Page 84 of Stolen Vows

I throw the covers off my legs, swinging them over the side of the bed. My fingers curl around the edge of the mattress as I stare at the door.

I could stay here. Crawl under the covers, close my eyes, and wait for sleep to come.

Or . . .

Before I can second-guess myself, I cross the room and slip into the hallway. The wooden floor is cool beneath my feet as I approach his door. My hand hovers over the knob for a second, hesitation coiling in my stomach. But then I remember the way he looked at me as he slid the wedding band onto my finger. The heat in his eyes as he kissed me, his hands firm and possessive on my face.

I want that. I want him. And maybe, just maybe, he wants me too.

I knock once. Just once. I tell myself that if he doesn’t answer, I’ll go back to bed. No harm, no foul. No weird morning-after awkwardness.

My heart thunders in my ears, drowning out all other sounds. I lean my ear against the door, straining my hearing.

I knock again. “Graham?” Okay, I lied.That’sthe last time.

“Francesca?”

I whirl around, pulse hammering. Graham is behind me, standing in the doorway to his office.

And oh. “Jesus.”

He’s shirtless. Glasses perched on his nose. Low-slung gray sweatpants hanging dangerously on his hips. And a goddamn smile on his lips.

I stare. I mean, I try not to, but I’m only human. And Graham Carter, in this state of casual, late-night dishevelment, is the most unfairly attractive man I’ve ever seen.

His lips curl at the corner, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “I preferhusband,” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “But I’ll accept Graham. Maybe even God, in the right moment.”

It takes me a full three seconds to process his teasing words because the image of him is so distracting.

I blink. “You’re wearing glasses.”

“I am.” He crosses his arms, which only makes his biceps look bigger.

“You have tattoos.”

“I do.” He leans one shoulder against the doorframe. That damn smirk is growing.

“You’re awake.”

“So are you.”

We stare at each other, caught in some silent,what the hell is happening right nowmoment.

“You were knocking on my door.”

I lift my chin, stepping toward him. “I was.”

His grin grows wider, and I have a sneaking suspicion that underneath that permanent five o’clock shadow are dimples. “Are we gonna play this all night?”

“I might.”

His eyes flicker with something dark, something amused and wickedly dangerous.

“Did you need something,wife?”

My stomach flips. Ishouldhave a good answer. A prepared excuse. Instead, all I say is: “Why are you still awake?”

“Working.” He gestures over his shoulder at his monitors, glowing behind him. “Why are you awake?”

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