Page 107 of Desperate Crimes
Because I can’t stop looking at her.
Leanna.
My wife.
She’s sitting next to me in the back of the limo like she doesn’t know what she does to me.
Like she’s not a goddamn fever dream wrapped in midnight silk and moonlight.
The dress—the dress—is the one I hoped she’d wear.
The one I had hung in the closet just in case she felt like breaking my soul a little more.
Blue.
Not just any blue.
What my father calls Fury blue.
The deep, inky kind that mirrors the sky right before it swallows the sun.
Raw silk clinging to every curve, hugging her breasts with a scoop neckline that rides the edge of indecency.
Thin straps on her shoulders glitter like stars, but they’re nothing compared to the shimmer in her eyes.
And I’m fucking ruined.
“Is something wrong?” Leanna asks softly, her voice brushing against me like velvet across a raw nerve.
“Wrong?” I echo, fighting to suck in a breath.
My lungs are working, but the oxygen never makes it past my belt.
“No. Not wrong. Just—” I sigh and shake my head. “Look at you.”
She blushes. Actually blushes. Sweet and demure and devastating.
“Thank you. You look good too.”
She thinks I look good?
I grin.
She bites her bottom lip.
Jesus. This woman.
I’m in a Brioni tux I barely registered putting on.
My tie is probably crooked, and my jaw is clenched so tight it might crack.
Because I’m sitting here trying not to haul her into my lap and bury myself inside her before we get to her father’s estate.
Because this woman?
She’s my sun. My moon. My everything.
Her skin is bronzed from days in the garden, kissed golden by the sun, her natural blonde hair gleaming like wheat under moonlight.
