Chapter 8
EIGHT
Rowan
I wake slowly, warm and sore in places I’ve never been sore before, wrapped in strong arms that feel like they were molded around my body. For a moment, I don’t remember the hotel room or the chapel or the fact that I’m now, somehow, Grant Bennett’s wife.
All I know is the heat of him. The weight of him. The way my body aches in a deep, satisfied way that reminds me exactly what we did last night.
That scent that hits me first—cedar, clean soap, and something deeper that is just him—wraps around me like a blanket before I even open my eyes.
When I finally blink up, he’s awake. Has been, apparently. He’s staring down at me like he’s trying to brand me into memory.
“Morning, wife,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, something possessive woven through every syllable.
Heat floods through me. “Morning.”
His arms tighten, and he pulls me flush against his bare chest. His skin is hot and firm, and I can’t stop myself from tracing the scar near his shoulder. He shivers, catches my hand, and presses a kiss to my knuckles, slow and reverent but somehow filthy too.
My stomach flips. Everything inside me flashes awake.
His gaze drops lower, dragging down my body, lingering where the blanket is barely covering me. His eyes darken, jaw flexing like he remembers every place he touched last night. Like he wants to touch me there again.
We lie in silence, breathing together, my head tucked under his chin. He rubs lazy circles on my hip, and the slow, steady strokes make my breath catch. A pulse of heat stirs between my legs, surprising me with how quickly it comes back.
I’ve never woken up like this. I’ve never been held like this. Like I’m not just wanted but kept.
Eventually, he exhales and presses his forehead to mine. “We should get going, Ro. Long drive home.”
I nod, though I’d happily hide under these blankets with him forever.
He sits up, tugging me with him, and the blanket slips. His eyes drop instantly. The hunger that tightens his features makes my breath stutter. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me like this. Like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted.
Before I can cover myself, his hand slides up my thigh, slow and claiming.
“You’re sore,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the sensitive inside of my knee in a way that makes my thighs clench. “I like knowing I did that.”
My breath catches. Heat coils low in my belly.
He kisses my shoulder, my throat, the corner of my mouth, like he’s starving for me all over again. I taste him when his tongue slides against mine—possessive and warm and hungry.
“Grant…” My voice is already thin.
He chuckles darkly. “Sweetheart, we’re not even out of the hotel yet.”
But the way he scoops me up and carries me into the shower says differently.
The warm spray hits my back, and steam fills the air, but his hands are hotter. He presses me against the tile, mouth devouring mine.
“I can’t stop thinking about having you again.” His breath ghosts over my cheek. “Do you want me too?”
I nod helplessly.
That’s all it takes for him to lift my thigh around his hip and grind slowly, teasingly, against me. The friction steals my breath. I can feel him, hard, hot, thick, rubbing exactly where I’m already sensitive.
“Last night wasn’t enough,” he growls, taking my earlobe between his teeth. “I need you again, wife.”
The word hits me like a spark.
He drags his hand between my legs, finding me wet and ready for him. My whole body jolts.
“Grant—”
“I know,” he whispers, kissing me hard. “I know, baby. Let me make you feel good.”
He slides two fingers inside me, slow and deep, filling me until my knees go weak. His thumb strokes my clit in slow, precise circles that make sounds fall out of me I didn’t know I could make.
“God, listen to you,” he groans against my neck. “So pretty when you fall apart.”
My head hits the tile. My hips rock into his hand. Everything builds fast—too fast—pressure tightening low in my belly.
He pumps his fingers harder, curling them in a way that makes white sparks explode behind my eyes.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice rough. “Come on my fingers.”
I break with a cry, shaking against him, pleasure crashing through me in waves.
Before the aftershocks even fade, he lifts me, pinning me between the wall and his body. My legs wrap around him instinctively.
He lines himself up and pushes inside me in one slow, thick stretch that steals every ounce of air from my lungs.
“Oh—God—”
He groans like he’s the one unraveling. “Fuck, Ro… you feel so damn good.”
He thrusts deep, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until my nails scrape down his shoulders. Water runs over us, mixing with my moans and his growls against my skin.
“Look at me,” he breathes.
I force my eyes open, and it ruins me. He looks wrecked, desperate, completely gone for me.
“My wife,” he whispers, kissing me hard. “Mine.”
The word sends me straight over the edge again.
He feels it, the way I clench around him, and curses, slamming his mouth to mine as he thrusts through it, chasing his release.
When he finally groans my name into my neck and falls apart inside me, it’s almost enough to drag me under with him.
We stay under the water until we’re both shaking from more than the temperature. Then we shower—again—pack, check out, and hit the road.
I learn very quickly that Grant doesn’t know how not to touch me.
He holds my hand. Kisses my palm. Runs his fingers over the inside of my wrist like he owns my pulse. At stoplights, he leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth, soft and possessive.
By the time we reach base housing, my whole body is humming.
He parks, gets out, opens my door, and lifts me like I weigh nothing.
“Grant!” I cling to him. “You can’t keep carrying me everywhere.”
“Watch me.”
He carries me up the steps and straight through the front door, kicking it shut behind him. The moment we cross the threshold, he kisses me. Slow, deep heat curls through my whole body.
Boxes are everywhere, but he ignores them, sliding his arms around my waist from behind as he kisses my neck.
“You’re not touching a single one of those,” he says against my ear. “I’ve got you.”
“But—”
“I mean it.” His lips skim down to my shoulder. “Tonight, there’s only one thing I’m doing.”
My face heats. “What’s that?”
He lifts me again—this man and his lifting—and carries me straight down the hall.
“Hush,” he murmurs. “Let me be selfish with my wife.”
He lays me on the bed like something breakable, then climbs over me, bracing on his forearms. His eyes sweep my face, dark and hungry.
Then he kisses me.
Slow at first. Deep. Intent. But it ignites fast. His hands explore every inch of me, relearning what he touched in the shower, what made me gasp, what made my thighs shake.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growls against my throat.
He kisses down my neck, my chest, lower—so much lower—taking his time. Worshipping. Teasing. Testing exactly how far he can push me before I beg.
He pushes me over the edge with his mouth, murmuring praise against my skin as I fall apart under him.
When he finally slides into me again, my whole body arches. He moves slowly—so slowly at first that I nearly cry—like he wants to feel every second of being inside me.
“Oh, God,” I whisper, grabbing his shoulders.
His forehead drops to mine. “Say my name.”
“Grant…”
A sound rips from his chest—raw and hungry—and he thrusts deeper, kissing me like he’s claiming every piece of me.
“Let me take care of you,” he whispers against my lips.
And he does.
Every touch is deliberate. Every kiss is consuming. Every thrust is worshipful and wild at once. He holds me like he’s scared I might disappear, like he’s never letting me go again.
We fall apart together, tangled and breathless.
He collapses beside me and pulls me onto his chest, rubbing slow circles on my spine.
My limbs feel loose, boneless, glowing. Sleep tugs at me, and just before I slip into slumber, I swear I hear Grant whisper something.
Something that sounds an awful lot like, “I love you.”
I try to answer, but sleep drags me under. Drifting somewhere between dreams, one soft, dangerous thought slips through me.
Maybe loving him won’t be a mistake after all.