Page 43 of Accidental Groom
Shit.
My pulse thuds hard enough that I can hear it in my ears, too loud, too fast. The air crackles between us, restless and confusing, and I know I should step back or keep apologizing or doanythingmy mother harped about in all of those ridiculous marriage-prep talks, but my feet refuse to move and my mouth refuses to cooperate.
“You think I’m angry at you?” His voice is so low it’s nearly a growl. Another step, and I can see the flecks of gold in his irises, but his pupils are growing.
I swallow hard. “You—You haven’t spoken in half an hour.”
“No, I haven’t.”
He stops just in front of me, close enough that the smell of his cologne wraps around me, surrounding me in woody, deep notes that feel intoxicating all on their own. Close enough that when I dare to glance down, I can see how white his knuckles have gone from how tightly he’s gripping his tie.
His free hand lifts, fingers brushing the bare skin just above the neckline of my dress. A shiver races down my spine from justthe barest graze of his fingertips, tracing me, skimming the ridge where my neck meets my shoulder.
I flinch when he hooks a finger beneath the thin strap of my dress. His eyes flare.
“When I’m angry at you,” he says, his voice rough and strained, “you’ll know.”
His finger curls, tugging the strap just enough to let it slip off my shoulder, just enough to make my breath hitch. His gaze drags from my lips to the slope of my shoulder, down my body, then back up,burning.
“That display in the restaurant?” His thumb strokes along where my collarbone would jut if I followed Mom’s advice and tried those weight-loss drugs she never shuts up about. “That wasn’t you misbehaving. That was youtesting me.”
A strangled little noise catches in my throat.
The corner of his lips tugs upward, the kind of sharp, knowing smirk that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Then, before I can process what he’s doing, he loops his tie around the back of my neck andpulls.
My gasp is swallowed as his mouth crashes into mine. The kiss isferal, more heated than he’d been in the woods, more fiery. It makes me feel like I’m on fire within seconds. He’s not asking, not coaxing, butdemanding, his tongue pressing in, claiming me, conquering — and when I sag against him, he growls into my mouth, one hand sliding down to wrap around my waist.
He keeps the tie held in his other, pulling just hard enough to keep me in place, just enough to remind meexactlywho’s in control. It sends a shiver down my spine, the silk whisper of his tie against my skin, the pressure enough to tip my head back just slightly as he pins my mouth to his.
Then his hands are moving, unyielding, impatient — one second, I’m by the door, and the next, he’s got me by the waist,sweeping me toward the wide marble island in the open plan kitchen. His hands are everywhere — roughly gripping at my hips, his fingers dragging along the back of my dress, locking around the zipper.
He tugs.
The back of my hips hits the counter, the tie falling away, and before I’ve even registered it, the dress slips from my shoulders and pools at my waist. Cool air makes my skin prickle, but then his palm is cupping my breast, and I’m back to being made of flames. He tears his lips from mine, dragging them down the column of my throat with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter, nipping at the sensitive skin like he’s daring it to leave a mark this time.
At least he’s touching me again.
“Turn.”
His voice is raw. It’s a command, not a suggestion, and I don’t hesitate.
The moment I face the counter, his hand splays out between my shoulder blades, gently but firmly urging me down. The marble bites into my bare stomach, my breasts freezing against the cold surface, but I barely notice — not when his fingers hook into the bunched fabric of my dress and push it down my thighs, pooling on the floor around my feet.
I hear his sharp inhale before the words come out.
“No fucking underwear. Seriously, Elena?”
The possessiveness in his voice, in hisactionsas he kneads the flesh of my ass, makes me shiver, a single thought running through my mind in his voice:You’re still my son’s.
His hand shifts, running up the curve of my back and all the way down, slow and deliberate, before landing a firm smack against my rear. The noise echoes in the cavernous loft, sharp enough to make me yelp, my fingers scrambling against the counter as heat blooms across my skin and between my thighs.
God.
“You wore this,” he murmurs, dragging his fingertips over the stinging flesh to soothe the burn, “forme.”
It isn’t a question. I swallow, my heartbeat running like a drum, my breath coming in short and uneven bursts. “I…Yes.”
