“You are not just an employee,” he repeated. “You are my wife.”
The word still startled me.
“All the more reason,” he added gently, “for you to accept support without believing it diminishes you.”
I looked down at my hands for a moment, where the plain gold band sparkled in the dim light.
Then I shrugged, a small surrender. “Fine,” I said. “Temporarily.”
His shoulders eased slightly.
“Temporarily,” he agreed.
I pointed my fork at him.
“If you start calling it a stipend, I’m leaving.”
He almost smiled.
“Noted, Ma Belle.”
And I hated how much I loved the way he said it. Because every time he did, it felt less like an arrangement. And more likesomething that might actually last. This was such a bad idea, but this man was becoming irresistible.
After dinner, we turned on a movie, just as we had the night before. I tucked my good leg carefully beneath me as I got comfortable.
Noticing my water bottle was empty, he got up to fill it. When he returned, he sat close enough that our thighs touched. Close enough that I could feel the steady heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt. He didn’t say anything at first. He just reached for me. His arm slid around my shoulders and drew me in until my back rested against his chest. His other hand settled at my waist, broad and warm and deliberate.
I went still. His mouth brushed the side of my temple.
“You are tense,” he murmured.
“Am not.”
His hand moved slightly, fingers splaying at my hip.
“You are.”
His steadiness was what undid me. He didn’t rush. Didn’t demand. Didn’t press for escalation. He simply held me like he had already decided I belonged there. He felt so good. I wasn’t sure what the answer was. I needed this job, but this seemed to blur those lines. But we were married . . . real or not, that was something I guessed.
My hand drifted to his forearm, tracing lightly over muscle and heat and skin. He exhaled slowly, the sound low in his chest.
The movie started playing, but neither of us watched it. I turned slightly to look at him. He was already watching me. His thumb brushed along my jaw, slow and thoughtful.
“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” I leaned in.
The kiss started softly. Exploratory in a way that felt almost reverent. He deepened it gradually, his hand sliding from my waist to my lower back, pulling me closer until the spacebetween us disappeared entirely. My fingers found the collar of his shirt, fisting there as heat unfurled low and steady through me.
Every touch felt magnified.
His mouth moved from my lips to the curve of my neck, and I arched into him without meaning to.
The couch dipped beneath our shifting weight.
My brace pressed awkwardly against the cushions, but I didn’t care.
I only cared about the way his hand traced deliberate lines over my skin, the way he whispered my name like it meant something important.
