Page 28 of The Spare

She stops in front of me, barefoot and staggeringly beautiful, and reaches up so she can draw her arms around my neck in a hug. I stiffen for a second, thrown by the display of affection, before I wrap my arms around her and pull her to me. She comes willingly. My arms are full of silk and lace and soft, soft skin. Her hair, when I turn my face to inhale it, smells of flowers. She’s far too tempting, and I’m far too tired to be strong here, but just for a moment or two, I allow myself to wallow in the comfort of my vibrant, beautiful wife. It’s a contrast I realise I’m desperate for after bearing witness to all that decay and death.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she whispers, her arms flexing around me. She’s so warm. So soft.

‘Thanks,’ I say again. Even I can hear the defeat in my voice.

She pulls back a little and looks up at me. Not a scrap of makeup on her face, yet she has to be one of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen. She’s definitely the most stunning woman I haven’t fucked. I let my weary eyes take comfort in perusing the view. She continues to gaze at me, her hazel eyes wide and clear, and she seems to decide something, because she raises herself up onto her tiptoes and kisses me on the lips. It’s soft and chaste, but she lingers there for a moment. It may be wishful thinking on my part, but her kiss feels like a question. Like she’s putting something out there between us.

I hesitate. I don’t want to be the prick who plays the pity card, yet I feel myself kissing her back. I take it slowly. I don’t want to assume anything. That would be a dick move for sure.

To my astonishment and delight, her lips part under mine. There’s no congregation here in this room, no paps, no story to sell to the public. It’s just me and her in the privacy of our bedroom, yet she seems to want this.

I test the waters with a brush of my tongue along her plump bottom lip. Dear God, she’s delicious. She makes a breathy little moan and opens further.

Righty-ho. I would say that’s a green fucking light.

I let one hand drift up, over silk and then bare skin, until I’m gripping the back of her head, and then I kiss her properly, my tongue teasing its way into her mouth. Miracle of miracles, she kisses me back, her little tongue sliding against mine as she tilts her head to accommodate me better.

Fuck, this is hot. Shattered I may be, but my dick stirs to life inside my sweatpants as I ramp up our kiss. Slinky’s hand moves through my hair, grabbing at handfuls as she tugs our faces closer. The little devil. For my part, I slide my other hand down over slippery silk and grope her arse. Fuck my life again—she is most definitely not wearing underwear under that.

Has she been like this all week?

Jesus, her arse is everything and then some: round and perky and peachy and fucking gorgeous. On instinct, I press my crotch against her so she can feel the undeniable interest of my dick in this situation⁠—

And then I come to my senses.

Christ. I will not be this guy: I will not be the man who plays the bereavement card to emotionally blackmail his brand-new wife into letting him fuck her.

I pull away and use the hand on her head to angle her face up to mine.

‘No,’ I say raggedly, trying to catch my breath, because that was a close call. I remove my hand from her arse and find the lovely little dip of her waist. ‘I don’t want a pity fuck. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.’

She’s out of breath, too. Seeing my stunning little ice queen like this, mouth swollen and eyes wide and tits heaving and nipples two little bullets under her nightie, is the most gratifying sight I’ve seen in a long, long time.

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘That’s not what it is.’

‘Selena,’ I say. I never call her by her name, but my willpower is hanging on by a thread here. I want her to know I’m serious. ‘I’m begging you. Just—get back into bed and wedge a few pillows down the middle, for fuck’s sake. I don’t— I’m not at my strongest right now, and I don’t trust myself around you, okay?’ I grip her waist more tightly, my hand trembling.

She shakes her head again and lets her slim fingers trail over my stubble. ‘No. It’s not a pity fuck. I want it. I’—she clears her throat—‘I want you. Please.’

CHAPTER 13

Selena

‘Are you sure?’ he asks, his voice tremulous, as if he’s scared to take my words at face value.

Benedict thinks I’m not ready for this marriage to get physical, and he’d be right… only not for the reasons he imagines.

He thinks, maybe, I don’t have feelings for him? He knows I don’t jump into bed with guys easily, so he probably thinks I’m undecided at best.

I’m just grateful he doesn’t understand that I’m not ready because I want this far too badly. Because I haven’t had nearly enough time to wall off my heart from what I know will be his lethal kind of sexuality. Because every time I wake up with his dick poking me in the bum, I have to jump out of bed like a scalded cat before I can hike up my nightie and let him take me, there and then.

I’ve been wary of the Benedict I know, the playboy with his easy charm and easy smile and easy lines—he’s easy all round, basically—for good reason. That guy could charm the pants off a nun.

But the exhausted, broken-looking man with shadows under his eyes and the taste of whisky on his tongue—whiskey with which he’s presumably just toasted his father’s death—is another version of him entirely, and it’s a version I haven’t been familiar with before these past few dreadful days.

I’m not doing a great job of explaining, but there’s something about his vulnerability that makes me braver. The power imbalance is less stark, his obvious experience and my inexperience less relevant.

I’ve slept with six guys over the past decade. They’ve all been guys I’ve dated, but none of them have been long relationships. How could they have been? The de Vere diamond on my finger has always been a major red flag for them, even if Xavier and I had an understanding that we’d date other people until we were due to tie the knot.