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“No.”
I drop my skirt, hurrying after him. He walks up the stairs, his muscles visible through the material of his shirt. He’s not a bulky man. But he’s fit, his strength clear with visibly svelte muscle.
He gestures to a room, waiting for me to enter before following me. I walk in on tentative steps, my head turning left and right, soaking up the dark tones of the quiet room.
I watch as he drops my bags in the closet.
Standing in the middle of the room, I stared at him. When I stepped inside, the space felt vast, but now that we both stand within it, the walls seem to close in with every second that passes.
“Where’s your room?”
Leaning against the jamb of the walk-in closet, he tucks his hands into his pockets. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Will this be my room?”
“Yes.”
“Where will you sleep?”
His eyes flick to the king-size bed.
“Oh.”
“We’re married, Bianca.”
“Yes, of course.” I hate the way my cheeks shade. My embarrassment an insight into my lack of experience.
I feel his eyes on me as I focus on the large bed; imagining us sleeping side by side.
How many women has he had in this bed? How many have come before me?
“You’re the first.” He reads my thoughts. “Women aren’t invited into my inner sanctum, Bianca.”
“And me?”
“You’re my wife.”
I lift my chin. “Ah, yes, the coveted possession.”
He plays with his wedding band, turning it around over and over again.
“I guess I should remove my dress.”
He stops his ministrations, his fingers pausing on his wedding band. He lifts a single shoulder. “I can’t imagine sleeping in it would be terribly comfortable.”
I almost want to, suddenly afraid of him seeing me naked.
“Will you undo my buttons, please?”
I feel like a gazelle, standing in an open plain, waiting for a lion to attack as he walks toward me. His gait lazy, I shift on my feet.
“Turn around,” he commands, and there’s no mistaking the roughness in his voice.
Fingers at the very top button on the nape of my neck, I shiver at his gentle touch against my skin. His fingertips are ridged, calloused from years of doing work I have no business knowing about. He flicks each button with precision, never faltering as more of my skin becomes visible with each simple movement. With my bodice now undone, he skates his thumb just under the line of my bra. My skin pebbles at the touch, and he does it again.
His nose brushes along the side of my neck, and I inhale sharply. My head tips on its own accord, and he takes the invitation, his tongue following the same path. I whimper. The heat of his body is pressed in against mine, and I detest the heaviness of my wedding dress, wanting to feelmore.
He leaves a soft, wet kiss where my neck meets my collarbone, and I whisper his name.
