22. Gwen
twenty-two
Gwen
Present
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Saliva pools in my mouth, and the ball of anxiety sitting in my gut like a lead weight threatens to make an appearance.
Lance’s deep chuckle flips my stomach on its axis, turning the bubbling acid into floating butterflies.
“Just tell me to pull over,” he says.
“Ha ha.”
“Relax, Gwen. It’s going to be fine.” He places his hand on my bouncing knee.
I freeze at the unexpected presence of his hand. The last time he had his hands on me, I came in less than thirty seconds.
“Is this okay?” he asks, giving my knee a squeeze.
“Sure,” I squeak, doing my best to play it cool.
Of course, his warm touch makes the butterflies in my stomach settle. But his warmth also slithers toward the apex of my thighs, making my core throb, which is a wholly different problem I need to deal with.
No sex, remember?
I glance over to find Lance, the very definition of cool and collected, leaning back in his seat as he drives us to our first stop of the night.
He’s too damn hot for his own good. Or maybe for my own good? I haven’t decided yet.
But seriously? The aviator sunglasses, the tight plain black T-shirt, and the dark-wash blue jeans are doing it for me.
Was the “no sex” rule stupid?
I shake my head. No, it was a great rule. I put the “no sex” rule in place to protect myself. To protect my heart. Lance could ruin me if I let him. If our one night together knocked me on my ass, then there’s no telling what being married to him will do to me.
His large hands grip the steering wheel as he makes a right-hand turn, and I can’t help but stare at the way his biceps bulge. They’re thick and defined, and dangerously close to busting through the hem of his short-sleeve shirt.
If I could rip his arm off like a drumstick and bite it, I would.
I am in so much trouble. I internally groan.
Why on earth did I agree to marry Lance?
Because he’s an Adonis carved from marble. You’ve had a huge crush on him for years. You want that promotion. And did I mention he’s a gorgeous specimen of a man?
You don’t have to tell me that these are terrible reasons to get married. I know. And yet I can’t seem to stop this train wreck from happening. I swear I tried.
When I woke up this morning, my plan was to call him and call off the whole thing.
Instead, he convinced me to meet him in person, throwing me off guard.
Then the stupidly sexy and thoughtful man had to go and buy me a plate of strawberry donuts and a pink, reusable coffee mug with donuts on it.
Subsequently, bamboozling me with his cornflower-blue eyes and persuading me to fly to Las Vegas to get married. Tonight.
What is wrong with me?
Lance pulls into the parking lot next to a cute little restaurant named Bella Donna and cuts the engine. He turns in his seat to face me and removes the sunglasses from his face so I can see him.
“You okay?” he asks.
All I can offer Lance is the truth. “I don’t know.”
Did I mention he also convinced me to meet his best friends for dinner so we could invite them to the wedding? I think I’m going to vomit.
Lance tucks his index finger under my chin, tilting it up and forcing me to stare him in the eyes. “We can skip dinner and go to Vegas, just the two of us, if you want.”
The frost-colored flecks in his eyes sparkle, and the space between his eyebrows crinkles in concern as he waits for me to decide.
If I wanted to, he would drive away in a heartbeat. He’s doing so much for me, and if he thinks asking his friends, his teammates, to join us is the right thing, then I trust him.
“No. Let’s do this. I agreed to your plan; let’s keep following it.”
“Smart woman.” Lance surprises me with a swift kiss on my cheek. He removes his hand from my chin and shoves it into his pocket, pulling out a little black box.
“Is that what I think it is?” I gasp.
“We can’t get married without a ring.” He pops open the lid.
Nestled in the cushioned slot is a cushion-cut pink diamond ring, surrounded by two layers of pink and white pave diamonds, in a rose gold setting.
My hand flies to my mouth in disbelief. Somehow, he picked out a ring that I would have picked out for myself.
“It’s beautiful. And huge,” I mumble.
Any other guy would insert a dick joke, but Lance just shoots me a wolfish grin and lifts my left hand into the air, placing the ring at the tip of my finger.
“I really wish I knew your full name right now,” he says.
I chuckle at the absurdity of our situation. “It’s Gwendolyn June Montgomery.”
“Beautiful name. Just like you.”
My cheeks flame at the compliment.
“Gwendolyn June Montgomery, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
The seriousness in his voice gives me pause. I can’t put my finger on the undercurrent in his tone, but some hidden force in it wraps around my insides, putting them in a chokehold.
“What’s your full name?”
Lance smirks. “Lancelot Henry Taylor.”
“Why do I get the sense that someone in both our families likes English literature?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “I had the same thought.”
“Guess we have something else in common, huh?” I watch as his pupils dilate and he takes a deep breath.
“I can think of plenty more things we have in common,” he says, his voice dipping low and making me squirm in my seat.
Not wanting to pull on that thread, or dive too deep into the way my heart pounds inside my chest and my clit pulses with desire, I answer his question. “I’ll be your wife, Lancelot Henry Taylor.”
For as long as you’ll let me.