale with a happily-ever-after, and yet it wasn’t nothing. Why couldn’t a few stolen moments of happy-for-now be enough? It was more than many ever got.
“Kiss me?” Before he could do more than arch his brows in surprise, she added, “For kindness, of course. Also, because you are my husband for the moment. And we are alone. And you are a skilled kisser and right now I could use some skilled kissing to drive out my other thoughts.”
His gaze darkened. “You asked for it.”
He approached, and she instinctively lifted her chin, readying herself for the sensation of his lips on hers. But instead, he grasped her shoulders and turned her around to face her dressing table mirror, pressing her back against his firm chest.
“Look.” His voice was warm against her ear. “I want you to look at that person right there—I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true downstairs. In fact, I held back.
“Extraordinaryis a weak word when you’re fire.” He flicked his tongue under her earlobe before taking it between his front teeth and slowly pulling down until it released.
Her gasp hitched in her throat, morphing into a soft moan. Their eyes locked in the mirror’s reflection, revealing a wild intensity in hers, highlighted by the vibrant flush on her cheeks and the rhythmic heave of her chest.
“I don’t believe for one fucking second that your family doesn’t see it.” He blew gently on her wet skin, bracing her waist when her knees trembled from the tingly sensation. “They know. And they fear that if you’re unleashed, you’ll be able to do anythingyou want and do it well. That terrifies them. Nothing scares the mediocre like watching someone step into their power. But to me? It’s sexy as hell.”
She turned to ask what he meant, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. At least not any that could be had with mere words. His lips met hers like a question—andshewasn’t in the mood for teasing or games. She reached up, drawing him down to her, and gave him her answer. Yes. Yes. God help her, yes.
The kiss started gently, cautiously, but gentleness wasn’t what she craved, not now, not after this evening. She clenched her fists in his shirt, tugging him closer. She sensed a tide pulling at them. His hunger had an intensity that made her clutch onto him as the only stable truth in a volatile world. His insistent mouth parted her lips, sending thrilling tremors along her nerves. A soft groan escaped him, low in his throat, and then his tongue slipped inside her mouth. Nothing was gentle. But she felt safe.
Her fingers ran over his short, coarse-cropped hair, reaching the back of his head and drawing him nearer. He was her husband, but that fact wasn’t what made this feel so good. It was that he was hers. In a way that she couldn’t explain. That she couldn’t admit except when they were body to body, in this give-and-take that didn’t allow for half-truths or secrets. She could either embrace desire or reject it, but not both.
“I love the way you taste,” he grated.
“Tuck,” she whimpered.
