Before Him

Kennedy shrugs and angles her gaze away. “Well, you didn’t,” she says softly.

“Then I’m an arsehole.”

“You were pretty occupied with your phone.”

And then I remember the slew of unwanted texts I’d been dealing with. But there’s no point mentioning the behaviour of her bitchy friend. involving Kennedy in that right now.

“Then I’m definitely an arsehole because you are too gorgeous not to be seen.” When she still doesn’t glance my way, I hook my finger under her chin, bringing her velvet midnight eyes to mine. “You’re blushing.”

“You have my chin in your hand.”

“And my heart in my eyes.”

“Apparently, you also have a honeyed tongue.”

I bite back the beginnings of my smile. “Not yet. But I have high hopes.”

Her expression flickers. The penny drops. She inhales a breath to deal me a serve when I bring my mouth to hers and kiss away her words. It’s not a kiss that’s tentative, no slow start or coy brush of lips. It’s more like a kiss that’s beginning is a middle, which is exactly where our minds have been while our bodies have been playing nice in public. Because I’m not the only one desperate for this to happen as Kennedy’s fingers dig into my biceps, her bouquet limp. I back her up against the hallway wall, swallowing her soft moan, ingesting it like it’s some kind of carnal alchemy. She’s not the only one who has claws, claws about to sink in deep. Fuck her web search and her quiet proclamation in the cab that an annulment would be easy enough to get tomorrow morning. I’m going to make tonight so good she’ll never want to be anywhere but in my bed.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” As though she needs convincing of the reality, I press my thigh solidly between her legs.

“We’ve done this. Together. As one.” My words are little more than a groan pressed into her neck, her answer a soft sigh that turns stuttering as I begin to work biting kisses there. I haven’t had a drink in hours, yet I feel drunk, drunk on the taste of her skin.

A door closes in the distance. A woman laughs. The reality of the moment sinks in, reminding me that while the hotel isn’t quite the Four Seasons, it’s also not some backpackers’ hole or seedy rental or the kind of place where anything goes in the hallways. I force some air between us, immediately struck dumb by the sight of her. Lips slick, her chest gently heaves. It’s like a snapshot of the future. A vision of how she’ll look under me, all soft-eyed wonder. It’s going to be good. So good. This feels like it was meant to be and so much more than just chemistry.

“Come on.” I take her hand and pull her from the wall, finding the contact isn’t quite enough. It feels better when her side is flush with mine, and she’s anchored to me, my hand curled around the soft curve of her hip. “Wife.”

Her gaze shyly flicks to mine. “You sure we didn’t just imagine that?”

“Did we also imagine the bouquet?” She lifts it with a giggle, and we both eye it a bit more. “I reckon we would’ve imagined something a little more impressive, don’t you?” My feet slow, and I release her, pulling the room key from my jacket pocket.

“No, I’ll treasure it always.”

Something about the wistfulness in her voice twists at me. Just when I think I can’t want her more than I do. I guess it’s also a tiny reminder that I should get this right. So I swipe the key, give the door a heavy push, and sweep her up into my arms.

“What are you doing?” Her words are a little breathless with delight, her dark eyes shining, lit from within.

“They don’t carry brides across the threshold in ’murica?”

“I think the brides usually get a little notice.” But her attention bounces from one pleasure to another as she spots the champagne bucket and glasses on the table by the window. Her finger slowly rises. “How . . .?”

“Cupid must’ve been working hard tonight.” I press a fleeting kiss to her temple as I set her down. Shucking off my jacket, I drop it on one of the chairs flanking the table. I pull the champagne bottle from the bucket to examine the label without mentioning it’s here because I’d texted my request ahead of our arrival. Or that the chocolate-dipped strawberries weren’t my idea but part of a hotel deal. I guess Vegas gets a lot of newlyweds.

“Well, Cupid shouldn’t have.” Her words sound the forced kind of bright, and as I turn, I notice how she doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands.

I can think of a few things for them to do. And I do.