Page 144 of The Temporary Bride

We pull ourselves together quickly, tugging fabric back into place, smoothing and straightening our clothes. Then he practically throws himself out of the car and strides around to my side. He doesn’t offer his hand, just reaches in and scoops me up, and I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me through the front door and straight up the stairs without stopping, like a man on a fucking mission.

He lays me on the bed and steps back to look at me, his eyes dark and his chest still heaving slightly.

“I’m not done with you,” he breathes. “I’ll never, ever be done.”

Chapter 53

Tristan

I look down at my wife for a moment, my cock already hardening again just from the sight of her spread out on the bed, her dress still half on and her hair loose around her face. I just came harder than I have in a long time, and it doesn’t matter at all. I want her again immediately. I think I’ll always want her, even if I were at death’s door. Hell, even if I were already dead.

She’s here.

She’s real.

She came back to me, and I’m done wasting time.

I strip off what’s left of my clothes and crawl onto the bed over her, and she falls back against the pillows as I hover above her. When our lips meet, I lose myself in the kiss, drowning in it as I explore her taste.

She makes a soft sound against my mouth, her hands coming up to grip the front of my shirt before she remembers I’ve already taken it off, and her fingers spread across my chest instead, pressing into the muscles there.

Then I start undressing her, unhooking, unzipping, and sliding things off, and she helps me, lifting her arms and shifting her hips. When I get her dress over her head and drop it off the side of the bed, something catches the light from the lamp on the nightstand.

There’s a chain around her neck, and looped through the end of it is her wedding ring.

I freeze.

The ring rests against the skin of her chest, rising and falling with her breath. She notices me staring and reaches up to wrap her fingers around it.

“I couldn’t wear it,” she says quietly. “But I couldn’t leave it behind either. I had to keep it with me.”

I don’t have a response to that for a second. She had every reason to put that ring in a drawer and leave it there. Instead, she kept it on a chain near her heart for all that time we were apart. The knowledge hits me square in the chest, and it takes me a moment to find my voice.

“Fuck, dimples,” I breathe. “You’re killing me.”

I lean down and kiss her, my hands moving to either side of her face. Then I press my lips to her jaw, her neck, the curve of her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair. It smells sweet and familiar, and I stay there longer than necessary just because I’m not taking a single second of tonight for granted.

She shifts beneath me after a while, her hips tilting up, an impatient sound escaping her that makes me smile.

“Tristan…” she whimpers.

I pull back and look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips are swollen, and she’s looking at me with an expression that makes it very hard to think straight. I grip her legs behind the knees and hold them apart, positioning myself at her entrance without pushing in yet, and her breath hitches.

“Watch,” I command. “Look down, dimples. I want you to see.”

She lifts her head, and I look down too, both of us staring at the connection point between us as I start to press inside. The sight of it, her body opening for me and taking me in, pulls a groan out of me that I don’t try to muffle. I push forward slowly, inch by inch, and she makes a sound that starts soft and gets louder as I go deeper, her hands gripping the sheets on either side of her.

“Fuck,” I breathe, my jaw tight. “Look at that. You see how perfectly we fit together?” I push in deeper. She clenches hard around me and drops her head back with a gasp. “Eyes on me,” I whisper. “I want to see your face.”

She brings her gaze back to mine, dark and a little glassy, as I start to move.

Slow and deep, my hands gripping her hips to keep her exactly where I want her, rolling into her with long strokes that I feel everywhere. She makes a soft sound with every one, her fingers curling and uncurling in the sheets, her back arching slightly to meet me. I watch her face the whole time, how her expression shifts and opens with each thrust, the flush that spreads farther down her throat with every passing minute.

“I’ve missed this so much,” I groan. “Every fucking thing about you. Every single day that you were gone, I missed you.”

She whimpers at that, her hips rising to meet mine, and I drive deeper on the next stroke and watch her face. I lean down and press my mouth to her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, tasting her skin while I keep moving inside her. Her hands come to my back, her fingers pressing in hard, not scratching, just holding on with both hands like she’s not entirely sure this is real yet.

I know the feeling.