14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
The Theft, The Drama + The Drag Queens
Aspen
Three months ago.
I stare at my phone, the screen glowing in the dark of my apartment, realizing I had no idea what to expect for his first move.
After the nuclear meltdown in the tunnel and that panicked eye contact, I figured he might wait a few days.
Especially after the sheer audacity of him asking if we’d met at an arcade like it was some kind of sick joke.
He saw how much I wanted to knuckle him in the nose.
But when Tatum said he’d practically held her hostage for my information, I also thought it might be sooner rather than later.
And here he is. Hello, Ms. Mysterious.
I should be annoyed. I should be drafting a very professional, very stern text about how he’s currently ruining my life and my friendship with Croix. Instead, I’m biting my lip, grinning at the screen like a complete fool.
Aspen: Hey, Chillmonger.
I can’t help the stupid, schoolgirl smile plastered across my face.
It’s ridiculous. A few hours ago, I was ready to call the producers and demand an immediate annulment just to escape the stress of knowing whether or not he still wanted me.
But now that his name is sitting in my inbox, the irritation is fading into something much more feral.
I want to forget the secret, forget the torture of our truth, and just breathe him in.
For a little while.
And as if he’s reading my mind, another bubble pops up.
Luca: Let me see you.
I don’t think. I don’t weigh the consequences or the history I have with Croix. I drop my location and hit send so fast it feels like I’m dreaming.
The moment the delivered checkmark appears, panic and adrenaline trade places in my chest.
Luca: You’re not far. I’m the Fury Building about twenty minutes away.
Great. I have roughly twenty minutes before a man who is technically my husband—but practically a stranger—arrives at my door. I fly into the bathroom, stripping off my clothes with a frantic energy I haven't felt in years.
It feels illicit. It feels like I’m sixteen again, sneaking out of the window to see a boy my mother strictly forbade.
Only this time, the “boy” is a world-class athlete with a British accent that makes my toes curl.
The “forbidden” part involves a legally binding marriage certificate and his… our…best friend.
I hop in the shower for a lightning-fast rinse, the steam rising as I scrub away the stadium grime and the jittery nerves.
And before you ask—yes, I shaved. Every inch. He is, after all, my husband. And I’m not about to even try to lie to myself about trying to be respectable. I want him.
As I step out, I slather on my favorite body oil, the scent of vanilla and almond blooming against my damp skin.
My mother would be absolutely scandalized if she knew the thoughts currently racing through my head.
She’d be even more horrified if she heard the filthy, un-nurse-like things I want to do to my husband.
Things that would probably violate several sections of the Hippocratic Oath.
The thought reminds me that I should probably tell my family about him soon.
That is, if he actually wants to stay married.
For all I know, he’s coming over to break the news of a divorce to me in person.
It’s what I’ve been anticipating. But because I’m a walking contradiction these days, my heart is bracing for a breakup while my vagina is preparing to be broken in.
In Vegas, we never quite made it past that stage of frantic, breathless kissing where we realized we were actually married. Between the theft, the drama, the drag queens, and our sudden separation, we were robbed of the honeymoon we were anticipating.
Now, the hunger is back, sharper and more insistent than ever. I catch my reflection in the mirror. I am flushed and bright eyed, and I look entirely too ready to be reckless. I have to ask myself if I am really about to do this.
The answer is a resounding, heart-thumping yes.
I pull on a pair of sleek black leggings that hug every curve and drown myself in an oversized, off-the-shoulder grey t-shirt. It’s the “I didn't try” look that tends to drive men wild.
Time seems to warp and speed by. My phone buzzes on the counter.
Luca: In the lobby. Coming up now.
My heart does a violent thud against my ribs. I don't wait for the knock. I can't. I practically run out of my apartment and into the quiet hallway, my eyes fixed on the digital display above the elevator.
4... 5... 6…
I smooth my hair that’s slicked back into a ponytail, my breath hitching in my throat. I’m a professional woman. I’m a business owner. I’ve been a trauma nurse who has seen it all. But as the bell dings and the silver doors begin to slide open, I’m just a girl waiting for her husband.
7.
The doors part, and there he is.
“Hi. Husband.”
