Page 53 of The Temporary Bride

I wince as it occurs to me that I’ll need help undoing the intricate lacing of my wedding dress. It’s a task I could never manage alone, not with the delicate loops and knots that hold the fabric together. With a deep breath, I turn to Tristan.

“Can you help me with this?”

His gaze meets mine, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he steps closer, his hands hovering over the intricate design of the dress. As his fingers deftly work to undo the lacing, I try to focus on anything other than the closeness between us. The way his touch sends a shiver down my spine, the warmth of his breath against my skin—it’s all too much, too intimate.

But I force myself to remain composed, to ignore the fluttering in my chest as Tristan’s hands move with precision. Slowly, painstakingly, the intricate knots begin to unravel.

Finally, the last knot comes undone, and the dress loosens around me. I step out of its confines, feeling oddly vulnerable in the sudden absence of its weight.

“Thank you,” I murmur, my arms closing over my chest.

With a subtle nod of acknowledgment, Tristan steps away and heads into the bathroom. I jump at the opportunity to slip into my pajamas, the cool silk a nice change after all those hours in the dress. Then I take my turn in the bathroom while he changes in the bedroom, washing my face and going through my usual routine.

I wait until he turns off the light in the bedroom before stepping back out of the bathroom, cloaked by the darkness. Quietly, I make my way to the bed. The only source of illumination is the faint moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains.

Carefully, I slide under the covers and settle onto the mattress beside him, my pulse thudding heavily in my ears.

I lie rigid beside him, staring up at the ceiling, acutely aware of every inch of space between us. The bed is enormous, easily big enough for four people, and I’ve claimed the absolute edge of my side like I’m planning to defend it with my life. The sheets smell like him, which is something I wasn’t prepared for.

He makes a quiet sound beside me. An exhale of breath that’s not quite a laugh. “You can relax, you know.”

I keep my eyes on the ceiling. “I am relaxed.”

This time he does laugh. “Sure you are.” He shifts beside me, settling deeper into the pillow. “I’m not going to touch you tonight. We’re married and we’re sharing a bed. That’s all.”

I turn my head to look at him despite myself. “You won’t?”

He glances over at me, something flickering at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never fucked a woman who wasn’t willing,” he says. “And I’m not about to start with my wife.”

The easy certainty of it does something to the tension I’ve been carrying since we left the reception, and my shoulders drop a fraction without my permission. I let out a slow breath and look back at the ceiling.

The silence stretches out, and I almost relax completely.

Then the mattress shifts. When I glance over he’s up on one elbow, looking down at me. In the dim light coming through the curtains, his eyes are dark, and there’s a pull to his expression that makes my next breath come out a little unsteady.

“When I do,” he says, his voice dropping, taking its time with every word, “it’ll be because you’re begging me for it. Because you want it so badly you can’t think about anything else.”

The words settle over me and stay there, and every carefully avoided thought from the past two weeks rushes back in. His hands. The sounds I made that I told myself I’d forget. The way he watched my face through all of it, completely absorbed, like nothing else in the room existed.

I say nothing. There’s nothing to say that wouldn’t give him exactly what he’s looking for.

He holds my gaze for a long moment, long enough that the words I’ve been trying to hold back start to prickle on my tongue, and then he settles back down onto the pillow and turns his eyes to the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head.

I stare at the ceiling too.

The ocean fills the quiet outside, steady and rhythmic through the cracked window. I’m aware of every small shift of the mattress, every slow exhale beside me. He’s not touching me. He’s not doing anything except lying there in the dark, perfectly still.

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to fall asleep.

Chapter 18

Tristan

As I wake up slowly, the first thing I become aware of is a hand on my dick.

My eyes pop open.

Morning light is coming through the curtains, I can hear the sound of waves hitting the beach in the distance, and my wife has apparently rolled toward me at some point in the night and settled there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My body has been aware of this for a while now, judging by the hard-on I’m sporting.