“I hope we do get pissed. Just for a little while. Truth be told,” he growls, lowering his face to nip at my ear. “I was jacking off half the night and getting very little sleep the first few months we worked together, Paige. And I couldn’t just slam you against the nearest wall, spread your legs, and have the hottest make-up sex of my life then.”
Yowza. What do I even say to that?
A frantic pulse between my legs tells me to shut up and just kiss him.
“Fair point, hubby. But what about the coffee? You know I’m going to spike it with a sugar lick sooner or later—”
“And you’ve already given me a damn sweet tooth. I might just learn to swallow your cinnamon latte shit without gagging if I spend the next year doing this.”
No words.
No sassy comebacks.
No doubt whatsoever about how much he loves me.
When this perfect grump brings his lips to mine again, I’m swept away with the Fiji breeze that makes this the best moment ever on our honeymoon—at least until we’re back in our luxe room at nightfall.
Then Ward Brandt takes me places I never knew existed in the dark with roaming lips and fevered touches.
And even when we jet back to Chicago, I know I’m never going home to anything resembling my old hot mess of a life.
The sky has shifted, and my stars will always have Orion’s shine.