She threw her shirt over his head and across the room toward her luggage. “I’m going to go shower. Feel free to join me, if you want.”
She trotted off toward the bathroom, her steps light and airy. As if she bounced on air. She obviously liked hearing he wouldn’t argue with her at the end of the week. Obviously wanted to have some fun and leave. It’s what he wanted. What he’d always wanted.
And yet now…it felt bittersweet, almost.
He followed her into the shower, trying to ignore his annoying feelings. What the hell were feelings for, anyway? He didn’t need them in his life fucking everything up. What he and Morgan had going was perfect. No love or hearts. Just two grown-ups, playing honeymoon.
And when their week was over, so were they.
He undressed silently, put on a condom, and then climbed into the shower with her. Within moments, his mouth was on hers. He backed her against the cool tile, letting the hot water wash over them both. She moaned into his mouth and kissed him back, not fighting or arguing or telling him why she didn’t want to be with him.
She just took what he had to give and didn’t fight it.
He put everything into that kiss that he couldn’t say out loud. Kissed her in ways he didn’t fully understand, but she seemed to. She broke free, her blue eyes studying him from underneath wet, spiked lashes. “You okay?”
“I will be in a second.” He tightened his grip on her hips and lifted her up. Insinuating himself between her legs, he slid inside of her without foreplay. “Now I’m fucking perfect.”
A tender expression crossed her face. “So am I.”
She gripped him tightly, her stare not leaving his until he moved deeper and her lashes drifted shut. But before her eyes closed, he thought he saw something he recognized. Something he had been feeling a lot of lately.
Fear and longing…wrapped up in one stressful package.
The next night, Mike went straight to the hotel from work and found the table set for dinner. He blinked at the intimate arrangement, unable to believe his little hellion of a bride had gone through the trouble of surprising him with dinner. A flickering candle shone from the center of the table and two place settings were set out—complete with bubbling champagne flutes filled to the rim.
As he stood there, jaw hanging open, Morgan came out of the kitchen area expertly balancing a serving platter filled with roast beef, mashed potatoes, and carrots in one hand. She wore a checkered apron and a pair of cowboy boots. When she spotted him, she did a little spin, showing him the only thing she wore underneath was a tiny red thong and matching bra. “Welcome home, husband. I didn’t cook this meal but I’m wearing the apron anyway. You like?”
He growled and took a step toward her, the need to have her way too strong to deny. “You. Me. Now.”
He was reduced to using one-word sentences like a caveman. He might as well beat his chest and pull out a club.
She crossed the room and laughed, holding the platter of food out at him with one hand and touching his lips with the other. “Not yet. You need to eat the meal I ordered first.” He licked a drip of gravy off of her finger, their gazes locked the whole time. “Then you can have me any way you want me.”
When had he died and gone to heaven? And what had he done to deserve this? To deserve her? The scent of dinner wafted over, making his stomach rumble. Usually after work, he heated up a frozen dinner or made grilled cheese…if he was feeling adventurous. But this? This was too much—in a good way.
Maybe he did need a wife. His stomach would thank him, if nothing else.
“I don’t know which one I want more, you or the dinner,” he said.
“Why settle for one when you can have both?” She set the platter down on the table and sidled up to him, then gripped his tie and yanked him down for a kiss. When she pulled away, she smiled up at him. “I figured if I was going to pretend to be a wife for a little while, I might as well feed you. I draw the line at cooking, though. It’s not my style.”
He snorted and cupped her bare ass, hauling her closer. He couldn’t not touch her. “Not all wives live in the kitchen. Some do work. You know that, right?”
“Sure.” She flicked her tongue over his, then backed out of his arms. When he made as if to grab her, she shook her finger in his face. “Not yet. Anyway…they still do the cooking.”
“Not always.” He scratched his head. “If we were really married, I would share the kitchen duties with you.”
She eyed him. “You cook?”
“Uh…well…I’d try.”
A cocky grin slid into place. “Exactly. And my version of cooking is ordering off a menu. Therefore…welcome home, darling husband.” She nudged him toward his chair. “But don’t get used to it. I’ll be gone on Friday.”
He froze halfway to his seat. “What?”
“We agreed until the end of the week, right?”
“Yeah.” He hesitated. He hadn’t meant Friday, damn it. He wasn’t ready for her to go yet. Just needed a little bit more time in her arms. Another couple of nights, and she would be out of his blood. “But can you make it Saturday instead?”