Page 138 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

So what if nothing between us is truly fixed yet.

I want him.

Here.

Now.

His hand reaches out to turn off the burner. Lunch can wait.

He lifts me into his arms with a gentleness that contrasts with the strength radiating off him. His muscles flex under the effort, his focus entirely on me.

There’s something intoxicating about watching this powerful man make me his only concern. His pull wraps around me, makes me restless. He carries me to my room and stops in front of the door so I can turn the handle.

Desire pulses between us.

I feel an ache low inside me, familiar and painful all at once.

He lays me down on the bed and settles gently over me, picking up where we left off. He covers my face in kisses, traces fire along the curve of my ear down to the hollow of my throat, then comes back to claim my mouth.

He takes his time, deliberately, as if he wants to memorize every detail.

When his hand finally finds the hem of my sweater, my heart flutters like a trapped bird. The gesture is both so familiar and so new, because this time, we know nothing is guaranteed, that we have to make the most of every minute, because everything can be taken from us.

He helps me out of my sweater and tosses it aside, then his lips worship every inch of newly exposed skin.

He kisses my breasts through the thin lace of my bra.

I arch into his mouth.

With practiced ease, he unclasps it and pulls it away, leaving me bare beneath his gaze.

His cheek brushes against the soft curve of them.

He’s reclaiming my body. Filling something in himself that two years left hollow.

Then his mouth goes to work—biting, stroking, pinching in turn, moving between tenderness and edge with practiced ease, his eyes never leaving my face, watching for every reaction, every shiver, every held breath.

And I drown in his gaze. I want him to see the love I have for him, the way I see his—plainly, in the attention we give each other, in every shared gesture.

He moves lower and lower, slowly removing what’s left of my clothes.

Soon I’m completely bare, while he’s still fully dressed.

I push myself up and pull him to his feet. I start unbuttoning his shirt.

My hands tremble with impatience, but he doesn’t help. His gaze drinks in every expression on my face, every hesitation of my fingers.

His shirt falls to the floor.

I stop to take him in.

My hands begin to explore. To rediscover. I’d forgotten the flex and firmness of his muscles, the softness of his skin, the warmth that radiates off him.

I press my palm against him through the fabric of his pants. His body tenses almost imperceptibly, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

Slowly, I undo his pants and free him. I’d forgotten how impressive he is. He pulses softly as my fingers wrap around him. The sensation is incredible—just as hard, and just as smooth, as I remembered.

I’m leaning forward when an ice-cold thought cuts through everything.