Chapter 56
Harper
"You’re bossy." I scowl at his retreating—very sexy—back. I sigh. I can stay here all day and watch his backside. Also, it’s not like I don’t stare at his tush in the restaurant. But it’s different when he’s not wearing any clothes, and we’re in his—our bedroom. And he just fucked me.
Oh. My. God.
James Hamilton, hottie chef, my boss, the man who I married as part of an arrangement, fucked me.
Feeling slightly bemused and very overwhelmed, I push myself up the mattress and fall back against the pillows.
I hear the water running, then he returns holding a washcloth. He’s also pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants, much to my disappointment.
"I bet those sweatpants have never looked as good on anyone else, but I was looking forward to ogling your big fat cock some more."
Yeah, I’m so relaxed, I said that aloud.
His steps slow. He looks at me with that half-amused smile I’m still getting used to seeing on his face.
"I’m so embarrassed." I slap my hands on my face.
"It’s quite all right. I love hearing you say cock."
"Fuck," I groan.
"That too." He chuckles.
Something warm brushes between my thighs. I lower my hands and find him kneeling there.
He cleans me gently.
Each careful stroke sends heat spiraling through me. My clit throbs, hypersensitive. My muscles loosen, my breath slows.
Warmth spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the way he looks at me. As if I matter. As if I’m something precious.
This is a different side of James.
Here, he’s patient. Gentle. Attentive to every small reaction in my body. The opposite of the Ice Commander he becomes in the kitchen.
And that’s all it is. A persona.
Armor he wears to command the brigade and control the chaos. In that world, he has to be sharp. Disciplined. Untouchable.
But here, the armor slips.
The man beneath it watches me like I’m the only thing that exists. His touch is careful, almost reverent.
My chest tightens. I thought the coldness was who he truly was.
Now, I’m starting to see it never was.
There are layers to him. Depth he keeps hidden from the world. And it feels significant that he lets me see this side.
I could spend a lifetime discovering the man beneath that armor. The devoted, vulnerable core he keeps guarded.
Being tended to like this makes me feel safe.
Not just in my body, but my heart, too.
He tosses the washcloth in a laundry basket in the corner, then opens the nightstand drawer again. He pours me a glass of water from the jug and offers me a pill.
"What’s that?"
"A painkiller."
"It doesn’t hurt that much,” I protest.
"You’ll be sore later. And much as I love you feeling the imprint of my cock when you walk, I don’t want you to suffer."
He looks at me with an expression that's fifty percent chiding, fifty percent commanding, and a hundred percent devoted.
Our gazes meet, and that ever-present chemistry flares between us, familiar as breathing. But beneath it lives something quieter. A gentle reverence. A protectiveness that’s so absolute, my entire being threatens to come undone.
This isn’t just him offering me a painkiller. This is James kneeling between my thighs, cleaning me gently, bringing me water, tucking me in. After he took my virginity.
It’s the kind of care I didn’t think he was capable of. It feels intimate in a way that goes beyond the physical.
I feel unmoored by the level of adoration I feel from him. My chest tightens. My skin feels too tight for the rest of my body. I feel almost lightheaded by the sensory overload.
I want to say something, but don’t want to break the moment.
I take the pill and swallow it down, then hand him the empty glass. He sets it aside, then smooths the bedcovers over and around me.
"Get some sleep."
It’s almost like his command sends a signal to my brain, for I find my eyes closing.
And in that moment between being awake and falling asleep, the question I’ve been wanting to ask him for a while slips out. “Is Angelina your ex?”
There’s a pause, then he murmurs, “She's a friend. We dated briefly. But it was over months before you walked into my restaurant.”
I flutter my eyes open, wanting to ask him another question, but he kisses me firmly. “Sleep.”
The command in his voice does the trick. I close my eyes and find myself sinking into blackness.
My last recollection is a whisper soft touch on my forehead and a soft voice which says, “But none of them were you.”
When I wake up, I’m alone in the room. I look around, wondering if I imagined that. But I am in his room, not mine. That’s when I notice the note on the pillow next to mine. I pick it up and read it.
Hope you had a good rest. I’m cooking dinner.
-J
I pick up my phone and notice I’ve slept for nearly three hours. That orgasm must have exhausted me more than I realized.
I sit up and stretch. When I walk back to my room, other than a very slight soreness, I feel fine. In fact, I don’t think I’ve felt this energized in a long time. I take a quick shower, pull on a pair of yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and thick socks. After I’m dressed, I head down to the kitchen.
