Horny Jail
LILA
Sparklers arc and fizz on either side of us, gold light brilliant against the dark, everyone cheering and Jonah, now fully awake again, shouting with delight.
Lucky is barking from the porch where Rafe and Josie are holding her back from the sparklers.
The cold air hits my face and my wedding dress streams behind me and I’m laughing so hard I can barely see.
And then I see the truck.
Slade’s black Ford, transformed from a working ranch vehicle with mud on the running boards and rope in the bed, to…
this. White roses and pink peonies wrapped around the mirrors and door handles.
A Just Married banner stretched across the tailgate in looping script.
Tin cans tied to the trailer hitch that will rattle all the way down the mountain road.
My eyes meet Slade’s. He looks just as surprised by this part as I do.
“It’s not a real country wedding without some tin cans tied to the back,” Sadie grins, bouncing Mari on her hip.
“We matched the flowers to your hair,” Josie adds, approaching me to give me a firm hug. “Did I mention how nice it is to finally have another girl in this family to do this stuff for?”
Lucky chooses this moment to break free from Rafe and make her determined way down the porch steps. She launches herself into the truck bed with more enthusiasm than grace, turns around three times and lies down.
Settled. Ready. Not going anywhere without us.
The goodbyes are warm and chaotic. Hugs and congratulations from all the Rhodes family, and finally from their patriarch. Daryl gives me a hug, eyes sparkling as he says, “Welcome to the family.” When he releases me, he winks.
Slade’s hand finds the small of my back as he guides me to the passenger door. I climb in.
The tin cans rattle as we pull out of the driveway. I turn back, waving to them all the while until we disappear over the horizon.
It’s only a five minute drive to Slade’s house from Rosemont, which is just as well, because the quiet between us feels thick and charged.
We’re married. Husband and wife.
And yet… not really.
Slade is clearly deep in thought, and I’m too full of a confusing jumble of emotions to try and sort through them even in the privacy of my own head. I try to think of something to say to ease the tension.
What pops into my head is, “Are Rafe and Josie together? Like, boyfriend and girlfriend?”
Slade’s head whips towards me. He gives me a strange look. “What? No way. Rafe’s our brother. I mean, not by blood, but in every other way. Why?”
I think about the way the two of them looked at each other. Her laugh. His hand on her hip.
That was anything but a brotherly touch.
I open my mouth to make a comment to that effect, then stop myself.
When I met Josie tonight, she threw her arms around me, immediately declared me the newest member of the Rhodes family sisterhood, and wouldn’t hear a word of pretend-this or arrangement-that.
I like her. I like Rafe, and I like all the other Rhodes’s too.
But I don’t know them. Not really. And I never will.
Whatever is or isn’t going on between Rafe and Josie, it’s not my place to stir things up when I don’t know what I’m talking about or what I really saw.
“I was just wondering,” I say.
Luckily, Slade doesn’t question me any further.
When we pull up to the house he cuts the engine. We sit for a second in the quiet.
“Good day?” he asks.
“Really good.” The truth of it comes easily to my lips. “I could not have asked for a lovelier wedding day.”
“You would tell me if you had regrets, right?”
“Of course.” I look at him uncertainly. “Are you having regrets?”
“No,” he says, firmly enough that I believe him right away. There’s a pause before he adds, softer, “I just want you to be happy.”
His hand is still gripping the gear shift, knuckles white, so I put my hand atop his. My engagement ring sparkles even in the dim light.
“I’m very happy,” I tell him honestly. “I’m still not entirely sure what you’re getting from this crazy deal, but I’m very glad you made it.”
Lifting his hand from the gearshift, he twines his fingers in mine. “I get to call the most beautiful woman in the world my wife.”
His eyes are glinting when he says it, so I assume he’s teasing me. I laugh even as a very real flush comes to my face.
“Yeah, yeah, cowboy,” I tell him. “You’ve already sealed the deal. You don’t need to lay on the charm.”
He squeezes my hand before coming around to my side to open the door for me. As I take a step out, I’m quite literally swept off my feet.
One moment I’m stepping out of the truck and the next I’m in his arms. Slade makes it look effortless, one arm under my knees, one at my back, the silk of my wedding dress tumbling over his forearm.
It makes me all too aware of exactly how strong he is, how solid, how completely capable of carrying me like I weigh nothing significant.
Yes, this man could easily toss me around in bed.
No sex, we told each other. Truly a pair of fools rushing into this whole thing. I giggle to myself at my hopeless conundrum, because that feels better than screaming about it.
His eyes flicker with amusement as he glances at me, striding towards the house with me in his arms. “Exactly how much champagne did you have tonight?”
I wasn’t exactly keeping track. “Precisely the right amount for my wedding night,” I declare, burrowing into his chest as Lucky trots easily behind us. “Dare I ask why I’m being carried right now?”
He bends to open the door. “A husband ought to carry his bride across the threshold.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and elect not to examine how natural this feels.
Inside, Lucky goes straight to her bed in the corner of the living room and collapses, done after all the commotion of the wedding.
Slade sets me down slowly, my body sliding down the full length of his until my feet find the floor. His hands rest at my waist for one moment before he steps back.
He pushes a hand back through his dark hair as he says, “We’re this way.”
As I follow, I pretend like I don’t know this house every inch as well as he does. Probably better, since I’ve made detailed sketches and 3d renderings of it.
He stops at the second door on the right and pushes it open.
“Here you go,” he says.
