Chapter 14
Delaney
I’m not sure how much Warner had to drink before he entered the bedroom, but the glass next to him doesn’t seem empty enough to justify the sudden reversal in his behavior.
Unfortunately for me, it’s been a while since I’ve been kissed, much less anything else.
Between the push for finals and then graduation, the job search, and working full-time at the restaurant, dating was the last thing I had time for.
I figured he was a workaholic, but maybe he’s in his office doing sit-ups all day.
How else is that man built like that? His flashing those unreal abs of his while that large and strong hand rubbed over them was cruel.
How am I supposed to be on top of my game when he’s distracting me like that?
He has me temporarily losing my better judgment.
I could say that about this whole scheme I’m buried three days deep into as well.
But there is no point in quibbling about the small things I can’t change.
Tit for his tat, I say, “Should have brought me a glass.”
He hands me the glass. “We can share. Since we’re married, swapping saliva doesn’t bother me.”
With a roll of my eyes, I laugh. “Swapping saliva? You sure do make it hard to resist with that description.” I take the glass because the straight liquor will surely kill any cooties Warner Landers might have.
Holding the crystal-cut glass to my mouth, I only tip it back enough to let the liquid coat the rim, then press it to my lips for a taste.
The heat is instant, my throat warm from the introduction.
I take a small sip, then hand the glass back to him.
His eyes stay set on mine as he drinks from the glass.
Watching the tip of his tongue dip to catch any remains on his lips has me wanting to tackle this man.
Then I remember it’s him . . . the man wanting to destroy my family’s livelihood and home.
He probably gets off on crushing the little guy.
That he’s attractive, ungodly so, doesn’t deter me from reaching my goals.
Admittedly, it makes it easier. I mean, it’s not hard to look at him or those abs.
God, I sound so shallow.
He could have any woman he wants, so sue me for wanting to be on the receiving end. He doesn’t seem to be in a relationship since no women have knocked down his door, and somehow, his personality switching today has been a nice change.
Don’t let up, Delaney.
The moment I detour to give him grace, I’m sure he’ll do whatever he can to make things worse for me. Just like when he brought a “friend” out of nowhere. He forced me into a corner, digging my grave even deeper than it already was by lying some more. What else was I supposed to do? I felt trapped.
His demeanor has changed, so mine needs to adapt. The man is suddenly turned on. I think it started when I was digging into his pocket. What will I do if he wants to have sex? I inwardly grin. I’m thinking there could be worse positions to be in than flat on my back under him.
Ugh. Get your mind out of the gutter. I need to figure out how to bring up the deal about the restaurant without appearing suspicious.
I reach forward, taking the glass from him again, and take a bigger sip this time.
The other stuff will work itself out when the timing is right.
I need to relax and figure out a way out of the direction we’re currently headed.
Or do I take the reins and lead him to water?
Tempting . . .
Our backs pressed to the headboard, our eyes ahead in the candlelit room.
It’s hard to make out anything personal in the unfamiliar room, but there’s not much other than furniture.
It’s not only a clean home, it’s barely lived in.
There’s no life built in. The halls are barren of laughter.
Forget about anyone else. Warner barely exists in the space other than his physical presence, which is currently taking up a lot more space as he spreads his legs a little wider.
At this rate, I’ll only have a foot of space to exist.
I could always straddle him. He talks a big game, but can he walk it? “So . . .” I say, letting it hang in the air to see what he wants to add.
“I’ve been thinking . . .” He drops his own lingering start, but I’m much more curious how he’d finish it. He doesn’t.
Taking the glass, I ask, “About?” I sip and then sip again. The liquor burns, but the smoky, sweet aftertaste is quite nice.
“I’ve never had sex with a broken arm before.”
“Have you had sex with a concussion? Is that even safe? I can’t imagine the doctor would advise such an activity.”
“Do doctors ever advise having sex?”
“Sure.” I glance over at him. “I had one tell me it will help alleviate migraines.” I take a sip, remembering what happened next. That calls for another drink before handing it back. “And then he volunteered.”
“What the fuck?” He angles toward me, and says, “Delaney, please tell me he’s no longer your doctor.”
