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“That’s not fair,” she whispers.
“What’s not fair?” I ask, amused.
“Kissing me until I forget what my name is.”
“Your name is Henrietta Jayne Malik.” It’s the first time I’ve said her full name, and it sounds fucking perfect on my lips.
“We got married, I’m your wife,” she says, her tone shocked but still reverent.
“Yes, you are. My wife.” I sound like a smug bastard, and that’s because I feel fucking smug, and I won’t apologize for it because I have everything I want right now.
My life’s fucking perfect.
13
ETTA
My body aches like the one time I went to the gym and decided to try out every single machine. I’m exhausted and weary and my pussy hurts so much that there’s a dull throb that pulses through me with every step I take. I feel utterly owned by Oz, and even though I know I shouldn’t, knowing he truly believes I’m his is almost titillating.
After he kissed me until my legs went numb and my entire brain shrank into a single-minded entity entirely focused on him, he stepped back and then watched while I opened every drawer trying to find my clothes.
After he unpacked for me the other day, I only searched through his closet just enough to find pajamas and then something to wear to Betty’s the other night. It feels okay to search a little more thoroughly with him here, though, so I did, finding all of my clothes mixed in with his, like we really are a married couple living together and sharing space.
When I’m dressed in ripped jeans and a white knit sweater, Oz takes my hand and leads me downstairs, like he can’t stand not touching me for even a second. The anger I was feeling has faded, and instead, my mind feels like it’s fizzing with questions and fears and anxiety over what exactly I’ve gotten myself into.
Marrying him was a crazy decision to make, and although I don’t think he necessarily coerced me into saying I do, he definitely orchestrated a situation where I wasn’t completely rational and consenting. But I’m not entirely sure I’d have said no, even if I hadn’t had cocktails with lunch or been dazzled by the look of love in his eyes when he told me he needed me to say yes.
Towing me into the kitchen with him, his fingers curl around my hips before he lifts me off the floor and sits me down on the counter.
“French toast?” he asks.
“I can cook.” I’m not sure if I’m offering or informing him, but either way, his lips curl into a soft smile before he leans forward and claims my lips with his.
“You know I like to take care of you,” he reminds me, his voice a seductive purr that sends goose bumps skittering across my skin.
“I like french toast,” I acquiesce, leaning into him as he pulls away.
“Coffee?”
Wrinkling my nose, I shake my head.
“You had coffee the other day,” he says, assessing me.
“I know, I just have to be in the mood for it. When I’m tired, it’s all I crave, but most days, I can’t tolerate caffeine until after lunch.”
“Juice?”
“I drank the last of it,” I admit sheepishly, tensing as I brace for his anger.
“We can grab some later. We need to get more groceries anyway.”
I blink at his total lack of reaction, but then I remember it’s just juice, and I don’t know why I thought he’d be mad. A sudden memory flashes into my mind of him pouring entire cartons of my favorite juice away just to spite me when we were kids. “What are we going to tell people?” I ask, anxiety lacing my voice as I try to brush away the memory and the bitter taste it left in its wake.
“What do you mean?” he asks, his attention on the ingredients he’s pulling from the cabinets.
“I mean…I know your teammates were at the courthouse, but what are we going to tell other people? Do we tell them our parents are married, that I’m staying with you until Octy gets here…or what?” I ask.
His movements slow to a stop, and he unfolds himself to his full height and turns around to face me. “We’re going to tell them that we met as kids and that you came to stay with me, and that now we’re married and you’re pregnant,” he says, enunciating each word like he’s trying to make sure I understand every syllable he says.