I’ve seen James cook hundreds of times, but this is different.
He’s more relaxed, and it shows in his stance. And the fact that he’s wearing a T-shirt that molds to his fabulous body, and the same sweat pants.
When I get closer, I realize he’s not wearing any socks. There’s something so sexy about his naked feet. I want to suck them and see how they taste. I might have a foot fetish I didn’t know about.
"You’re awake."
I look up to find he’s walking toward me. He searches my face and nods. "You look refreshed."
"I needed that sleep."
He drops a quick kiss on my forehead. "Good."
Seeing me stare at him in bemusement, he inclines his head in inquiry.
"It’s nothing." I smile.
Then in a burst of happiness, I throw my arms around him and hug him. After a second, he hugs me back, lifting me up. He walks to the barstool closest to the cooking range and deposits me on it. When he steps back, I beam up at him.
He chuckles. "All good?"
"Very good." I nod.
"What do you want to drink?"
I nod to the open bottle of wine and his half-filled glass. "What are you drinking?"
I’m sure he’s going to tell me the kind of wine it is. Instead…he raises his glass to my lips, turning it so my mouth touches the rim at the very spot from which he drank.
It feels like I’m touching my mouth to his.
Heat flushes my cheeks.
It’s an intimate gesture. The kind a husband and wife would share. The kind lovers wouldn’t hesitate to indulge in between themselves. My heart flutters.
He tips the glass slowly while watching me, completely focused on my reaction. His actions are deliberate. Controlled. There’s a sense of something ceremonial about it.
It feels like he isn’t just giving me wine. He’s offering something of himself to me.
I take a sip. Green apple and citrus. The bright, clean notes punch through my palate.
He lowers the glass, watching me closely as I swallow.
That heat spreads to my throat, my chest, and sinks slowly into my blood, warming me like he just wrapped me in his embrace.
And he did all this without touching me.
“Do you like it?”
I nod.
“It’s Chablis Grand Cru.” His voice is husky.
It’s a wine made from mature grapes known for being steel-sharp, powerful, and intense. It matches James’ personality.
He sets the glass in front of me and pours himself a fresh one, then turns back to the range. I watch him toss a handful of pale zest into the butter and stir.
This doesn't feel casual anymore. This marriage feels real.
I focus on his cooking before the thought can take hold. "What are you making?"
"Tagliolini al Limone." He swirls the pan, the butter foaming into a pale, creamy cloud.
The scent hits me, bright and citrusy. I already know the acidity and chalky minerality of the wine will cut through the butter and cream, while its citrus character echoes the lemon. The glass and the plate speak the same language.
Like me and James.
He adds long, thin strands of pasta to the pan, coating them until they glisten like silk. He uses long kitchen tongs to twirl the pasta into a tight, perfect nest in the center of each bowl. He finishes it off with a dusting of lemon zest.
He places a bowl, along with the fennel and orange salad he’s assembled, in front of me. And of course, cutlery and serviettes. He sets his place at a right angle to mine at the island. He takes his seat and raises his glass of wine. "To you."
"To us." I raise mine and clink it with his. Then take another sip.
The pasta is the perfect balance of citrus and umami. The salad is light and refreshing. He tops off my pasta. Then watches me demolish my second helping.
"It’s so good," I say half apologetically.
"I love a woman who has an appetite." He swirls the liquid in his glass. His every move is precise; however, his gaze is on my face.
I twirl a few strands around my fork and bring it to my lips. When I lick the zest off the tines of my fork, his gaze darkens. His fingers tighten around the stem of his wineglass.
I take another mouthful of the pasta.
His Adam’s apple bobs. When he takes a sip of his wine, I notice that his hand shakes.
Satisfaction coils behind my rib cage.
It’s a heady, intoxicating thing to realize that, while I am the one eating, he is the one who's hungry. That his body can betray him, too.
He sets down his glass and rises to his feet. His height seems to unfurl endlessly.
I tilt my head back to meet his gaze. His eyes sharpen. His face is set in stern lines.
With a single step, he invades my space, and my breathing hitches. He tilts my face up with a touch to my chin, and I open for him, helpless to do otherwise. He bends over me, and then comes the wine: warm, fragrant, and notes of apple and pear with a hint of honey.
It’s filthy, the way he feeds me from himself, the wine carrying the heat of his tongue and the gunflint aroma of the Chablis Grand Cru.