“He’s no longer my doctor.” I bounce my shoulders up and down once. “I discovered I was getting migraines from the incense my friend was always burning in her room when we would study there. So we stopped burning incense.”
“Juniper?”
A burst of laughter leaves my chest. “Yes. Juniper. My friend. The blonde you supposedly remember so well.” Good Lord, have mercy on me. This guy is exasperating. “Speaking of, it’s interesting you remember her . . .” Especially since she doesn’t exist. “But not me. Your wife.”
His gaze travels my legs that are tucked under the covers before he reaches over to slide his knuckles against my thigh. Even the blanket and sheet between us doesn’t stop my heart from quickening. “I’m sure there’s something we can do to trigger the memories to return. Don’t you think?”
“I think you’re coming on to me.”
Shifting to set the glass back down, he’s slower because of his broken arm, but the shared moment between us is flaming-red hot when he returns.
Damn those incredible abs, those eyes that peer into my soul, and that husky seducing voice of his.
The reprieve wasn’t long enough for me to recover before he smirks just enough for his confidence to shine through.
“Would it be so wrong for a husband to be attracted to his wife?”
I take a breath, hoping it’s steady and doesn’t give away the filthy thoughts I’m having of him. Laying it on as sweet as honey, I bat my lashes. “Even after all that’s happened?”
“That’s the beauty of amnesia, baby. I’m a blank slate.
A fresh start. There’s nothing to hold us back from creating new memories together.
” He leans closer, his hand sliding behind my lower back.
In one swift move, I’m pulled onto his lap so fast that I don’t have time to squeal. I wouldn’t have protested anyway.
The covers slide off my thighs, leaving only the thinnest of satin covering my lower half.
My loose top with a lacy hemmed bottom brushes against my belly, exposing the space the fabric doesn’t cover.
His pants are still on, the flap of the open button rubbing against my ass.
While I notice the little things like that, there’s a much larger problem growing between us.
My swallow is too loud, and my cheeks feel hot from being so obviously nervous.
“Warner,” I whisper, looking into his eyes.
I touch his cheek. The rough scruff of growth from the past few days is little spikes against my hand.
The scene is set. The outcome is in our hands.
The warmth and slightest scent of his skin wrap around me like a wool scarf.
His large hand slides from my hip to my waist, making my body respond to him.
There’s no hiding my hardening nipples or the way my hips press harder against him, the pressure becoming mandatory for my survival.
It’s all too much. His size compared to mine and the way the devil looks at me like I’m a prize worth fighting for do me in. I lean in, brushing my lips against the fullness of his, but catch myself before I give in and pull back again.
His breath has deepened like mine, his eyelids heavier, and his lips are parted, ready to kiss me if I’d let him.
I don’t because I’d lose all control if I did, sliding off his lap, I keep moving until I’m standing on the other side of the bed.
I glance through the windows at the city that’s lit like stars and then to this palatial room fit for a king and queen.
But I’m not his queen. I’m not even part of his court.
I’m just a peasant compared to this life.
I’ve asked myself a million times what I’m doing, ignoring the fact that I was going against my own moral compass. Why am I trying to play in the Major League when I can’t make the minors? Dropping my head with the shame overcoming me, I run the tips of my fingers over my forehead.
“Delaney?” he whispers, not making a move. I appreciate the space, but I have to admit I miss our connection. He gets off the bed and stands on the other side of it. “Do you want to talk about what’s going on?”
“No.” I can’t find the lies to hide my truth and the emotions I’m battling.
I turn my head away from him, keeping my mouth shut and staring out the window instead.
The sound of the crystal glass being lifted has me looking back.
Warner swipes his hand across the wood to discourage the puddle of condensation from pooling.
It would be a safe bet to know it’s really about not staining the nightstand.
When he grabs his discarded shirt from the floor and wipes the surface, a grin wiggles onto the left side of my mouth. He grabs the sparkly frame with his fingers sticking out the end of the cast. “Is this you?”
I start to come around, keeping my steps light like I might disrupt something I’m not supposed to be a part of.
I stand just to his side and look at the photo.
