Chapter forty-seven
Rylee
Did my wife miss me?
I stir, my hand sliding across the sheet, searching for the warmth of his body. My fingers meet the cool and empty fabric. My brows furrow together, and I blink at the dim light of the room. It’s still in the middle of the night. I must have fallen asleep.
I glance toward his side of the bed, but he’s not there. It feels emptier and colder without him. It’s only been a few days, and yet my body already misses him, and that alone terrifies the heck out of me.
Sitting up, I notice the faint light slipping through the sliding door that separates the bed from the living area. I should lie down and try to go back to sleep. Instead, I grab my robe and wrap it around me and walk across the room.
I slide the door open quietly. He’s sitting on the couch, a pencil in his hand, his head bent in concentration.
Is he drawing?
For a moment, I stand there, watching him. His back is still to me, one long leg bent to steady the pad he’s working on. I think he doesn’t notice me until his voice breaks the silence.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he says, not looking up. “I didn’t want to wake you with my tossing.”
How does he do that?
I take a few tentative steps closer, my feet shuffling slightly against the floor. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” I murmur. “ I reached out for you, but...” I stop myself before saying more.
He stills for a moment then sets his pad and pencil on the table and draws his leg down. Turning toward me, he gestures for me to come closer. “You reached out for me?” he asks, pulling me gently between his thighs as I approach.
My cheeks heat under his steady gaze. “Hmm,” I hum, fumbling for words. “I… I don’t know. The bed just felt empty without you.” Stop talking, Rylee , I scold myself.
His grin only grows wider, his hazel eyes crinkling with amusement. “Did my wife miss me?” he teases. “And couldn’t sleep…without me inside her?”
“Luc, shut up.” My hands push against his chest. “It was a one-time thing.”
He tilts his head, his smirk deepening into something more mischievous.
“What’s with that look?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
He leans in slightly, his smirk holding every ounce of the answer I don’t want to hear.
“I didn’t—”
“Oh, you did,” he interrupts. “After you fell asleep, I cleaned you up and tucked you in. Then you turned your back to me, pulled me toward you…” His smirk widens. “And then you reached out and put it in. I helped a little, but you wanted it.”
“Oh my God,” I groan, covering my face with my hands. “What is wrong with me?”
His low laugh rumbles through the air, and his hands come up to gently remove mine from my face. “Nothing is wrong with you,” he says, his smirk softening into something more tender. “Besides,” he adds, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes, “you kept my cock warm. I’m not gonna lie—I wanted to push your face into the bed and fuck you until you were screaming my name.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as his words sink in, and I open my mouth to protest, but he isn’t done.
“But,” he adds, his lips quirking into the faintest smile, “I needed you to be awake for that. Consent is very important to me, Mon Trésor. And from what I could tell, and what Google kindly confirmed, you weren’t awake.”
“How considerate of you,” I manage, trying to cover the heat blooming in my chest.
His lips curve into a satisfied smirk, and he leans closer, brushing his nose against mine. “Always,” he murmurs before pulling back with an infuriatingly confident grin.
“What were you doing when I walked in?” I ask, eager to change the subject. My cheeks still burn from the last conversation, and I make a mental note to Google whatever this is. Or better yet, talk to a therapist or my OB/GYN.
He shifts uncomfortably before setting me on the couch beside him. His shoulders stiffen. Whatever it was, I don’t think he wants me to know.
“I’m sorry I asked.”
His lips twitch in a small smile. “You don’t have to apologize. I don’t usually talk about or share my sketching with people.”
“Sketching?”
“Yeah. Designs.”
My brows lift up. “Can I see?” I point toward the sketchpad on the table.
His gaze moves between me and the pad. Then he nods.
I pick up the sketchpad, and flipping to the first page. My breath catches. A blazer dress with a cinched waist. “This is amazing.” I glance up at him.
He doesn't say anything, and I flip to the next page. A floor-length pink gown with a thigh-high slit, and the back has butterfly straps.
I turn to the next page, and it’s a leather jacket with high-waist open-leg pants. “Luc…this is exactly what we need for ’ack's new launch.”
His head jerks up, eyes opening wide. “What?”
“They’re modern and sophisticated. Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” I flip through more pages.
“I didn’t think they were that good,” he says, and when I look up at him, he’s scratching the back of his neck.
“That good?” I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “They’re perfect. Why haven’t you launched your own line yet?”
He pauses, his lips pressing into a thin line before he speaks. “I tried, a few years ago. But when I told my dad about my designs, he said they were just… doodles.”
“ What? ” I blurt out.
“He told me he didn’t send me to the best business school in London to waste my time doodling,” Luc says with a small, humorless laugh.
“Did he even look at them?” I ask, flipping back to the gown with the open back. “Because these are freaking incredible.”
His lips twitch into a small, almost shy smile. “Thank you.”
I turn another page—and freeze. The design is familiar. Too familiar. My fingers tremble as I hold the sketchpad up to him.
“Luc?” I whisper. “This design… it looks like…” I swallow hard. “It looks like my wedding dress.”
He doesn’t flinch or hesitate. “Because it is.”
The pad slips from my fingers, landing softly on my lap. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”
“I designed it,” he says simply.
My heart stutters. “You designed my wedding dress?”
His lips curve into the gentlest smile. “I wanted you to wear something as unique and as beautiful as you are,” he says softly. “The way you light up a room without even realizing it. I wanted to create something that would make you feel as special as you are to me.”
I glance down at the sketch again, the lines suddenly blurring as tears sting my eyes. “Luc…” I whisper, unsure of what to say.
He reaches out, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “You don’t have to say anything. Just know that it’s true. You have always been special to me.”