Page 154 of The Unwilling Bride
We sit with the length of the settee between us. But it doesn’t feel strange. It feels comfortable. Especially when she pulls her feet up underneath her and sinks back against the cushions I ordered specifically for her.
"Thanks for replenishing my ice cream." She shoots me a grateful glance before digging her spoon into the tub. She slips it into her mouth and licks it clean.
I should look away. But fuck me. When I see her pink tongue slide against the spoon, my crotch feels too tight. If I were a better man, I’d leave right now, head up to my room with my whiskey, take a cold shower, then go to bed.
I am not a better man. I established that a long time ago.
I settle for widening the space between my thighs, so I can accommodate my arousal. Then I take my tumbler of whiskey and sip from it.
"The dinner service went well today."
"Hopefully it impressed the Michelin inspector. Assuming, of course, he’s the one we think it is."
We exchange a meaningful look. It was a solo diner, who walked in off the street, sampled three courses on the menu, took copious notes, asked the staff a lot of questions, and was among the last to leave.
"It’s a Michelin inspector, all right." I tap the side of my whiskey tumbler thrice.
She looks at it meaningfully but doesn’t comment. She notices all my little tics, in a way that makes me feel seen. I should find it intrusive, but strangely, I find I don’t mind that it’s her who’s clocking these things.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it up from my pocket. It’s Tristan calling.
"Yeah?"
"You all right?’
"I’m busy."
Ember sends me a questioning look. I shake my head, indicating I’ll be done soon.
"Haven’t seen you since the wedding."
"Been settling in, is all."
"Understandable."
I sense he wants to ask more, but all he says is, "Making sure you’ll be at Margot’s dinner…"
"When is that?"
Malice saunters over to the sofa, then jumps up and makes a beeline for my wife. She strokes Malice, who settles down in her lap and begins to purr.
The two of them make such a cozy picture. This is my family. My wife. Mine. The feeling is fiercer than possessiveness; it fills my chest. It's like ownership. Like being given a blessing. Like seeing what my future could look like, if I let her in further into my life.
"James, are you listening?"
"Yeah, you said Saturday night." I look away, so she doesn’t see how moved I am. "Sunday’s a working day for us."
"Margot’s not going to give an inch. We're the ones who have to adjust to her schedule, after all." His voice is resigned.
"We’ll be there." I disconnect. "That was Tristan. He?—"
"Was calling to remind you that we need to make it to Margot’s dinner." She scoops up more of the ice cream, licking the spoon clean again. My heartbeat ratchets up. Sweat breaks out on my upper lip. I can’t help but think how it’d feel to have her mouth around my cock.
Fuck.
I look away. She inspires these contrary feelings of tenderness, mixed with a heightened lust that’s becoming difficult to contain. I toss back the whiskey and set down the glass.
"Easy there." She looks at me in surprise.
