Page 67 of The Mister I Married

The problem was, she did not know if she truly wanted children.

She didn’t exactly not want children. To be honest, she didn’t know how she felt, and that was an unusual and uncomfortable feeling for her. Having children of her own had always been an abstract idea, one to be considered later, in the future, should she ever marry.

Now she was married, and the idea of motherhood was not so abstract, and that left her feeling as though she were standing on shaky ground.

“Are you ready for dessert?” Alex asked, the question a welcome distraction from her uneasy thoughts. “I hope you like pineapple.”

Emmy nodded, her eagerness genuine. “I do, and I am always ready for dessert.”

He reached into the basket and pulled out a plate bearing an enormous slice of sumptuous frosted cake.

“Come here,” he said, flicking her a smile as he sliced into the cake with a fork.

Emmy shifted to his side of the blanket, tucking her legs beneath her skirts before reaching for the fork.

“Not a chance,” he said, pulling the fork away. “If you want a bite, I shall feed it to you.”

She pursed her lips. “I am perfectly capable of feeding myself, Alex.”

His smile widened, crinkling his eyes at the corners. “Humor me.”

With mock exasperation, she leaned forward and dutifully parted her lips.

He fed her the bite of cake, which she had to admit she enjoyed rather a lot—the cake itself was delicious, of course, but even the act of being fed was surprisingly satisfying.

She hummed her approval, licking crumbs from her lips.

Alex’s eyes locked on her mouth, intense, sparking hot with erotic interest that sent fireflies skittering through her belly.

He fed her another bite, and then a third, seemingly content to watch her eat in silence, and Emmy savored the rich pineapple frosting as she stole glances at her husband, admiring his warm hazel eyes and thick brown hair stirring beneath the breeze.

“Will you not have a bite?” she asked, her gaze dipping to his mouth.

He smiled and proffered the fork to her. “I would love a bite.”

Ignoring the fork, she instead reached down and scooped up a generous gob of frosting with the tip of her finger. She held it out for him, her offering but an inch from his lips, and cocked an eyebrow expectantly.

His own brows rose, surprise then pleasure flashing in his eyes, and he bent forward and drew her finger into his mouth.

Her gaze trained on his lips as they closed around her fingertip, his tongue wet, swirling, licking her finger clean before releasing her.

Desire bloomed in her belly, swift, potent, impelling her to swoop in and press her lips to one corner of his mouth.

She eased back, meeting his gaze, and murmured, “You missed a spot.”

His smile deepened, and she leaned in and kissed him again, full on the lips, tasting his smile, touching that same spot with her tongue this time.

He groaned against her mouth, a throaty, needy noise that excited her, stoking her desire, both to find pleasure and to give it.

Breaking the kiss, she set the fork and plate aside on the blanket then tugged her skirts up and climbed onto Alex’s lap. She straddled his hips, her gaze locked on his as she wound her arms around his neck and fell into him, her core pressing deliciously against his hardness.

Her lips found his again, and he kissed her back ardently, his hands sweeping over her back and hips and buttocks.

“Emmy,” he rasped, “is this wise?” He nipped her lower lip with his teeth.

“Wise?” she mimicked, her brain hazy, hands trembling with need.

“My hour with you must be nearly over,” he said, his breath hot against her jaw, her throat. “Perhaps we should be packing up instead? I know how busy you are.”