I smile, the hope and happiness I felt that day rushing back.
“Big sunglasses, red lips, my hair was slick and shiny with the most perfect wave from pin curls.” I tap the photo as if he doesn’t know what I’m referring to.
“Coney Island?”
“It’s how I celebrated graduating from college.
I got that top and skirt for twenty bucks at the Dumbo clothes exchange they hold each spring.
It was a steal. New, it would have been over a hundred and fifty.
” Staring at the photo, I study the whole look, still loving the outfit.
But maybe it wasn’t just my appearance. It was the hard-earned achievement.
“I wore it tucked in for the ceremony since my family was there, but tied the front of the shirt in a knot to bare my midriff at the carnival.” I laugh, wanting to roll my eyes at myself.
I don’t know why I feel a little embarrassed.
I shouldn’t. Leaning my head against his arm, I add, “I felt rebellious for doing it. But I also felt pretty. I remember asking some random guy to take my picture, hoping he wouldn’t run off with my phone. Spoiler alert: he didn’t.”
Warner sets the glass back down and brings his arm around my lower back to hold me close to him. His skin is warm against mine, the connection zapping every particle in my body from the electricity. Peeking down at me, he asks, “Why couldn’t someone in your family take the photo?”
I’m not mad is something I’ve prefaced this topic in my head a million times. Their reason is acceptable. Unjustifiably, I’m still hurt. “They had to get back to the restaurant to prepare for dinner service.”
“You went alone?”
“It beat sitting in my room or working at the hostess stand. I had the night off, so I took myself to Coney Island. I hadn’t been since I was little, and it just seemed like a good place to get lost for a few hours.”
He sits on the bed, takes my hand, and pulls me to him. Our knees touch, my outer to his inner, the union feeling as intimate as when I was on his lap. I gulp, hating to disturb the silence with such nonsense. “Can I ask you something?” he whispers, looking into my eyes.
“Of course.”
“How long ago was that photo taken?”
It’s such a roundabout way of asking my age, but I like that he wants more information about me, and he cares enough to find out. “Two years ago.”
“So you’re twenty-four?” I nod, worried about this new territory he’s leading me into. “How long have we been married?”
I was getting too comfortable with my armor set aside on the floor. I could almost feel his heart beating like it was my own when I touched his face earlier. My stomach sinks as the lies rise like bile in my throat. “Not quite a year.”
“I must have been quite the asshole to lose you before our first anniversary.”
“You’re telling me,” I try to joke, but I’m not even feeling it, so I know he doesn’t hear it. I still push forth. “I had to live with you.”
My hand falls to my side when he releases me. Standing with our knees still bumped against each other, his gaze falls between us. He rubs the bridge of his nose and then looks back up at me. “I’m thirty-four.” There doesn’t seem to be a destination for his admission.
I didn’t realize that he was ten years older. From his looks to his personality, he has some age range he could fall into. So it’s not shocking news. I trail the tips of my nails under his chin and put my hand at my side again. “It’s so cliché to be in an age-gap romance.”
“Is that what we are? An age-gap romance?” He chuckles. “I’ve never felt so old in my life.”
“Come on.” I smile, feeling the tiniest bit of empathy for him. “It’s alright to be an old man with a hot younger wife.” I give a little shake of my hips.
A smile finds its rightful place on his face, but there’s no smugness or arrogance attached. “That’s not why I feel old.”
“Oh yeah, then why do you feel that way?”
“You may be my wife—”
“I am your wife,” I correct with a set-in grin.
“You’re my wife, but the things I’ve thought about doing to you make me feel like I could be arrested.”
Leaning down, which isn’t far for me to go despite him sitting on the edge of the bed, I run my fingers through the hair over his ear, and lock eyes with him.
“Good thing I’m well above the legal age to fulfill such desires.
” I move even closer, our mouths only a breath away, and whisper, “I want you to make that mistake again.”
His eyes study mine as if he sees through me. “What mistake is that?”
“The one where you kissed your wife.” His fingers weave into the hair at the nape of my neck moments before his mouth crashes into mine.
Goodbye, willpower. Hello, Warner!