Luca
The elevator doors slide open, and the breath is knocked clean out of my lungs.
How is she more beautiful than I remember?
More beautiful than she was just hours ago when I saw her at the stadium, draped in another man’s jersey.
Now, standing in the quiet of her hallway in nothing but leggings and a shirt that swallows her whole, she looks soft.
Dangerous. Like a dream I’ve been trying to wake up from for months.
“Wife.”
I say it because it sounds cool and commanding, but mostly because I have no idea what to say next. How am I this nervous?
I’m normally the composed one. I’ve never had a problem with women.
My usual encounters leave them wanting more and me perfectly in control.
I am a card carrying member of The Supper Club for Christ’s sake.
Yet, I suddenly feel like a teenager trying to hide an erection from the pretty girl next door.
My wife.
She’s leaning against the wall, her eyes wide and bright, looking at me with a mixture of hunger and hesitation that makes my blood turn to liquid fire.
“I see you made it.” she whispers.
I step out of the elevator, the doors hissing shut behind me and sealing us into the silence of the hallway. Into this truth.
I have no idea why the next words leave my mouth do, because it is the absolute last thing I want to do. But remembering that my wife prefers to take things slow, I force myself to be a gentleman.
“Perhaps we should go inside and talk?” I suggest, my voice still rough.
She nods quickly, avoiding my eyes. “That’s…that’s a good idea.”
She turns to lead the way, and the sight of her skin beneath the collar of that soft T-shirt is seductive in a way I can’t quite define.
It’s subtle, effortless, and entirely undoing.
I know I’ll have to ask for forgiveness later, but as she stops to swipe her keycard to open her door, I can’t stop myself.
I lean in, gently brushing her ponytail aside, and press my lips to the nape of her neck.
I watch as goosebumps bloom across her skin instantly.
“Forgive me,” I whisper against her heat. “I feel like I’ve been dying to do that my whole life.”
The door clicks open, and she practically rushes inside to escape the tension.
“I remember you telling me you weren’t the romantic type,” she says, her breath hitching as she drops her keycard into a purse hanging near the door.
“Correct,” I reply, closing the door behind us and shutting out the rest of the world.
She turns to face me, a playful but wary spark in her eyes. “But you constantly say things that are so…swoony.”
I grin, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. “Swoony?”
“Yes! You know, the silver-tongued things men say when they’re trying to get into a girl’s pants.”
I let out a low laugh, taking a step into her space. “Why do you make it sound like I’m a man with ill intentions, Ms. Mysterious?”
She pins me with a look that challenges every ounce of my restraint. “Aren’t you?”
I drop my gaze, the humor evaporating into something far more volatile. “My intentions,” I murmur, looking back up at her with a raw honesty that surprises even me, “are currently a fucking disaster.”
I don't give her a chance to respond. I bridge the gap between us, my hand sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck to anchor her as I pull her mouth to mine.
The kiss is a heated rush, a collision of three months of suppressed longing.
She tastes even better than I remember, too.
All heat and vanilla and sweet surrender.
She lets out a low, broken moan against my lips, her tongue meeting mine with a desperate, searching hunger.
I can feel the change in her immediately as her back arches into me.
A silent physical confession of the ache she’s been carrying.
She missed me, too and it makes me want to devour her completely.
Her apartment is quaint—open and airy in a way that makes the space feel infinite—but my world has narrowed down to the woman in my arms and the marble kitchen island just behind her.
I move us blindly through the space. Without breaking the kiss, I hook my hands under her thighs and hoist her up.
She lets out a startled yelp that melts into a giggle. “Careful, husband,” she managed to breathe out, instinctively wrapping her legs around my waist to lock me in.
“Don’t worry,” I rasp against the sensitive skin of her throat. “I’ve got you. I’ve always had you.”
I dip my head, my tongue tracing a searing path from her collarbone to the shell of her ear. A shiver racks her entire frame.
“Wow,” she exhales, the word a breathless echo of our wedding night—the first time she’d looked up at my height and realized exactly what she’d signed up for.
And she still has no fucking idea.
“This isn’t wow,” I growl, the vibrations of my voice lost against her skin. “You haven’t seen wow, yet.” I smack her ass and squeeze. “We have all night for wow.”