So this is it.
An incendiary kiss for the cameras, but at home it’s separate bedrooms.
It feels like a good time to remind myself that I signed up for this.
I reach behind me for my zipper to climb out of my wedding dress, ignoring the melancholy pang that it ought to be my husband taking it off me.
But the zipper doesn’t move.
I try again. Twist left. Twist right. It’s caught somewhere in the region between my shoulder blades, stuck fast in the embroidered fabric, completely unreachable at this angle.
I stand there for a moment, sigh heavily, and accept my fate.
Moments later, I’m knocking softly at Slade’s bedroom door.
He opens it, a look of concern flashing across his face. “Lila. Is everything okay?”
My eyes sweep down him. He’s changed out of his jacket. The dress shirt is half unbuttoned, untucked, open at the throat. His bolo tie is resting on the bed.
He’s still wearing his wedding ring.
I would have thought that would be the first thing he’d take off, but the platinum band is gleaming brightly on his tanned hand.
“Everything’s fine,” I say. “Great. I just…” As I struggle to piece my request together, he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and shrugs it off onto the chair behind him.
I knew a professional hockey player would be built. Knowing it and standing right in front of a shirtless Slade is different.
His body is incredible. Thick muscle carved from two kinds of labor, the hockey and the ranch work. A map of scars that tells the story of fifteen years of someone throwing their body at things and getting back up. There’s one along his ribs, pale and silvery. And then another thick, long scar arcing across his shoulder, still pink and obviously recent.
I want to put my hands on him so badly my fingers actually curl.
I make myself look at his face instead.
I need to say something. Preferably not any of the dirty thoughts running through my head about licking my way up those ridged abs. Or licking my way down.
Back to horny jail.
“My zipper,” I say. “It’s stuck.”
His eyes move down my body and back up. The green is already darker than it was.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
I follow his order.
He steps close. Not touching. Close enough that I can feel him behind me, the warmth of his chest at my back, and I stare at the wall and wait, my body trembling slightly, but not from the cold.
As he reaches for the zipper, his fingers brush my skin.
While he carefully maneuvers the zipper, goosebumps break out over my flesh. I feel hot and tingling all over, my nipples pebbling into stiff points.
“Almost got it,” he says. His breath tickles my ear.He smells like mint and I wonder if he already brushed his teeth. I wonder if his mouth would taste of mint too.
His fingers find the catch in the zipper. He works it carefully, methodically, no rush about it, and I struggle to keep my breathing steady even as my pulse picks up.
All I can think is: my husband is taking off my clothes on our wedding night.
His fingertips are warm against my skin and his thumbs press lightly against either side of my spine. Behind me his chest is close but not touching and I can feel the heat of it anyway.
