“I…haven’t been updated,” Page admitted.
What he meant was, he hadn’t bothered to ask anyone in Legal about the incredibly important contracts Flying Squirrel had with their main equipment manufacturer. If they didn’t have pallet loaders, forklifts and other various machinery in top shape, distribution would grind to a halt. “Get updated.”
“It’s Sunday,” the beleaguered man pointed out. “Legal isn’t in the office.”
“We are. They should be, too.” Though odds were good no one else working on a Sunday was doing it for the same reason Warren was—to avoid putting undue pressure on the woman he’d married who regretted kissing him on the terrace last night.
Though she had asked him to. That’s what was sticking in his craw as he blasted through a few more areas of the distribution center. By the time he left the warehouse, there was little that had escaped his fine-tooth comb and he’d endeared himself to no one.
Fine. People weren’t his forte and he’d definitely earned his reputation for being remote with the staff. If they didn’t like it, they could find someplace else to work.
When he got home at seven, the house had an empty quality that he’d never noticed before. It was filled with staff, but they usually stayed invisible, as he preferred. But there was a distinct lack of Tilda.
What the hell was wrong with him? She’d only moved in the day before and already he found himself looking for her, wondering why she wasn’t using the solarium to read a book or lounging around the pool.
He ate dinner alone and answered emails on his phone. Same as he did most nights and had for a very long time. It was teeth-numbingly boring all at once.
Was it so bad to be thinking that companionship could be a benefit of having a wife under his roof? Sure, there was the utilitarian purpose. He’d already filed the forms required to petition for a green card for his alien family member, a phrase that still made him smile, and now they were just playing the waiting game until it was approved. Then she’d file for her green card. But, in the meantime, they both lived here, and he was insanely curious about the woman he’d married. Also, he was perhaps still a little crushed about the way she’d backed off last night.
Surely he could do better. Take it a little slower. If she’d just make an appearance.
Nada. At nine o’clock, he was back in his bedroom staring at his Louis Moinet Magistralis. After all, what good was it to have such a precise, gorgeous wristwatch if it wasn’t to mark each painful second of the day as it crawled by?
As he stormed through the bathroom door to shower, he found his wife. Tilda whirled. All the blood drained from his head as the sight of her in sheer white lace axed through his gut. Instructions spurted through his consciousness. Abort. Huge mistake. Get out. He couldn’t move.
Tilda snatched a robe from the counter and slung it over her shoulders, fumbling with the belt, and that’s when he slammed his lids closed. Didn’t help. The vision of her killer body decked out in sheer white lace had been seared into his mind.
And it wasn’t the virginal kind, either. The cups of the bra had scarcely covered her nipples, which mattered hardly at all since the lace had been mostly transparent, begging for a man’s tongue to taste her through it. Little scraps of lace V’d down between her thighs, held in place by three silken cords over each hip and, yeah, he’d had plenty of time to note it was a thong. He’d gotten only a glimpse of one bare butt cheek, but it was enough to know that she had a high, rounded rear that would fit into the hollow of his groin perfectly as he ground into her from behind.
His whole body strained to do exactly that, and he was so hard he couldn’t drag enough oxygen into his lungs.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, eyes still closed as he felt around for the vanity.
He gripped the marble with one hand, mostly to keep himself off the floor, because his knees were in very real danger of collapsing beneath him. All the blood that should be feeding his muscles was currently coiled up in his groin, poised to strike. Hell, maybe he should just let his knees hit the floor, but it was a toss-up whether he’d end up groveling for forgiveness or begging for her to slide that robe off so he could worship that lingerie set the way it deserved.
“What are you doing?” Tilda squeaked out. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he muttered again. “The door wasn’t locked,” he protested weakly. Stupid. That’s what he should have led with. I’m sorry. By the way, what the hell kind of lingerie is that for a woman who wears boring gray suits every day?