Chapter 26
Emmaline
I’d been telling myself all afternoon that I was fine.
Totally fine. Blair walking in on me and Bodie in the kitchen had been mortifying, sure, but it wasn’t the end of the world.
Blair already knew the truth about our arrangement, and Bodie had handled the whole situation with that maddening ease of his—Kissing my wife.
What’s it look like?—like it was no bigger deal than commenting on the weather or saying the sky was blue.
But that simple, easy truth rolling off his tongue like he’d been saying it his whole life had undone me completely.
Then he’d looked at me with that heat simmering in his eyes, like he wanted me. Like he was hungry for me.
Like he meant every single word.
It had certainly felt like it in those moments before she’d interrupted.
The memory had been playing on repeat in my head for hours, making my skin feel too tight and my thoughts scatter like powdered sugar in the wind.
Every time I tried to focus on something else—measuring ingredients, checking the ovens, cleaning the counters—my mind would drift right back to the warm press of his mouth and the way he’d fit between my thighs like he belonged there.
So yeah. I’d been ruined for the rest of the day.
Ruined a whole tray of apple turnovers because I’d forgotten to set the timer, ruined my focus so badly that I’d mixed up baking soda and baking powder in a batch of cookie dough, ruined any chance of thinking about anything except the way his mouth felt on mine and the fact that he’d claimed me without even blinking.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
By the time I got home to change for movie night, I was restless and twitchy. My pulse sped up every time I thought about sitting next to him on that ridiculous inflatable couch, thigh to thigh in front of the whole town. It wasn’t nerves. It was anticipation.
I went into his room—our room, technically, since all my things lived in his closet, in case his family got nosy—and pulled out a clean shirt. I was smoothing the hem when the front door opened and slammed again.
“Fucking chickens,” Bodie’s voice carried down the hall.
I blinked. Chickens?
Heavy steps, a muttered curse, and then he appeared in the doorway, still in uniform, covered in feathers. Literal feathers, sticking out of his hair and clinging to his shirt like confetti. He looked exhausted and exasperated and grinned like he’d been waiting all day to see me.
“Don’t ask.” He tugged at his buttons. “I need a shower if we’re gonna make it to movie night.”
I opened my mouth, closed it again, because the only thing that wanted to come out was You’re gorgeous, even like this. Instead, I shook my head and muttered, “Go. Before you start molting on the floor.”
He laughed. “Can you feed Rubble while I do this?”
“Sure.”
With that, he disappeared into the bathroom, door clicking shut behind him.
For a moment I sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the clean shirt I’d pulled out, my fingers working the soft cotton like a lifeline.
The muffled sound of water hitting tile filtered through the bathroom door, and with it came the torrent of thoughts I’d been trying to suppress all day.
Every memory of his mouth on mine rushed back—the gentle way he’d kissed me in his office, the claiming heat of his lips in the bakery, every teasing mention of needing another dose that had made my stomach flip with want.
It was getting harder to pretend those kisses were casual, harder to breathe around how much I craved more of him, more of us.
Rubble nudged my knee with her head.
“Right, right. Falling down on my job.” I followed her downstairs, filled a bowl with kibble and refreshed her water before I headed back up to finish getting dressed.
The water shut off with a metallic squeak as I stepped into his bedroom, and my pulse jumped.
I told myself I’d grab a cardigan from the closet, something to keep my hands busy and my mind off the fact that he was naked only a few feet away, probably running a towel over that tall, strong body I’d only glimpsed in stolen moments.
My hand was on the hanger, fingers fumbling with the soft knit fabric, when the bathroom door opened with a quiet click.
Steam rolled out like a living thing, warm and damp, carrying the scent of his soap—something clean and masculine that made my mouth water.
Bodie walked into the room, barefoot, bare-chested, a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
His dark hair was damp and mussed where he’d shoved his hand through it, droplets of water still clinging to his shoulders.
His skin was flushed pink from the heat of the shower, and the sight of him—all thick muscle and casual confidence—hit me like a physical blow.
He looked like temptation made flesh, like every fantasy I’d tried not to have about my fake husband, who was becoming less fake by the day.
I froze, caught red-handed, staring like a starving woman at a feast. The cardigan slipped from my nerveless fingers. Every drop of moisture evaporated from my mouth.
He caught me instantly, those blue eyes of his missing nothing, and his grin curved slow and wicked, full of male satisfaction. “See something you like, sweetheart?”
I should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve made some joke about him dripping all over his hardwood floors.
Should’ve looked away and pretended my cheeks weren’t burning with embarrassment and want.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. My eyes betrayed me completely, lingering helplessly on the cut of his shoulders, the defined line of his chest, the trail of dark hair that vanished teasingly under terrycloth.
