Page 90 of Best Man Speaking

I check on Hallie, ensuring she’s sleeping deeply beside me, before I open up my text chain with Johnathan Cairns.

Johnathan Cairns:Have you managed to make any progress?

It’s a message I’d received from him earlier in the day, one that I’d happily left on read. Tonight, though, the answer’s easy.

Marcus:Keep the money. I’m not interested.

As the words settle onto the screen, thousands of dollars slip through my fingertips, and I feel the most relaxed I have in weeks. I’ll figure out the business side of things—a way to fund our charitable commitment—because losing the woman next to me is the greater risk.

Now, I just need time. Time for me to have a conversation with Hallie, to put all my cards on the table so she can make an informed decision. I only hope she doesn’t decide to leave with her money and without me.

She shifts in her sleep, seeking me out in the giant bed.

For a single moment, I consider waking her and telling her about the money her dad’s been offering me. I can picture her sleepy smile as she opens her eyes. And then the surge of her anger and disappointment as I explain the mess I’ve created. The decision to wait, to hold off on this conversation until we’re home, until we have the time and space from this pressure cooker of an event, is easy.

I’ve spent my whole life building and fixing things. And I’m determined to fix this. I can wait a little longer to put it all on the line for her.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Hallie

Iwake in a tangle of sheets pulled tight to my chin. Eyes still closed, my first conscious inhalation is full of warm spice. A scent that evokes thoughts of steaming-hot showers and water droplets waiting to be licked from a freshly washed chest.

Reaching out a hand, I search the king-sized bed for the source of the mouthwatering scent and brush warm skin. Finally opening my eyes, I find that we’re facing one another in the bed, even though there’s now space between us. Marcus doesn’t stir beneath my soft touch, nor does he wake as I scoot closer to him. I stop a few inches out, hesitant to wake him by getting too close. I’m content watching him in the early morning light that’s filtering into the room. His face is peaceful in sleep. With eyelashes I can’t help but be envious of and a mouth that brings me so much pleasure, he just might be my favorite thing to wake up to. More so than coffee, than the smell of bacon, than a crisp, clear Edinburgh day.

A new favorite thing to top the list.

It’s this thought that loosens my control, and before I can stop it, my fingertips are reaching for him. This man that I so very much want to be mine.

I want to touch him—for him to be touching me—all the damn time.

With a single arm curled under his head in sleep, it’s the other I reach for, the pads of my fingers ever so gently stroking through the dark hair of his forearms and along the smooth skin beneath. Following the strong bones of his wrist, I move on to the top of his hand, tracing along the tendons toward each knuckle. Focused as I am on this minuscule amount of contact, I don’t notice he’s awake until his hand comes alive beneath mine, his fingers tangling with my own.

His movement surprises me, and my breath catches. Cheeks warming, I flick my gaze up, taking in the satisfied little smile on his lips.

Talk about being caught red-handed.

“Good morning, Hallie,” he says, voice low and gravelly with sleep.

“Morning.” I barely get the word out before he’s tugging me closer into the warmth of his arms, sheets rustling around us. Locked away here, we’re in a little cocoon of our own, and I love it.

“Can’t keep your hands off me, can you?” he asks playfully.

And while having him call out this need of mine causes a tiny squirm of embarrassment…I breathe in deep and let it go. He’s only teasing.

“Well, I’d prefer not to, but I can try to keep my hands to myself if you’d like?” I tease back, swallowing past my remaining nerves. Bantering with emotional honesty is new.

“That’s not what I want at all,” he says, placing both my palms on his chest, giving me permission to roam freely. His own hands move to cup my ass, rolling and lifting me until I’mastride him. With my thighs split wide over his lower abdomen, Marcus keeps a hold of me, stroking his thumbs back and forward over my hips.

“You touch me as much as you like,” he says, closing his eyes once more.

Permission granted, I don’t miss a beat, running my fingertips along the indents of his abs, up the silken skin of his sides, and back over the hard planes of his muscular chest. His face remains at ease the entire time, calm and relaxed at my touch. With his eyes closed, he’s unable to see my enjoyment or the shift I begin to feel as my panty-clad sex slowly moves against him. But I get his attention instantly as my touch turns from the soft pads of fingers to the delectable drag of nails. His hips buck and lift as I leave thin white lines along his pecs, his nipples tightening along with his grip on my hips.

“Hallie,” Marcus growls out, his throat arching, even as his eyes remain shut. His hips thrust a second time, and I grind back against him.

“Hmm?” I hum back, continuing my exploration, wondering, albeit briefly, if I can use these gentle scratches to write my name. And then, before I can think better of it, I start.

With the nail of a single index finger, I begin to trace H-A-L-L-I-E across his chest.

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