Page 10 of Marrying the Silver Fox

“Your clothes,” he adds, narrowing his eyes at the dress I’m wearing. “Do they fit?”

“I haven’t had a chance to try them all on,” I admit. “But this one does. She did a really good job, I think they’re much nicer than my stuff back home. And as long as I’m out of that wedding dress, I’m good.”

He smirks slightly, as though amused by my bluntness. “Not your style?”

“Uh, not really,” I reply, with a slight laugh. “I mean, I don’t think wedding dresses are anyone’s style, unless you’re planning on getting married.”

He takes another bite of his food. “You looked beautiful in it,” he tells me, and my toes curl in my shoes.

He speaks so matter-of-factly, as though he’s informing me of nothing more than the truth. It surprises me that he’s so willing to compliment me, after the mess that unfolded at the wedding. I thought he would still be pissed at me for letting Natalie slip through my fingers, but it seems like he’s willing to forgive. For now, at least.

“Thanks,” I murmur, lowering my gaze slightly.

God, what is it about the way he looks at me that makes it so hard to think straight? It’s as though he can see straight into my head, like there’s nothing I can do to keep him at arm’s length, and I have no idea where that leaves me.

“But I suppose wedding dresses aren’t exactly meant for a wedding night, hmm?” he continues, and there it is again, that slight smirk, that edge to his voice as though he’s enjoying the way I’m reacting to him right now.

I tip my head to the side, brows digging together. “What do you mean?” I take another sip of the champagne, letting the bubbles burst across my tongue.

“Nothing.”

“No, come on,” I insist, leaning forward, all too quick to remember the way he kissed me before. “I know you meant something by it…”

“I’m sure you can put the pieces together.”

I put my fork down, my food suddenly forgotten. When he looks at me like that, I find I’m hungry for something else entirely, something I’m not sure I should be so willing to entertain.

I tip my head to the side, surveying him, teeth resting on my bottom lip. “I guess,” I murmur, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. “That…that the wedding dress comes off pretty soon into the wedding night, huh?”

He grins. “You certainly got rid of it quick.”

“Because it was so uncomfortable!” I protest, but I find that I’m laughing. I can’t help it.

I can’t tell if it’s nerves or excitement bursting inside me right now. I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s as though I’m seeing him in an entirely different light, now that he’s sitting before me as my husband. Like I can finally see his good looks, his power, his control, in all the ways that a wife might. I have never been the type to wilt under pressure, and a man like this? He’s a challenge, not a threat to me.

“Mhm, sure,” he replies, taking another bite of his food. He doesn’t move his eyes from mine as the plane finally arches up into the sky. My stomach flips, and I don’t know if it’s because of the change in pressure or something else entirely.

“What are you trying to say?” I demand.

“What do you think I’m trying to say?” he asks, batting it toward me once more. Like he wants me to be the one to say it.

Well, if he thinks I’m going to play coy and pretend like I don’t know what he’s getting at, he’s got another thing coming.

“I think you’re trying to say that I shouldn’t spend my wedding night in my dress,” I reply, tipping my head to the side, not breaking his gaze for an instant. “Because you’re my husband. And you’d rather have me out of it.”

“That’s my right as your husband, isn’t it?” he murmurs, his voice dropping suddenly, tone shifting into something darker, more wanting. “To have you any way I want you.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “If you think I’m going to just roll over and⁠—”

“Who said anything about rolling over?” he remarks, and I feel that heat clenching at my chest again, rising, rising, until it feels like there’s no room for anything else. He’s loving this, I can tell. Making me squirm. Watching me try to parse exactly what it is that I want from this, even though I don’t have a damn clue.

“Just because I’m your wife doesn’t mean I owe you anything,” I warn him. “I’m not going to—I mean, I’m not going to just…” I trail off. Fuck. I want to lay down the law here, but how can I, when he’s looking at me like that?

I take another sip of the champagne, hoping it will be enough to silence some of the rush inside my head, but it only throbs with an even more insistent pressure.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he assures me softly. But there it is, the sweet promise in his words, spiraling deep within me no matter how much I try to get a handle on them. Anything I don’t want to.

“And what if I do?” I murmur.