Chapter Eight
Wren
Marcus’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t argue with me.
My heart is racing. I’ve agreed to marry him. I can’t believe it.
I said yes because he was right—there’s a better chance of getting pregnant if we do it the old-fashioned way, with fewer complications. That’s the only reason.
It’s totally not because he promised good sex.
Wouldn’t you like to go to bed with a man whose focus was on you, not on whether you perform well enough for him?
A man who takes his time? I shiver. No, it wasn’t because of those words.
He’ll get bored with me eventually, so I have to protect my heart and keep this purely a marriage of convenience.
I’m half terrified, half excited about having sex with him. I admit I’m curious whether he can live up to his promises. But afterward, I’ll retreat to my own bedroom, and that way I can safeguard my heart.
His eyes are glowing now, his lips curving up.
He seems happy. That puzzles me. It can’t be because of me.
I suppose it’s because he’s secured his wife and heir.
He’s saved the company. At last, he’s done something before Caesar, and he’ll get his father’s approval.
That’s what all this is about, in the end.
The sex is just the icing on the cake for him.
“Are you going to tell your father this is an arranged marriage?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Because it’s not.” His voice is firm.
I can remember Edward Ashford from my visits to their house, and occasional days when he and Cece came to the beach.
He was stern with the boys, but always nice to me, and Cece was lovely.
Suddenly, even though Edward has practically pushed Marcus into it, I don’t want them to know about our arrangement. Or about what I’ve done.
“Please don’t tell your parents I asked Caesar to be a sperm donor,” I say.
His expression softens. “Okay.”
“Can you ask Caesar not to tell him, too.”
“Yes. He won’t if I ask him, don’t worry.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate. “I don’t want to lie to them. But we can make up a story that his ultimatum made you rethink your feelings for me, and I’m happy to pretend to be in love, for their sake.”
One of his eyebrows lifts, just a little. “I see,” he says slowly. “That’s very gracious of you.”
Is he mocking me? I frown. “I’m just saying, if you don’t want your parents or the board to think this is a stunt, I understand.”
He looks down for a moment. Then he lifts his gaze back to mine. “Right. Yes, that makes sense.” His gaze slides to my mouth. “Can I kiss you?”
I blink. “Why?”
That earns me an exasperated look. “Well, for a start, I’ve just proposed to you, and you’ve said yes. It seems like a cause for celebration.”
I offer him my hand. “We could shake on it, if you want.”
He looks at my hand. Then he slides his into it. I go to shake it, but before I can stop him, he pulls me to my feet, rising at the same time, and I stumble forward and fall against him.
“Oops,” he says, sliding his arms around me.
I place both hands on his chest. “That was sneaky.”
“You can expect a lot of that.”
“Oh no. Don’t start thinking there’s going to be kissing all the time.”
“Well, you see, it’s about desensitizing you.”
That makes me laugh. “Is it really?”
“Yeah. I’m a bit worried we’re going to get to the wedding night, and I’ll strip off your wedding dress, and you’ll faint like a Victorian governess. This way, you’ll get used to being intimate with me before the big day.”
Actually, that makes sense to me, but I’m not going to admit it.
“Because,” he continues, brushing lightly up my back, “let’s face it, once we’re married we need to make the most of every second of the fertile window. I don’t want to have to spend a week breaking you in.”
“Like a mare.”
“Yes, like a headstrong mare.” He chuckles.
“Bloody cheek.” I shiver as he lifts his hands to my face. He cups my cheeks, and he brushes them with his thumbs. “Your hands are very warm,” I whisper.
“I told you, I run hot.”
He’s looking into my eyes. An irresistible urge to giggle hysterically rises up inside me.
“Something funny?” he asks as I bite my lip.
“Not really. It’s nerves.”
He gives a puzzled frown and uses his thumb to pry my bottom lip free of my teeth. “Don’t be nervous,” he murmurs.
“That’s like asking me not to breathe.”
“There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just a kiss.”
“To desensitize me.”
“That’s the only reason I’m doing it.” His eyes sparkle.
“It’s still you, Mars.”
He moves a little closer. “What do you mean?”
“You’re five years younger than me, and so handsome, and incredibly…”
He strokes my bottom lip. His body is now flush with mine. God knows what anyone watching is thinking. “Incredibly what?”
“Hypnotic,” I mumble. “Can you hear my heartbeat? It sounds like Keith Moon’s beating it with a pair of drumsticks.”
He takes my right hand, lifts it to his neck, and presses my fingers against his throat. “So’s mine.”