I step inside. I know this room. It’s the room I’ve been working on for the last two weeks. The one that’s supposed to be for guests and that I’ve been really decorating with myself in mind, given that I’m the current guest.
My bags and boxes are stacked neatly in the walk-in closet off to the side.
The bed I ordered has arrived, an antique iron canopy frame that’s romantic and masculine at the same time.
Atop it is the pinstripe linen duvet I selected, along with velvet and wool throw pillows.
The vintage dresser I found at an estate sale sits against the far wall.
The curtains are soft and gauzy and move slightly in the heat coming from the vent.
It’s lovely. I made it lovely.
What it is not is his room.
“I’m right next door,” he says, as if I’m not entirely too aware of that fact. “If you need anything.”
“Perfect,” I say, bright and easy, doing a pretty good impression of a woman who is totally fine with this arrangement.
There’s a pause. He looks like he wants to say something, but all that comes out of his mouth is, “Goodnight, then.”
“Night,” I say.
He pulls the door closed behind him.
I stand in the middle of the room I designed and listen to his footsteps move down the hall. Hear his door close.
So this is it.
An incendiary kiss for the cameras, but at home it’s separate bedrooms.
It feels like a good time to remind myself that I signed up for this.
I reach behind me for my zipper to climb out of my wedding dress, ignoring the melancholy pang that it ought to be my husband taking it off me.
But the zipper doesn’t move.
I try again. Twist left. Twist right. It’s caught somewhere in the region between my shoulder blades, stuck fast in the embroidered fabric, completely unreachable at this angle.
I stand there for a moment, sigh heavily, and accept my fate.
Moments later, I’m knocking softly at Slade’s bedroom door.
He opens it, a look of concern flashing across his face. “Lila. Is everything okay?”
My eyes sweep down him. He’s changed out of his jacket. The dress shirt is half unbuttoned, untucked, open at the throat. His bolo tie is resting on the bed.
He’s still wearing his wedding ring.
I would have thought that would be the first thing he’d take off, but the platinum band is gleaming brightly on his tanned hand.
“Everything’s fine,” I say. “Great. I just…” As I struggle to piece my request together, he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and shrugs it off onto the chair behind him.
I knew a professional hockey player would be built. Knowing it and standing right in front of a shirtless Slade is different.
His body is incredible. Thick muscle carved from two kinds of labor, the hockey and the ranch work.
A map of scars that tells the story of fifteen years of someone throwing their body at things and getting back up.
There’s one along his ribs, pale and silvery.
And then another thick, long scar arcing across his shoulder, still pink and obviously recent.
I want to put my hands on him so badly my fingers actually curl.
I make myself look at his face instead.
I need to say something. Preferably not any of the dirty thoughts running through my head about licking my way up those ridged abs. Or licking my way down.
Back to horny jail.
“My zipper,” I say. “It’s stuck.”
His eyes move down my body and back up. The green is already darker than it was.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
I follow his order.
He steps close. Not touching. Close enough that I can feel him behind me, the warmth of his chest at my back, and I stare at the wall and wait, my body trembling slightly, but not from the cold.
As he reaches for the zipper, his fingers brush my skin.
While he carefully maneuvers the zipper, goosebumps break out over my flesh. I feel hot and tingling all over, my nipples pebbling into stiff points.
“Almost got it,” he says. His breath tickles my ear. He smells like mint and I wonder if he already brushed his teeth. I wonder if his mouth would taste of mint too.
His fingers find the catch in the zipper. He works it carefully, methodically, no rush about it, and I struggle to keep my breathing steady even as my pulse picks up.
All I can think is: my husband is taking off my clothes on our wedding night.
His fingertips are warm against my skin and his thumbs press lightly against either side of my spine. Behind me his chest is close but not touching and I can feel the heat of it anyway.
The zipper gives.
He draws it down slowly.
His knuckles graze my spine the whole way and I stop breathing somewhere around the time he gets to the middle of my back and don’t start again until the zipper reaches the bottom and his hands go still at my tailbone.
The dress falls open.
I know what he’s looking at.
I know he’s seeing the sheer white fabric of my bridal lingerie. That the unzipped dress shows my panties. These happen to be made with white silk laces that criss-cross across the rear, tied in a neat little bow at the bottom just above my butt crack.
I may or may not have picked the most delightfully slutty set of bridal lingerie I could find. It was entirely for my own private amusement, since I didn’t really think he’d get a look at it.
Slade isn’t saying anything about it, though. He isn’t moving either. I’m not entirely sure he’s breathing.
Holding my dress up so it doesn’t slide down my breasts, I turn around slowly.
He’s looking at my body.
His eyes have gone nearly black, the green almost entirely swallowed. He’s got a forefinger and thumb gripping his jaw, elbow braced on the doorframe, like he’s physically keeping himself in place. His other hand is at his side, forearm corded, fingers curled into a fist.
He wrenches that dark gaze away from me and fixes it on the wall behind me instead.
“You should get some sleep,” he says. Guttural. “It’s been a long day.”
I look at his face. The clenched jaw, the deliberately averted eyes. The white knuckle grip he had on the doorframe a moment ago.
“A very long day,” I agree. And it will be a longer night. “Thank you for everything.”
“Don’t thank me,” he says roughly.
He steps back. The door closes between us.
I stand in the middle of the hallway in my open dress and thigh-high stocking-clad feet and stare at that closed door.
He wanted me. I know he did. He wanted me as much as I want him.
I should be grateful he’s strong-willed enough to keep to our agreement. That he’s strong enough for the both of us.
But all I can think is how lonely it feels to spend my wedding night alone.