Before Him

When he doesn’t answer, I notice the smirk he’s wearing looks more than a little self-congratulatory.

“Never. Considering it was in my wallet all night.”

My jaw almost hits the floor. “Why would you do that?” I’m not shouting, though my voice is raised, not to mention a little higher. Okay, so I am shouting, but I’m shocked. “Why would you want me to miss my best friend’s birthday party?”

“Because I’m a selfish prick.” His shoulder jerks in an unapologetic motion. “It fell out of your purse when you went to the bathroom. I was going to give it back, but I changed my mind. I didn’t want to spend the night yelling at you over a table in a club. I wanted to get to know you,” he says with a diffident shrug. “I wanted you all to myself.”

“I don’t know what to say.” It seems our whole relationship has been built on lies.

“I don’t regret it for a minute. Because if I’d handed it back to you, we might not have this.” He lifts my hand, rubbing my makeshift wedding band. “And we might not have Wilder.”

That is something I can’t argue with. Not as his gaze sweeps my face, and his hands come to cup my jaw.

“Don’t throw it all away, Kennedy.”

“Roman, please.”

“Just so you know, I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Okay.” That’s not the correct answer, and neither is the way my fingers tighten on his lapels. It all seems to happen in slow motion—the way his smile flickers and how his lashes dip. The sensation of his lips brushing against my own. Once, twice, the motion as light as a butterfly’s wing.

“If that’s okay with you.” His words are warm and wine-scented, and I hear the smile in them. “Or you could kiss me.” His mouth slides across mine. And I see this for what it is. A teasing provocation, a way to ensure I can’t place the blame on him later. Barely an inch of space exists between us, yet it seems like an infinite gulf to cross.

Be audacious. Take a risk. Lose your mind to the man you married in another lifetime.

Pressing up onto my toes, I connect my lips with his. Roman makes a low sound of approval, deep and masculine, our mouths beginning to work in tandem as though this was always meant to be. Soft and slow, our kiss feels lush and somehow poetic, an ode to pleasure as his hands slide into my hair. His fingers twist the strands at my nape, and I gasp, my body shuddering through the sensation of being pierced by a million pleasurable pins.

His kiss deepens almost immediately because that’s what this has become—a kiss he’s taken ownership of as his tongue licks into me like I’m his favourite dessert. And, oh God, I want to be.

“Fuck.” He pulls back a little, and the sound of that husky utterance pulses through me, liquid warm. His eyes are languid and dark, almost somnolent. Not sleepy, my mind supplies as his biceps flex subtly beneath my fingers. But ready for bed.

“Sorry.” Flexing biceps can only mean I’m touching them. Gripping, even. I lower both my hands and heels as awkwardness creeps into my shoulders. I can’t seem to balance this smile quite right. We can’t keep doing this—I can’t keep torturing myself by wanting him.

Roman’s hand tenses on my arm, not offering comfort, the motion rather stilling me. “I know this is going to sound like a line.” He glances down and slides the fingers of his left hand between mine. “But I’d steal your ID in a thousand lifetimes. I’d suffer your loss every one of those days we were apart. I’d do it all to get you back again.”

My throat narrows with tears, his words mending my ruined heart. “Who knew there was a poet inside you?”

“Play your cards right, and there could be a little inside you.”

“Roman,” I groan, pressing my head to his chest. “We can’t—”

“Yes, we can. Because I love you and I know you love me. I feel it here.” He lifts my hand, pressing it to his chest. “And, fuck it, I’m not above using emotional blackmail, but if you end this marriage before you’ve even given us a chance, you’ll break Wilder’s heart.”

I pull back and use the hand pressed to his heart to give him a solid whack. “You are the worst person ever, Roman Phillips! You can’t use our son as glue to fix this.”

“He’s not glue. He’s the icing on the cake of you and me.”

“He is. He so is,” I almost sob, not sure if my heart feels like bursting because of love or because of panic.

“What do you say, little love?” His fingers tighten on mine, and I don’t know which is the dominant feeling as he drops to one knee in front of me. “Will you stay married to me?”