“You’ve been hovering and worrying and treating me like I’m made of glass.” My mouth trails up to the hollow beneath his ear. “For weeks you’ve been kissing me sweetly on the forehead and tucking me into bed. And as much as I appreciated that while my wrist was damn near broken and my back was covered in bruises and my nightmares woke me up screaming the middle of the night… I’m all better now.” I let my teeth graze his earlobe before sucking it lightly between my lips.
He shudders.
“I’m not made of glass, Wyatt,” I whisper. “I’m not going to break if you put your hands on me.”
A groan of desire rumbles through his chest as my hands slide lower, down to his belt loops. I press against him, experiencing first-hand the throbbing need he feels for me. My patient Viking, my selfless warrior — he would put his own desires last until he broke beneath the strain, rather than push me before I was ready for him.
“Put your hands on me,” I murmur, my mouth brushing over his again, my eyes staring into his stormy ones. “If you don’t, I’m going to explode.”
He doesn’t need any more encouragement.
Before I can move, my dress is gone — up over my head, tossed over the railing. I undo his belt buckle as he rids me of my bra. He shrugs out of his shirt as I step out of my underwear. We are shaky with impatience — gripping hands and desperate kisses.
It’s been an insufferably long two weeks.
We don’t even make it to the bedroom. He makes love to me right there on the grand staircase, with raw desire and an unyielding passion that turns my bones to water. I see stars as I stare up at the glittering chandelier, my head thrown back in ecstasy. And, as an orgasm crashes through me, I think I might reconsider my ideas about going out tonight, after all.
* * *
Two days later, I’ve finally negotiated my release from captivity.
Dressed in an elegant evening gown of pale coral with my lips painted red and my dark waves swept into an elegant twist, I watch the limo pull up outside Wyatt’s house. A dark SUV follows at a meticulous distance.
“Ready?” Wyatt asks.
I nod, grinning with excitement. We’re on our way to an advanced screening ofUnchartedat one of the most exclusive film festivals on the West Coast. The nerves I should be feeling at the prospect of a room full of critics watching the full cut of our movie have been tamped down by my thrill at the prospect of finally escaping house-arrest.
“Did you take your prenatal vitamin today?” Wyatt asks sternly, as I grab my clutch purse and walk to the door.
I roll my eyes. “Yes.”
“Did you drink enough water?”
“Yes.”
“Did you kiss me goodbye?”
“Ye—” I stop short, spinning around to smile at him. “No. I did not do that.”
His lips are curved in a grin as he leans down to press them against mine. “I’ll see you there,” he murmurs, nose bumping mine playfully. “Try not to look at me too longingly across the crowd, you’ll blow our cover.”
My smile fades. “I wish we were going together.”
“I know.”
“I’m tired of pretending not to love you for the sake of the cameras.”
Wyatt’s eyes are carefully blank. “The premiere will be here in a few weeks. After that, it won’t really matter whether the public thinks you’re with Grayson or not. But you heard what Sloan said, when he called yesterday. He wants to keep up the act, especially now that we’ve cancelled most of your remaining interviews.”
“I know. I understand the logic behind it. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Wyatt sighs and grabs my hand. “Come on. They’re waiting.”
We part ways in the driveway — he climbs into the SUV with Grayson’s security team while I clamor into the back of the limo. Grayson is inside, sprawled across a leather seat on the far side, looking gorgeous in a tuxedo. There’s a flute of champagne in his grip; not the first he’s consumed, if the half-lidded look in his eyes is any indication.
“Hi,” I say, settling in. The driver closes the door behind me with a soft click. It’s quieter than a tomb in the backseat. “Long time no see.”
Grayson is watching me intently. I fidget under the weight of that bottomless green stare.