I have no idea why the next words leave my mouth do, because it is the absolute last thing I want to do. But remembering that my wife prefers to take things slow, I force myself to be a gentleman.
“Perhaps we should go inside and talk?” I suggest, my voice still rough.
She nods quickly, avoiding my eyes. “That’s…that’s a good idea.”
She turns to lead the way, and the sight of her skin beneath the collar of that soft T-shirt is seductive in a way I can’t quite define. It’s subtle, effortless, and entirely undoing. I know I’ll have to ask for forgiveness later, but as she stops to swipe her keycard to open her door, I can’t stop myself. I lean in, gently brushing her ponytail aside, and press my lips to the nape of her neck.
I watch as goosebumps bloom across her skin instantly.
“Forgive me,” I whisper against her heat. “I feel like I’ve been dying to do that my whole life.”
The door clicks open, and she practically rushes inside to escape the tension.
“I remember you telling me you weren’t the romantic type,” she says, her breath hitching as she drops her keycard into a purse hanging near the door.
“Correct,” I reply, closing the door behind us and shutting out the rest of the world.
She turns to face me, a playful but wary spark in her eyes. “But you constantly say things that are so…swoony.”
I grin, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. “Swoony?”
“Yes! You know, the silver-tongued things men say when they’re trying to get into a girl’s pants.”
I let out a low laugh, taking a step into her space. “Why do you make it sound like I’m a man with ill intentions, Ms. Mysterious?”
She pins me with a look that challenges every ounce of my restraint. “Aren’t you?”
I drop my gaze, the humor evaporating into something far more volatile. “My intentions,” I murmur, looking back up at her with a raw honesty that surprises even me, “are currently a fucking disaster.”
I don't give her a chance to respond. I bridge the gap between us, my hand sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck to anchor her as I pull her mouth to mine. The kiss is a heated rush, a collision of three months of suppressed longing. She tastes even better than I remember, too. All heat and vanilla and sweet surrender.
She lets out a low, broken moan against my lips, her tongue meeting mine with a desperate, searching hunger. I can feel the change in her immediately as her back arches into me. A silent physical confession of the ache she’s been carrying. She missed me, too and it makes me want to devour her completely.
Her apartment is quaint—open and airy in a way that makes the space feel infinite—but my world has narrowed down to the woman in my arms and the marble kitchen island just behind her.
I move us blindly through the space. Without breaking the kiss, I hook my hands under her thighs and hoist her up.
She lets out a startled yelp that melts into a giggle. “Careful, husband,” she managed to breathe out, instinctively wrapping her legs around my waist to lock me in.
“Don’t worry,” I rasp against the sensitive skin of her throat. “I’ve got you. I’ve always had you.”
I dip my head, my tongue tracing a searing path from her collarbone to the shell of her ear. A shiver racks her entire frame.
“Wow,” she exhales, the word a breathless echo of our wedding night—the first time she’d looked up at my height and realized exactly what she’d signed up for.
And she still has no fucking idea.
“This isn’t wow,” I growl, the vibrations of my voice lost against her skin. “You haven’t seen wow, yet.” I smack her ass and squeeze. “We have all night for wow.”
I settle her onto the edge of the cold marble island, the contrast of the chilled stone and her burning skin making her gasp. I pull back just an inch to look at her. The war is still raging inside me—loyalty to my brother versus the starving lust for my wife. He’s my best friend. She’s my forever. And I have no goddamn idea how to navigate the wreckage this is going to cause.
But then my forever reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, and the rest of the world goes dark.
“This is making it very hard to talk,” I ground out, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel.
She follows my gaze downward, her eyes tracing the unmistakable ridge against the denim of my jeans. “Yeah,” she whispers, a wicked little smirk playing on her lips. “Very. Hard.”
I search for something witty to say. Some clever, posh comeback that would prove I’m still in control—but the effort is futile. Her shirt is gone, and the sight of her hardened nipples straining against the thin fabric of her black sports bra is actively evaporating every brain cell capable of forming a coherent sentence.
