Page 51 of The Temporary Bride

I swallow.

“Was it the vows?” His voice drops. “Because I meant every word. I meant it all.”

Something pulls tight in my chest. It’s not that I doubt him. It’s everything else.

“The rings?” he continues. “They’re real. Solid. Just like the promises we made to each other.”

I open my mouth, then close it.

“And the kiss?”

Heat rushes to my face. I shift against him, and as I do, I realize with a jolt that he’s growing hard beneath me. I go very still, my breath catching, suddenly aware of every single point of contact between us as I force myself to meet his gaze.

“All of those things were real,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Good,” he says. “Because I meant what I told you at the beginning of all of this. I won’t be in a sham marriage. You are my wife. I am your husband.”

My heart pounds as the echo of his words settles over me.

Wife. Husband.

They reverberate in my mind, sending a shock through me that jolts every nerve in my body. My lips part slightly, but as much as I want to speak, the words don’t come. He’s left me totally speechless, and everything but him slowly fades away.

I swallow hard, my eyes pinned to Tristan’s, and the scorching memory of our kiss flashes in my mind as the tension crackling between us pulls me toward him like a current. I can’t help but think about the way he pressed his lips to mine back at the altar—like he was laying a claim to me, letting the entire world know that I’m his now.

With all those eyes watching and scrutinizing us, it’s not like I could have refused to kiss him at our wedding. But that’s the worst part. I didn’t want to refuse. Maybe some small part of me was even looking forward to it, craving his taste again.

Almost against my will, my gaze drops to his lips.

They twitch at the corners, not quite a smile but enough to prove he’s noticed me looking.

As if he’s reading my mind, his hand reaches out, slowly and deliberately, to cup the back of my neck. The feeling of his skin against mine sends a shiver racing down my spine and makes my breath sound a hundred times louder in my ears as I struggle to keep it even.

His palm is slightly calloused, and the way his thumb softly traces along my hairline turns my senses up to a ten. Every little thing about him sharpens into focus. The weight of his hand at the back of my neck, the scent of his cologne filling the small space between us, the heat coming off him in waves. Despite the warmth in the car, goosebumps race up my arms.

We stay frozen in this position as the air in the car seems to thicken. All I can think about is the way those fingers have made me feel before. What they’ve given me. A fresh wave of goosebumps prickles across my skin at the thought, and my heart stutters at the realization of how much sway this man already has over me. I want him so badly it’s almost unbearable.

I lean closer to him, unable to stop myself. His eyes meet mine, and there’s no mistaking the hunger looking back at me. Our breathing mingles, each exhale a little unsteady, and his grip on the back of my neck tightens slightly, like a question rather than a demand.

Just a little closer…

The car rolls to a halt, breaking the spell. My body sways in his lap, and the driver clears his throat softly to let us know we’ve arrived. I slide off Tristan’s lap somewhat awkwardly and climb out of the car, dragging in a breath of cool night air.

I can still feel the ghost of his hand at the back of my neck.

As Tristan gracefully exits the car behind me, I steal a glance over my shoulder, catching sight of him adjusting himself. The knowledge that he’s fully hard just from having me on his lap sends a jolt of heat coursing through my veins.

My heart races erratically as I struggle to regain some composure. I’m certain I’m blushing, and he can definitely tell.

But he says nothing, merely gestures toward the front door of his house.

We go inside, and I glance around at the space that’s going to be my home for the next three years. It’s honestly incredible. High ceilings, open floor plan, neutral wood and warm stone. The far wall of the main living area is entirely glass, floor to ceiling, and beyond it the ocean stretches out into the dark, white caps catching the moonlight. Even with the windows closed, I can smell the salt air, faint but there, woven into the whole space.

My boxes are stacked near the entrance—my belongings, my whole dismantled condo life, sitting in cardboard containers waiting to be dealt with. There’s something both comforting and depressing about seeing them here, these familiar things in an unfamiliar place.

And then I take in the paintings. All five of them are already hung, filling the walls of the living room with color and movement and everything I’d hoped they’d bring to the space. The largest one faces the ocean-facing windows, and even at night it looks extraordinary, the blues and reds of it picking up the moonlight coming through the glass.

“They look incredible in here,” I whisper, my voice dropping a little in awe.