Page 118 of Six Month Wife
The touch is light. Testing. Every nerve in my body goes on high alert. His fingers wander up until they find the center of me.
“I was thinking,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear, “we’ve never consummated becoming official.”
I turn to him, arching a brow. “Is this your subtle way of proposing sex at 35,000 feet?”
“I wouldn’t call it subtle.” His fingers drift higher, slipping beneath the hem of my dress. “But I’d call it a proposal.”
My breath catches. I glance down the aisle and see thatno one’s looking. Everyone’s half-asleep or lost in their tablets.
“And if I say no?”
He shrugs, lazy and unbothered. “Then I’ll spend the rest of the flight imagining how good it’d feel to make you come in this seat.”
I squeeze my thighs together, and he feels it. Oh, he feels it.
“Jesus, Parker…”
He grins, eyes gleaming in the low light. “That a yes?”
I don’t answer.
I simply place his hand exactly where I want it.
Between my legs. Right where I’m already soaked for him.
“You tell me,” I whisper.
The car pulls upto a charming Victorian building perched on a small hill.
Its white exterior is bordered by tall, pointed windows and a wraparound porch, reminiscent of something out of a storybook. Yet as we step out, the modern touches come into view—security cameras discreetly tucked into corners and glass doors that shimmer against the ornate wooden façade.
Parker squeezes my hand as we walk up the steps. “Well, this is it,” he murmurs, his voice tight.
I nod, trying to suppress the uneasy flutter in my stomach.
Inside, the contrast is even more striking. The original woodwork of the building gleams under modern pendant lights. The floors creak slightly beneath our feet, butholographic monitors and sleek, wall-mounted screens remind me we’re in the twenty-first century.
A polished young woman in a crisp blazer greets us at the reception desk, offering us a professional yet warm smile. “Dr. Matthews, Ms. Carpenter,” she says. “Mr. Blankenship is expecting you. Please follow me.”
We exchange a glance before following her down a hallway lined with antique prints. My pulse quickens with each step, the weight of the moment weighing on my chest.
The room she leads us to is unexpectedly cozy, its high ceilings balanced by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and leather armchairs.
A man with neatly combed silver hair and a sharp suit stands behind a desk. Anders Blankenship. He looks exactly as I’d imagined—dignified, intimidating, and a little mysterious.
“Dr. Matthews, Ms. Carpenter,” he says, extending a hand to Parker first and then to me. “Please, have a seat.”
We sit side by side, still holding hands beneath the table. Parker sits tall, though I notice the way his shoulders are drawn tight. I'm a tightly coiled spring myself, with every single nerve on edge.
It’s only been a few weeks, but I guess pressure-cooked romance leaves a mark.
Blankenship sits back, folding his hands on the polished wood of his desk. “I’ve reviewed the report from Paul’s visit to Palm Beach,” he begins, his deep voice measured and deliberate.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
“Paul was tasked with assessing the authenticity of your marriage,” Blankenship continues. “As I’m sure you know, this inheritance stipulation was very clear.”
I keep my expression neutral.
