For a moment, we’re closer than we’ve been in six fucking months. I’m touching her again like it’s the first time, breathing in her scent. Locked in battle like this, watching the way her chest heaves with passionate fury, seeing her eyes close as she takes me in just the same...
Elsa fucking Blakely is the lov
e of my life.
Which makes what comes next even more fucking enjoyable really.
“Are you ready?” I ask her softly—so softly that no one else can hear us.
It’s just me.
And her.
We’ve spent so much time conspiring against each other...it’s a nice change of pace, finally getting to conspire together.
“For you? Always,” Elsa purrs back in a sexy little whisper.
That’s when I make my move. I drop her wrist and storm away, obviously shattered by her last insult.
And Elsa?
Elsa chases after me, bridal gown and veil flowing behind her, and she shoves me into our very expensive, gold leaf, twelve-tiered Madagascar vanilla buttercream and rosé flavored wedding cake.
That’s what makes the guests gasp once.
The second gasp comes when I grab her and take her down with me.
The cake is a fucking goner.
We crash into it, smashing it to bits on impact and breaking the table under it. I borrowed it from a buddy who owns some professional wrestling venues. He taught me how, when it gives out beneath us, to use my body to shield Elsa and our unborn child from harm.
Which means that when the cake splatters to the ground, and we fall down on top of it, Elsa winds up straddling me, lips pulled back in a snarl as she shoves fistful after fistful of cake onto my face.
“How could you do this to me, Tanner?!” she sobs in a tone so convincing probably half of the guests will always kind of hate me, even after this is over, and they won’t even know why.
“Do this to you?” I shout back. “Elsa! How could you do this to me?”
“You son of a bitch. You got me pregnant and abandoned me!”
“Elsa, no! I would never abandon you—in fact, I’ve been waiting for you for all these months! I love you, darling—I need you—”
Reads like a fucking soap opera, right?
It ought to. I hired one of the writers from Days of Our Lives to turn over the stupid fucking script.
See, this—all of it—the fight, the cake wrestling, the overblown melodrama and the last six months?
All part of our master plan, believe it or not.
As Elsa’s lip quivers and her final fistful of cake drops to the ground, I think I can even hear Lis Langley’s little red pen scribbling in her notebook so fast that she’s going to end up starting an actual fire on the page—instead of just a journalistic one.
“You...you mean that?” Elsa simpers.
“With every ounce of my soul,” I say gallantly.
Then, it’s time for the show stopper.
Our lips collide, slick with layer cake and buttercream. I’m groping at her tits, she’s unfastening my belt, and we’re licking the cake off each other’s skin like complete fucking animals.