The reminder that there was nothing between me and him but that precariously knotted towel made my knees weak.
And that was it. The moment of reckoning I’d been dancing around for days. I could pretend I hadn’t been staring—pretend I hadn’t spent the entire day thinking about him, about us, about what it would be like to stop holding back—or I could own it. Own this wanting that was eating me alive.
My pulse thundered so loud in my ears I was sure he could hear it. When I finally found my voice, it came out rough and breathless, betraying every secret I’d been keeping. “Maybe we should just... skip movie night.”
The teasing grin slid off his face like a shadow passing over the sun. He stilled, every muscle in that gorgeous body freezing as my words registered. His eyes locked on mine, searching, intense, like he was trying to read my soul.
“Emmaline,” he said carefully, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that made my toes curl. “Don’t tease me if you don’t mean it.”
The warning in his tone was clear—he was hanging by a thread, had been for days, and if I was just playing around, I needed to stop now before we both got burned.
But I wasn’t playing. I was tired of pretending, tired of fighting this pull between us, tired of wanting something I was too scared to reach for.
I swallowed hard, my throat working around the words as I shut the bedroom door against our over-affectionate dog. “I’m not teasing.”
His chest rose and fell once, deep and controlled, like he was steadying himself against a storm. The towel shifted slightly with the movement, and I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering.
“You’re saying you’d rather...” He paused, his voice roughening even more. “Skip movie night.” He didn’t phrase it like a question, but it was one anyway. Clarification. A line drawn in the sand that he wouldn’t cross unless I explicitly pulled him over it.
“Yes.” The word scraped up from somewhere deep in my chest, hoarse and desperate. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
For half a heartbeat, silence stretched between us like a taut wire. The only sounds were the steady drip of water from the showerhead and my pulse pounding so hard I felt it in my fingertips. Then he nodded once, sharp and decisive, like he’d accepted orders from a commanding officer.
“You tell me what you want, Em.” His voice shook around the edges, betraying the tight control he was exercising. “Because I’ll give you anything—everything—but I’m not taking unless you ask for it.”
Something in my chest split wide open at that—because even standing there, half-naked, towel barely clinging to his hips, every inch of him radiating male power and barely leashed hunger, he was still giving me all the control.
Still making it my choice, my pace, my decision.
After a lifetime of having choices taken from me, it was almost too much to bear.
I forced myself to move toward him. Every step was a conscious decision, every inch of space I closed another barrier I was choosing to cross.
His eyes tracked my movement like a predator’s, molten and intense, but he didn’t move.
Didn’t reach for me. He was waiting, always waiting for me to come to him.
Heat radiated from his damp skin as I slid my fingers under the edge of that towel at his hip.
The terry cloth was soft and warm, and beneath it I could feel the hard line of his hipbone, the taut muscle of his abdomen and those carved lines that made me want to lick him.
His breath hissed out between his teeth, sharp and pained, but he still didn’t touch me.
He was a statue of self-control, waiting for my permission.
“I want,” I said, my voice trembling on the words, “my husband.”
The raw, guttural sound that tore from his throat shivered all the way through me, settling low in my belly like molten honey.
His hands came up—not to grab or demand, but to cup my face with infinite gentleness, calloused thumbs stroking over my cheekbones as he tilted my chin so I had to meet his burning gaze.
“You sure?” The question was barely a whisper, but I heard the desperation underneath it, the need for absolute certainty before he let himself have what he wanted. The knowledge that what he wanted was me made me almost giddy.
I nodded, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat. “Yes. I’m sure.”
The next moment, the towel was gone, puddled on the floor between us like a discarded promise.
And for once, it wasn’t me standing stripped bare under the weight of someone else’s gaze. It was him. All of him, every magnificent inch, stood open and offered to me like a gift I’d never thought I deserved.
I’d thought I was ready for it—for him—but the sight still stole my breath completely.
He was gorgeous, yes, all thick muscle and masculine beauty, but more than that, he was mine.
My husband. The man who’d kissed me in his office with infinite patience, who’d claimed me in the bakery without hesitation, who I knew would rather choke down an entire tray of my ruined experimental pastries than make me feel small or unwanted.
My knees wobbled treacherously, and his hand was already there, steady and sure at my waist, holding me upright when my own body threatened to betray me.
“Say it again,” he whispered, the words rough as sandpaper, desperate as a prayer.
“My husband.” My voice shook like autumn leaves, but I said it like a vow, like a promise, like the truth I’d been too scared to acknowledge. “Mine.”
His answering groan vibrated through my bones, and then his mouth was on mine, and there was no more question, no more teasing, no more pretending this was anything but what it had always been meant to be. Just us, exactly what we both wanted, exactly what we’d both been afraid to reach for.