Oh, he’s right, I can feel his pulse racing against my fingertips.
I brush my thumb down his neck, over his Adam’s apple, to the hollow at the base. He lifts his chin a little to let me, then lowers his head to look at me again, a small smile on his lips.
I’m allowed to touch him because we’re getting married. The thought pops in my head like a bubble.
He’s mine.
A frisson runs all the way down my back.
Our gazes lock, and my lips part.
Finally, he dips his head and presses his lips to mine.
It’s broad daylight, and I half expect to hear yells along the beach complaining about Public Displays of Affection, but the only sounds are the whoosh of the waves and kids splashing in the sea further down the sand.
After a few seconds, I forget about everyone else, and focus on Marcus.
I’ve never had a kiss like it. The sun is warm on my face, and so are his hands. His lips are dry and firm. He doesn’t thrust his tongue into my mouth. And he doesn’t slaver all over me. He presses his lips against mine the same way he did in the bar, kissing me gently, taking his time.
I have to remind myself to breathe before I black out. Our breath entangles, and it makes me think of the way Māori hongi one another, pressing their foreheads and noses together, exchanging the Hā or breath of life. It’s a symbol of unity and blends the life forces of two people.
The thought brings goose bumps out all over me. He’ll be my husband; I’ll be his wife. He wants to have sex with me.
And I want to have sex with him too. I admit it. He fascinates me. And his promise that he can give me regular orgasms makes me tremble. Is he for real?
I’m beginning to think he is as he moves his arms around me, pulling me tightly against him. I can’t help it; my arms creep up his chest and hover around his shoulders before sliding up into his hair.
The last memories of him as an eighteen-year-old boy flee my mind as he tilts his head a little to the side, changing the angle of the kiss. He smells amazing. I love that he’s taller than me. There’s nothing boyish about him. He’s all man.
Every inch of him. Pressing against my stomach, impressively hard against me.
Oh my.
For the first time, he touches his tongue to my bottom lip. Heat flares inside me, lighting a touchpaper at the base of my spine and sending fire shooting up inside me. I part my lips automatically, and he slides his tongue into my mouth, against mine.
I can’t stop a small moan escaping me. He answers with a growl deep in his throat and tightens his arms, and now we’re pinned from thighs to chest, lip-locked, our tongues tangling as he deepens the kiss.
What feels like two weeks but is probably only a minute later, he finally lifts his head and moves back, although he keeps his arms around me, presumably to make sure I don’t faint. I guess I am the equivalent of a Victorian governess.
“Mmm, we’re definitely doing that again,” he murmurs. “Preferably soon.”
I push him away in a panic. “You used your tongue.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I improvised.”
“Well, don’t. Now I’m in a tizz.”
He laughs and cups my face in his big hands again. “You’re stunning when you’re flustered.” He kisses my mouth and then releases me. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
While we walk, Marcus talks about meeting his parents, the engagement party, and the wedding. I don’t hear any of it. He’s literally—not metaphorically, literally—melting my brain. I’m sure it’s oozing out of my ears like soft caramel.
When we reach my house, he stops and takes my hand. “Babe,” he says. “Are you okay?”
“What?” I stare at him blankly.
His lips curve up. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave you alone for a while to let everything sink in. Are you busy tomorrow?”
“Ah… I have no idea. I don’t think so.”
“Cool. I’ll pick you up at midday, and we’ll have lunch at my parents’.”
“Wait, what?”
“Might as well get it over with. You can discuss the engagement party with my mother.”
My jaw drops. “Oh my God. I’m not ready for this.”
“You will be. Do some meditation and deep breathing, and keep thinking about being a mum.” He smiles.
A mother. Warmth spreads through me from the inside out. “Ohhh…”
“Thought you’d like that.” He pulls me toward him and kisses my forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice evening with Clare and Ben.”
He walks away, and it’s only then that I see the dark-gray Bentley farther down the road, parked between a Suzuki Swift and a Toyota Aqua, looking like a saber-toothed tiger squatting between two kittens.
He gets in the driver’s side, so he obviously doesn’t have a chauffeur tonight. I shudder to think of him behind the wheel, competent and confident, controlling the road. I bet Mars Ashford has never stalled a car at traffic lights.
I go inside and brace myself for the onslaught of questions from my sister. Maybe she’ll be able to calm me down. Because at the moment, my thoughts are wheeling around my head like the seagulls over the ocean, and I desperately need to focus.
*