I should be outraged. Instead I’m curious.
This man made sure my wedding would fail just so he could have me for himself.
“Your father doesn’t think so.”
He pushes away from the windowsill and comes to stand behind me.
Rough, warm hands close over my shoulders.
I try to shrug away, but I’m unsteady in my heels from the champagne. I stumble to the side but a firm hand stops me.
He tuts his tongue and I can already imagine the way a smile will have spread over his mouth.
Lazily. Slowly. As if he’s enjoying the experience.
He starts to lace up the back of my corset, eyelet by eyelet. His touch is rough yet deft at the same time.
I am so frozen in shock that I don’t stop him, don’t argue. I just let him put my wedding ensemble back together like he’s really about to marry me.
There is absolutely no way.
The way he talks… The way he looks… This is not the kind of suitor that my parents have been sending my way for years.
This man is something else.
I should be afraid, I should be stopping him, but instead I find myself relaxing under his touch.
I suck in a breath as his fingers brush against my skin. The simple contact sends a rush of warmth right down the center of my body, reaching all the way down to my toes.
“There. Are you ready for our wedding?”
I’m frozen, overwhelmed, unsure of what to do next. The gentle pressure of his hand on my back has derailed all rational thought.
We both know what this is. If this man has any interest in me, it will be because of my surname and nothing else. So why is he pretending he’s interested in me?
His hand brushes the side of my neck and he runs his fingers through my hair.
“You know, I like your hair better like this.” His lips are so close to my throat that I can feel the hot whisper of his words just below my ear. “Don’t pin it back up.”
I nod my head on instinct.
His voice is a low rumble. “You’re not getting out of this wedding. Trust me, I’m harder to escape than your exes.”
He slides his grip down from my shoulder to circle my wrist. His thumb brushes over the soft skin just where my wrist meets my hand and a thrill of excitement runs up my arm and slips down my spine to settle in my stomach.
He pulls me around to face him and my insides melt into a confused, nervous mess.
This is crazy. There’s no way I’m marrying this man, no matter how much my skin might be begging for his hands on me again.
“Who are you?”
He never answered my question, I realize faintly. It took me far too long to notice.
I need to put a stop to this. It’s improper. My parents would kill me if they found out this man had touched me, whoever he is.
The question makes his face drop from teasing into something more serious.
He blows out a stream of air. “You’re not going to like the answer.”
