Chloe
A handful of guests follow us out to the car, which I could have done without.
I’ve been smiling and nodding and performing for the better part of eight hours, and what I want more than anything right now is to stop.
To get in a car and close the door and not have to be a radiant new bride for five minutes.
Not that there isn’t something terrifying about that, as well. I’m not going home to my familiar condo. I’m going to Tristan’s house.
Our house.
Fuck. That’s going to take some getting used to.
I offer a polite farewell to the last few well-wishers, and Tristan keeps his hand at the small of my back the entire time. I’ve stopped being able to tell if it’s for my benefit or the guests’, and at this point I’m not sure it matters.
Finally, we manage to escape to the waiting car.
The driver opens the rear door, and Tristan helps me in, managing the train of the dress with more competence than I expected from someone who’s presumably never had to deal with a hundred thousand dollar wedding gown before.
He slides in beside me, and as the door closes, the noise of the evening cuts off all at once.
The partition between us and the driver goes up, and I lean back against the seat and let out a breath.
As we start to drive back to Tristan’s place, his voice breaks the somewhat comfortable silence between us.
“I don’t know if I got a chance to tell you,” he says softly, his eyes meeting mine in the dimly lit interior of the car, “but you looked beautiful tonight.”
I feel a flutter of nerves in the pit of my stomach at his compliment, and I lick my lips nervously.
“Thank you,” I murmur, forcing a small smile. “You looked good too.”
The words feel awkward on my tongue, and I can’t help but wonder if he sees through the facade of composure I’m desperately trying to maintain. The truth is, I’m exhausted—physically and emotionally drained by the events of the day.
“The whole wedding was beautiful,” I add, my voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. “I think people… believed it, you know?”
Tristan’s expression shifts, a flicker of something crossing his features before his gaze hardens ever so slightly. “There’s nothing to ‘believe.’ This wedding was as real as any other.”
I give him a skeptical look, a small scoff escaping my lips because I’m too tired right now to be diplomatic.
Before I can say anything, he reaches out and pulls me onto his lap.
The movement is so smooth and unexpected that I let out a small sound of surprise, my heart stuttering as he lifts me effortlessly and settles me into place.
“You’ll… you’ll ruin my dress,” I mutter halfheartedly, although I don’t really care about that and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t either.
His arms close around me, holding me against his chest, the warmth of his body seeping through all those layers of fabric.
“What part of that wedding felt fake to you, Chloe?” he asks quietly.
There’s nowhere to look but at him as his question hangs between us.
I swallow.
“Was it the vows?” His voice drops. “Because I meant every word. I meant it all.”
Something pulls tight in my chest. It’s not that I doubt him. It’s everything else.
“The rings?” he continues. “They’re real. Solid. Just like the promises we made to each other.”
I open my mouth, then close it.
“And the kiss?”
Heat rushes to my face. I shift against him, and as I do, I realize with a jolt that he’s growing hard beneath me. I go very still, my breath catching, suddenly aware of every single point of contact between us as I force myself to meet his gaze.
“All of those things were real,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Good,” he says. “Because I meant what I told you at the beginning of all of this. I won’t be in a sham marriage. You are my wife. I am your husband.”
My heart pounds as the echo of his words settles over me.
Wife. Husband.
They reverberate in my mind, sending a shock through me that jolts every nerve in my body. My lips part slightly, but as much as I want to speak, the words don’t come. He’s left me totally speechless, and everything but him slowly fades away.
I swallow hard, my eyes pinned to Tristan’s, and the scorching memory of our kiss flashes in my mind as the tension crackling between us pulls me toward him like a current.
I can’t help but think about the way he pressed his lips to mine back at the altar—like he was laying a claim to me, letting the entire world know that I’m his now.
With all those eyes watching and scrutinizing us, it’s not like I could have refused to kiss him at our wedding. But that’s the worst part. I didn’t want to refuse. Maybe some small part of me was even looking forward to it, craving his taste again.
Almost against my will, my gaze drops to his lips.
They twitch at the corners, not quite a smile but enough to prove he’s noticed me looking.
