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Oliver says nothing as we climb out of the car and walk up the porch steps to the front door. I unlock the door and flip on the hall lights before kicking off my shoes and continuing into the kitchen.
I grab a bottle of sparkling water out of the fridge and twist off the top, taking a long, fortifying sip.
The footsteps that enter the kitchen are unexpected. I’m used to living alone to the soundtrack of nothing but my own movements. And I thought Oliver would head straight to bed.
I turn to face him, leaning back against the counter as I take another long sip of fizzy water. The bubbles scratch my throat, reminding me this moment is real.
“You struck out at the bar, huh?”
I raise both eyebrows. I was back at the table about five minutes after Oliver walked away. Aside from the one guy who approached me at the bar, I didn’t talk to anyone besides him and my family all night. Which he already knows.
“You can’tstrike outif you don’t play.”
He walks closer, leaning against the island and crossing his arms. I’ve spent way too much time admiring his forearms tonight. The map of veins and the lean lines of muscle. “Do you remember anything about that night?”
His voice is low.Solow and so deep. Sexy.
I find too much about Oliver to be sexy, including that he’s still wearing a suit because he didn’t pack anything more casual. That he looks buttoned up but spent the night playing croquet with my dad and sitting in a bar with sticky floors listening to my sister-in-law debate baby names.
I pull my hair over one shoulder, watching him track the movement. His eyes on me feel like the fall of silk over skin. The slightest, barest tease that squeezes my chest and speeds up each beat of my heart.
“Parts,” I choke out.
“Which parts?”
“The bar. Meeting you at the club. Watching the fountains. Being up in the sky. Drinking. After that…not much.”
“The—our—wedding?”
I swallow. Shake my head. “No.”
“After?”
“Passing out in bed? Not really.” There’s a subtle reaction. Not much, but his cheek shifts. It boldens me to add, “Not much of a wedding night.”
“Is that what you wanted, Hannah?” His voice is all gravel. And there’s an added rasp to my name, like he’s well aware of how him saying it affects me. “A real wedding night?”
A throbbing starts between my legs, keeping pace with my racing thoughts.
What is it about Oliver Kensington that makes me lose all sight of logic?He’slogic. Solid, smart, and serious. But for the first time, I get how we ended up married.
I’m completely in control of my decision-making, and so, so tempted to make another stupid decision where he’s concerned.
Sex is messy. Lust is confusing. Desire is dangerous.
But as we stare at each other, I can’t find the willpower to care.
I buried what it was like to touch him—kiss him—beneath the stress and anxiety of our unexpected marriage. But the knowledge is still there, playing out in technicolor in my mind.
I nod.
There’s a flicker of heat in his gaze. “Can I fuck you, Hannah?”
The edge of the quartz countertop digs into the small of my back. Distantly, a siren sounds. But I’m barely cognizant of my surroundings. I’m focused on him, swimming in that intense green.
He’s really asking, just like he did before kissing me.
This isn’t foreplay or dirty talk. Part of him probably wants me to say no, to shut down this possibility between us that will complicate everything between us even more.
