Page 26 of Promised to the Heir

Her heels tumble down the stairs followed by a giggle.

“You’ll pay for that,” I growl, trying to sound dangerous while fighting with the knot of my pants.

She tosses a look over her shoulder, and her eyes gleam with mischief. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

She darts down the hallway, now bare feet silent against the wood. I lose the battle with my pants, nearly trip over them, and kick free. They join the growing trail of clothes we leave behind in a carnal version of breadcrumbs.

“Clara!” I lunge, fingers grazing her waist before she twists away.

“Too slow!” She laughs, breath hitching when I finally catch her at the doorway. My arms wrap around her from behind, pulling her flush against me. Her squeal turns into a gasp when my mouth finds the curve of her neck.

“Got you,” I murmur against her skin.

She twists in my arms, and her lips crash into mine. Our mouths collide in a clash of breath and hunger. There’s no slow build, no testing, just raw need. I press my tongue against the seam of her lips and surge inside when she opens for me. Our tongues tangle, and the taste of her floods my senses. Her breath hitches against my mouth as I press her down. The kiss turns messy, wet, and frantic. I’m painfully hard and breathing heavy but I don’t want our kiss to end. Each time I think I’ve found her rhythm, she changes it, driving me half wild until the only thing left is the sound of us. I walk her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She falls back, pulling me with her.

“Shit,” I mutter, breaking just long enough to realize what’s missing. “My wallet’s in my pants. Need condoms.”

She pushes up on her elbows. Her eyes are almost black and her chest rises, falls in rapid bursts. “Are you clean?”

“Yeah. Last check-up was six months ago. Only been with you after.”

“I’m on the pill.” She swallows and blushes but doesn’t break eye contact. “For my cycle.”

The air between us shifts, tightens.

“Don’t bother with protection.”

The words slam into me, low and hard, stealing the air from my lungs. Heat floods my veins, sharp and heady, and for a second all I can do is stare at her—at the trust in her eyes, the way her body yields but her gaze never wavers. My pulse kicks up, fast and unsteady. Thought burns away, leaving nothing but the raw, electric need to feel her skin against mine, no barriers, no distance, nothing left between us but breath and heat.

Then I move because the thought of being inside her, skin to skin, nothing between us, is the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever known.

CHAPTER 13

Clara

Morning light slips through the curtains, warm and soft against the mirror. It glances off the silk of my dress and turns the ivory fabric to pale gold. I barely recognize the woman looking back at me. My hair’s pinned in loose waves, simple but elegant, just clean lines and quiet confidence. The dress fits well enough for something I didn’t have time to tailor, skimming my shape without trying too hard.

The makeup artist hums under her breath as she works at my lips. My pulse is steady, my chest light. I didn’t expect calm today—not with everything that’s happened—but somehow, I feel it. Maybe because Jeremy’s in my life now. Maybe because he’s already taken half my burdens without asking for credit.

He’s moved into my house as though he’s always belonged there, fixing the leaky faucet, rewiring the hallway light, and brewing coffee before I’m fully awake. His laugh fills the rooms that used to echo. The factory hums smoother under his hand too, Granddad Weston preparing to hand over the reins officially by the end of next month. I watch him sometimes when he’s not looking, sleeves rolled up, talking to the crew with an authority that never fails to ramp up my libido.

I never thought I wanted this. A husband. A partner. Someone who could step into my life and make it feel less like an endless checklist and more like a rhythm. But he did.

And today, I get to say “I do” to the one person who made me believe in the word we.

A soft knock breaks the quiet, barely louder than the brush of powder across my cheek. I glance toward the door, expecting the makeup artist’s assistant or maybe Grandma Weston with another bouquet check.

“Come in,” I call.

The door creaks open, and the sound hits something deep in my chest—a note I didn’t know was waiting.

My father stands there in the doorway.

The tuxedo he’s wearing doesn’t fit right, the shoulders too wide, the fabric faded with time. His tie is crooked, his hands awkward at his sides like he isn’t sure what to do with them. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

“Clara.” His voice is soft, almost tentative. “You look… grown-up.”

The makeup artist goes still, her brush hovering. I meet her eyes in the mirror and nod toward the door. She understands, murmurs something about checking on the flowers, and slips out.