Page 111 of The Rejected Wife

Is he saying this to me because he found out I'm Serene’s biological mother? Does he feel obligated to do so now?

I wasn’t lying when I said that I felt blindsided by the revelation of being Serene’s biological mother. First, being denied by him, then tentatively accepted, and now, faced with this revelation makes me feel like I’m drowning. That is the only explanation I have for my inability to accept what he’s saying.

And why can’t I ask him these questions? Why do I feel so tongue-tied? My brain feels exhausted, as does my body. I feel like I’ve run a marathon and now, I’ve run out of energy. My shoulders sag a little. I must sway, for his expression changes to one of concern.

"I'm being selfish, thinking only of myself at a time like this."

Before I can protest, he bends and scoops me up in his arms. I stare—surprised, bemused, and also, relieved for the weight to be taken off my feet. I should protest, but really, it feels so good.

"You’re tired." He doesn’t wait for my response before he walks to one of the beds in the room and places me on it. Then he pulls off my shoes and covers me. "You should get some more sleep. We can talk tomorrow." He turns to leave, but I grab his hand.

He glances my way. There’s disappointment in his eyes but also, understanding. His hair is mussed up from having run his fingers through it. His face seems leaner, almost gaunt. Those cheekbones that were sharp enough to cut glass seem more pronounced. There are new lines around his eyes, and I swear, there are flecks of gray in his hair I never noticed before.

Naturally, it just adds to the whole package. Even the scrubs work for him—hell, they worship him. Tyler Davenport in medical gear still looks like a runway model forSexiest Man Alive: Surgeon Edition.And like fine wine, he’s only going to get better with each day—richer, darker, more intoxicating. AndIget to enjoy all of it. "Sleep with me?"

He stiffens. "You sure?"

I nod. "I want you next to me."

He studies my face like he’s memorizing it—like he won’t settle until he’s sure I’m okay.

Then, wordlessly, he toes off the disposable hospital-issue footwear and climbs onto the bed beside me. The mattress dips with his weight.

He coaxes me onto my side, then slides in close. His arm glides under my neck, so my neck rests against the solid curve of his bicep. He wraps his other arm around my waist, anchoring me to him.

He fits himself against me, chest to spine, breath to breath.

His heat seeps into my skin, wraps around my ribs, melts the last of the tension I didn’t realize I was still holding.

A breath slips from my lips—half sigh, half surrender. I snuggle in closer.

"Comfortable?" His voice rumbles up his chest.

I nod. I sense him hardening against my thigh. And that’s reassuring. It’s a sign of life. It tells me more than words that things are going to be fine.

"Close your eyes," he orders.

* * *

When I open my eyes next, the silvery light outside tells me dawn is breaking over the horizon. I also hear the chirping of birds; it’s soothing. I haven’t stirred from the position I fell asleep in. And neither has Tyler. His chest rises and falls. The thickness which prods at my waist seems to have grown in size. Despite the air conditioner in the room, Tyler’s body is so hot, I’m sweating. At some point, I must have thrown the covers off because of that. My dress is bunched up around my waist, and Tyler’s thrown one muscular leg over mine, pinning me in place. I feel refreshed though. His breathing is even, so Tyler must still be asleep. I lay there and watch the sky lighten outside the window.

At some point, his muscles ripple, and I sense he’s awake. His arm tightens around my waist. "You awake?"

Without waiting for an answer, he lowers his leg from over mine and urges me to turn. Now, I’m face-to-face with him. Nose to nose. Our mouths within kissing distance. I survey that pouty lower lip and want to dig my teeth in and suck on it. His warm breath singes my cheek. His arm on the dip of my waist is heavy. He slides his thigh between mine, the ridge of it pushes against my core. The breath whistles out of me. My nipples pebble. My thighs tighten.

He flattens his thick fingers over my butt cheek and squeezes. A soft moan spills from my mouth. One side of his lips kicks up, like he’s pleased by my response. And when I raise my gaze, his pupils are dilated. He’s as aroused as I am. His nostrils flare, a nerve popping at his temple. I raise my hand and trace the line of his jaw. His morning scruff is rough, the look in his eyes tender. A study in contrasts, like him.

He maneuvers me closer, holding me in place so my melting pussy is positioned exactly at his crotch.

"Take me out," he murmurs.

I glance toward the door. "We shouldn’t."

"We absolutely should." He squeezes my butt cheeks with just enough pressure that my pussy responds. My clit throbs. My breasts grow heavier.

"Do it," he says in a low, hard voice.

My nerve endings crackle. I reach down, slip my fingers under the waistband of his scrubs, and pull out his cock. I automatically drop my gaze and find the crown swollen, almost purple, with beads of precum clinging to it. My mouth waters. I wrap my fingers around him, swipe from base to crown, and squeeze.

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