Chapter 12
AMELIA
My husband has a problem.
Namely, that I exist, and he’s supposed to somehow function while I do.
And honestly? I support his struggle.
But lately, he’s developed a second problem.
This one has to do with the fact I’ve embraced a dangerous new obsession with wearing his white button-down shirts like they’re just . . . clothes.
They are not.
Not to him.
Not when I wear one around our home, the hem barely covering my ass, the top few buttons living in early retirement.
Not when I cuff the sleeves and wear it with wild hair and no bra like I’m out here casually stress-testing every boundary he swears he has.
Not when I’m in his space, wearing his shirt, and making his very expensive self-control look like a clearance rack impulse-buy.
I didn’t plan to wear one today. I just grabbed something comfortable while we were getting dressed this morning. And he’s spent every second since giving me that look of his. The one that says Princess, you’re a situation I intend to resolve.
I issued my first warning before we even left home. My second one during the drive here when his eyes kept wandering my way. Then a timeout when his hand became a little too friendly for a family drive.
I’m one warning away from issuing a legally binding threat to move to a guest room for the weekend.
Gage has ignored all my warnings. Naturally.
After we unpack the car, dump my snack stash in the kitchen, and watch the girls run outside to play in the garden, we bring the bags upstairs. Gage carries everything like it weighs nothing and places everyone’s belongings in their rooms while I begin unpacking our things in our bedroom.
I’m attempting to fill the dresser when I hear him come in. Then, I feel him when he moves behind me. And I don’t even have to be looking at him to know his eyes are that dangerous kind of quiet that means he’s thinking very unholy thoughts involving me, this shirt, and absolutely no interruptions.
“Don’t,” I say without turning around. “The girls are outside, and I have granola bar crumbs in my bra. You promised me at least one hour of productivity today.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Just moves closer.
“Gage,” I warn, straightening clothes in the drawer like that’s going to protect me.
No response.
Just his hand landing on the dresser beside me, caging me in.
His voice is low. “You wore my shirt.”
“It was on the chair. That counts as fair game.”
“You knew what it would do to me.”
“I didn’t!” I lie. “It was just there. And soft. And it covers things like clothes do. You should be thrilled.”
“Princess.” His voice is nothing but heat and warning. “You put that shirt on, with a black bra, and asked me to behave. That’s not fair. That’s not even fucking survivable.”
I swallow. My pulse kicks up.
Then his mouth finds my neck.
A brush of lips.
A press of breath.
His other hand comes around me to cup my breast over his shirt.
“I’m going to need you,” he murmurs, “to stop pretending you didn’t put this on just to undo me.”
I forget how to inhale. Because that’s the affect my husband has on me.
His mouth brushes the shell of my ear, and his voice is a low growl when he says, “You wear my shirt like it’s innocent.
Like it doesn’t make me hard just looking at you.
” The way he cups my breast changes. No more patience.
Just pure possession. “Like you forgot you married the kind of man who sees that and thinks fuck it, she’s not walking straight tomorrow. ”
“Gage—” I start, my voice practically a moan while my brain tries desperately to remember our daughters are here and we don’t have the luxury of losing ourselves in each other right now.
“No,” he cuts me off. “You wore this. You started this.”
His hand leaves my breast and moves lower. Slides down my stomach to the button on my jeans. He flicks it open. Tugs down the zipper. His fingers slip inside. Into my jeans. Past my panties. Right to where I’m already soaking for him.
He lets out a ragged breath. Barely contained, barely there.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”
His fingers stroke once as his nose grazes along my neck. He inhales slowly. “Jesus, I can smell you.”
The noise I make isn’t pretty. Or quiet.
“Every fucking time,” he says, his voice thick with lust like my orgasm has already happened in his head. “One breath of you and I’m fucking gone.”
He circles my clit slowly, as if he’s learning the shape of his obsession all over again. Like he lives for the pulse of my pleasure under his fingers.
“You better be ready for me tonight,” he growls into my skin. “Because this?” He pushes his fingers inside me. “This is me being nice.”
My knees threaten to give out as his touch, his words, light me up from the inside, fast and filthy.
“Tonight,” he says, “I’m going to strip you bare, put you on your knees, and fuck that beautiful mouth of yours. Lips around my cock. Eyes on mine. You’re not coming until I do.”
His fingers thrust deeper. I gasp and grip the side of the dresser.
“Then I’m going to lay you out and fuck you so you’ll feel me for days.” He kisses my neck roughly. “You wore this shirt like it wasn’t a fucking promise. Tonight, I’m going to make you keep it.”
“Gage,” I moan. “The girls . . .” I’m trying to stop him, but my words come out broken and breathless, sounding more like a plea to keep going.
“You feel that?” he demands. “That’s mine. And I’m not fucking done.”
His fingers go deeper. Filthier. Knuckle-deep and unrelenting. He knows my body. Owns it. And now he’s using it like it’s his to ruin. Because it is. It’s all his.
“Look at you,” he says as he scents me again. “Dripping for me. Like your body knows who it belongs to.”
My head tips back against his shoulder. I’m trying not to make a sound, but I’m moaning like he already has his cock inside me.
