He huffs out a laugh. “That’s one way to look at it.”
“I have a very healthy perspective on these things.”
“Clearly.”
Another small silence. Comfortable now, the embarrassment diffused.
But I still haven’t gotten my answer.
“So,” I say. “The girl in your dream.”
I stare at the ceiling and wait and wonder if he’s going to answer at all. If he’s going to deflect, or change the subject, or just go quiet the way he does when something gets too intimate.
Then he moves.
His hand presses gently into my shoulder, turning me, and I let him, rolling onto my back. He shifts his weight, rising up onto his forearm above me, and suddenly we’re face to face in the gold afternoon light with Lucky snoring obliviously beside us and about six inches of space between my mouth and his.
He’s still in his work clothes, still rumpled from sleep. His dark hair is falling forward slightly. His green eyes are very steady and very dark and looking at me with an expression that makes it difficult to remember what I asked.
His hand comes up as he traces his fingertips along my cheekbone, those green eyes following everywhere he touches me. “It was you I was dreaming of,” he says tenderly. “Of course it was you. You’re my dream girl.”
And then his lips land on mine.
Chapter 32
Date Your Wife
SLADE
Ikiss her.
Slow. No rush. My weight shifting over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other tracing the line of her jaw, her throat, the soft skin below her ear that I’m learning makes her breath catch and goosebumps appear on her skin. She makes a small sound against my lips and her hands find my chest, fingers curling into my work jacket.
I take my time with the kiss. I’ve waited a long time to kiss her again, and I’m going to savor it.
I kiss the corner of her mouth. Her cheek. The soft place below her jaw where her pulse is jumping. I feel her fingers work at the buttons of my jacket and I let her push it off my shoulders and she pulls me back to her mouth and kisses me with both hands in my hair.
My cock swells inside my jeans. It doesn’t matter that I’m exhausted, that my shoulder is burning. None of it registers against my need for her.
I could kiss her forever. I could bury myself inside her in one thrust right now.
And that’s why I need to stop.
Not because I want to stop. I absolutely fucking don’t want to.
But I also know how I want to make love to my wife for the first time, and it’s not like this: still filthy from work and wrecked from a sleepless night.
She deserves intention. She deserves a man who’s made plans, a man who’s trying his damndest to win her over instead of rolling on top of her and rutting on her like a stag in heat.
A man who’s at least fucking showered in the last twelve hours.
She deserves better.
I pull back.
She blinks. Looks at me. Her lips are slightly swollen and her cheeks are flushed. She looks confused, and I don’t blame her.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