As if he’s reading my mind, his hand reaches out, slowly and deliberately, to cup the back of my neck. The feeling of his skin against mine sends a shiver racing down my spine and makes my breath sound a hundred times louder in my ears as I struggle to keep it even.
His palm is slightly calloused, and the way his thumb softly traces along my hairline turns my senses up to a ten.
Every little thing about him sharpens into focus.
The weight of his hand at the back of my neck, the scent of his cologne filling the small space between us, the heat coming off him in waves.
Despite the warmth in the car, goosebumps race up my arms.
We stay frozen in this position as the air in the car seems to thicken.
All I can think about is the way those fingers have made me feel before.
What they’ve given me. A fresh wave of goosebumps prickles across my skin at the thought, and my heart stutters at the realization of how much sway this man already has over me.
I want him so badly it’s almost unbearable.
I lean closer to him, unable to stop myself. His eyes meet mine, and there’s no mistaking the hunger looking back at me. Our breathing mingles, each exhale a little unsteady, and his grip on the back of my neck tightens slightly, like a question rather than a demand.
Just a little closer…
The car rolls to a halt, breaking the spell. My body sways in his lap, and the driver clears his throat softly to let us know we’ve arrived. I slide off Tristan’s lap somewhat awkwardly and climb out of the car, dragging in a breath of cool night air.
I can still feel the ghost of his hand at the back of my neck.
As Tristan gracefully exits the car behind me, I steal a glance over my shoulder, catching sight of him adjusting himself. The knowledge that he’s fully hard just from having me on his lap sends a jolt of heat coursing through my veins.
My heart races erratically as I struggle to regain some composure. I’m certain I’m blushing, and he can definitely tell.
But he says nothing, merely gestures toward the front door of his house.
We go inside, and I glance around at the space that’s going to be my home for the next three years.
It’s honestly incredible. High ceilings, open floor plan, neutral wood and warm stone.
The far wall of the main living area is entirely glass, floor to ceiling, and beyond it the ocean stretches out into the dark, white caps catching the moonlight.
Even with the windows closed, I can smell the salt air, faint but there, woven into the whole space.
My boxes are stacked near the entrance—my belongings, my whole dismantled condo life, sitting in cardboard containers waiting to be dealt with. There’s something both comforting and depressing about seeing them here, these familiar things in an unfamiliar place.
And then I take in the paintings. All five of them are already hung, filling the walls of the living room with color and movement and everything I’d hoped they’d bring to the space.
The largest one faces the ocean-facing windows, and even at night it looks extraordinary, the blues and reds of it picking up the moonlight coming through the glass.
“They look incredible in here,” I whisper, my voice dropping a little in awe.
Tristan comes to stand beside me, his gaze following mine. “They do.” He shoots me a sidelong glance, arching a brow. “You picked well, for a house you’d never seen.”
“I knew your place had an ocean view,” I admit. “That was enough.”
He looks at me, and I can’t fully read his expression in the low light before he says, “Come on. I’ll show you to our bedroom.”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach at those words.
“Um, maybe I should sleep in one of the guest bedrooms,” I suggest, clearing my throat.
He stops walking and looks back at me. “I don’t have a guest bedroom.”
I stare at him. We are standing in a house that is, conservatively, four thousand square feet. “Are you serious?”
“I can give you the tour,” he offers, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The tour takes about fifteen minutes and is deeply irritating.
He takes me through room after room, each one beautiful and thoughtfully designed and conspicuously empty of any sleeping surface.
A library that makes me slow down despite myself, all dark wood shelving and leather spines.
A sitting room with a view of the garden and a fireplace that looks like it actually gets used.
A home office, two guest rooms, a gym, a media room.
All of it beautiful. None of it containing a bed.
But there are marks on the carpet. Indentations in several rooms where furniture legs used to rest. Pale rectangles on the walls of one room where something large clearly hung until very recently.
In one of the larger rooms, there’s even a slight difference in the paint color along one wall where a headboard must have sat for years.
I stop in the middle of this last room and turn around.
“You removed them,” I blurt incredulously. “You actually took out all the beds.”