“You gonna come for me, Princess?” His thumb circles my clit while his fingers keep fucking me. “Standing here in my fucking shirt like you weren’t begging for this with every button you didn’t do up.”
I let out a raw sound, too messy to name, as everything in me tightens.
“Say it.” His lips drag along the line of my jaw. “Say who you’re soaked for.”
“You,” I gasp, right as the pressure crests. “I’m . . . Gage . . . fuck . . . I’m coming . . .”
“That’s it. Come on my fingers, Princess. Let me feel it.”
And I do.
Hard.
Loud.
A shuddering release that crashes through me, so intense it blanks out every thought, every word, every muscle. If Gage wasn’t holding me up, I’d be a puddle on the floor, mumbling something like just kill me with orgasms, that’s fine.
He doesn’t let me fall.
He never would.
He wraps a strong arm around my waist, fingers still inside me as I pant and whimper through the last of my orgasm.
His voice finds my ear again. “Tonight,” he says, “I’m not stopping at one.” He kisses my neck. “And I’ve changed my mind. You’ll wear this shirt while you take every fucking inch of me.”
Everything in my body is vibrating and untrustworthy as he lets me go.
And my lungs are still trying to catch up.
At no time in my pre-Gage life did I imagine falling for a man with the ability to absolutely wreck me.
But here I am. Shaking thighs. Blurry vision.
And ninety percent sure I just transcended.
I turn and find him watching me. With those eyes. The ones I see in my dreams and daydreams. Eyes that promise forever and I’ll-fuck-you-senseless in the same breath.
And then. Oh god. He licks his fingers clean.
Slow. Unbothered. Like this is just something husbands do on a Friday morning.
No apology for what he just did.
Just that feral look that says Yeah, I did that. And I’ll do it again the second you let me.
Which is rude, honestly, because I’m here trying to get us ready for a wedding. I’ve got a full to-do list, daughters somewhere nearby, and zero time to add “recover from feral-husband-finger-fucking-me” to my list.
I do up my jeans as I mutter, “Jesus, Gage, our daughters are somewhere in the vicinity of this orgasm.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. Neither does his voice when he says with absolute certainty, “No, they’re not.”
I arch my brows. “And you know this because?”
“Because I installed sensors at the bottom of the stairs and near our door.”
I blink. “What?” I blink again. “You put in literal kid alarms so you’d know when to stop being feral with your wife?”
“Motion sensors. They ping my phone when someone gets too close.”
I just stare at him. “You built an early warning system for your filthy emergencies.”
His mouth twitches. “I plan ahead.”
“Okay, but . . . you built an orgasm perimeter?”
His expression is unrepentant. “I’m not letting anything come between me and your pussy, Amelia. Not even our kids. The sensors make sure of it. You give me a moment, I’m taking it.”
I don’t even know what to do with that.
Part of me wants to be scandalized. Truly. I should probably be making a firm statement about boundaries and children and appropriate behavior in shared domestic spaces.
But the other part of me?
The part still recovering from his fingers?
That part is deeply, wildly turned on.
Because of course he did this.
Of course, my filthy husband with a god complex and a pussy fixation installed stealth sensors to protect his chances of fucking me on sight.
Some husbands buy flowers. Mine buys motion detectors to keep his railings on schedule.
“You realize how insane this is, right?” I press a hand to my chest because, oh my god, this man, my husband, did this for us, and I feel the need to physically hold my heart in.
“You bought tech support for your sex life. And I don’t know if I should kiss you or get you evaluated.
” My eyes widen a fraction. “Are you planning to do the same at home?”
“It’s on my list,” he says as if that’s the most reasonable answer in the world.
Then, he’s got a hand around my waist and he’s kissing me again. Rough, fast, unfair.
“I’m going to call the girls in while you finish up,” he says against my lips. “We’ve shot our timeline to hell, and—” he checks his watch “—we’re running late. So don’t take your time.”
I give him a look as he pulls back. “We didn’t shoot our timeline to hell. You did. I’ll take as long as I need to take.”
He’s amused. His expression says Sure, Princess. Tell yourself whatever you need to.
Then his voice drops again. Bossy. No playfulness in sight. “You’ve got ten minutes. Then I’m coming back in here.”
No threat.
Just a promise.
And then he’s gone.
And I just . . . stand there. Staring at the door he walked through while trying to process the fact that my husband treats orgasms with the same level of planning most people reserve for natural disasters.
Which, to be fair, checks out. And I should not be surprised.
I run a hand through my hair and let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh.
Gage doesn’t do anything halfway. Not love.
Not obsession. And I love him for it. He’s wild in ways that don’t always make sense to the world.
But they make sense to me. Because underneath all that power and precision is the softest kind of devotion.
The kind that builds you a kingdom just so you never have to wonder where you belong.
I glance at the dresser. At the bedroom. At the space where his body just was.
I’m home.
Wrecked. In love. Wearing his shirt. And on a deadline I fully intend to blow through.
I married a man who’s going to ruin me a thousand more times.
With strategy.
With sensors.
With that look that says I’ll love you like this for the rest of our lives.
And yeah. I’m absolutely going to unpack slowly so he comes back in ten minutes.
Because when Gage Black walks into a room and looks at me like I’m the only thing he sees? That’s my religion now.