Page 35 of The Unwanted Wife

"I’ll do it."

"You don’t know where to put things." My voice comes out slightly slurred. I try to rouse myself but end up yawning again.

“I’ll figure it out,” he murmurs.

"Nate, I really need to do this myself."

"You really don’t."

I pout. “How do you know so much about baking, anyway?”

He hesitates. “If you mean, how do I know that you need to use a timer and a cake tester to ensure the cake is ready before you put it away for the night, I thought that was common knowledge.”

“No, it’s not.” I yawn again.

“Hmm... I may have so some more reading up on baking.”

I blink. “Y-y-you, read up on baking?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “I’m investing in your bakery; the least I’d do is read up on the baking process.”

He’s lying. That's not the only reason he read up on baking. I bet he did it because he has feelings for me, and I love baking. But if I confront him, he’ll only deny it, so with the remnants of what clarity of thought I have left, I manage to slur, “There’s a spare key to my apartment in the bottom drawer of my desk in my office.”

He stiffens.

“You’re giving me a key to your apartment?”

“Hmm…” I brush my cheek against the smooth material of his jacket, then turn my face into it and breathe deeply. Cinnamon, pepper, that ocean-breeze scent that is so very Nathan fills my lungs.

“You sure you want me to have the key?”

“After that orgasm? You bet. Also, if we want this charade to work, then shouldn’t you have access to my place?” I yawn deeply.

The last thing I remember is being tucked into bed. When I wake up, the only light comes from the moon that streams in. I reach for my phone—which is where I normally keep it on the nightstand. The clock on the screen says 3 a.m.. I put it back, turn on my side, and come face-to-face with Nathan.

He’s stretched out on top of the covers. He’s removed his jacket, tie, and shoes, but otherwise, he’s fully dressed. His white shirt has the top two buttons undone. In the dim light, I can make out what seems to be the outline of a tattoo peeking out from under his lapels. There’s also a silver chain with what seems like dog-tags which has fallen over his collar. I reach out to touch it and gasp when he grabs my wrist. I look up to find him glaring at me out of those mismatched eyes. The shadows beneath his cheekbones are pronounced, the stubble on his chin thicker than what it was a few hours ago. With his narrowed gaze and his flared nostrils, he could be the anti-hero in a romance novel or the villain in an action flick.

He brings my hand to his mouth, then wraps his finger around my ring finger, which now sports my ring. His ring. My ring. He slides my finger across his tongue until my digit disappears inside his mouth. He covers my ring with his lips and sucks.

I feel the tug in my most intimate parts, deep inside me. I’m instantly wet, the moisture sliding down the inside of my thigh. He draws in a sharp breath, and I swear, he can smell my arousal. And how horny I am right now. I inch forward until we’re touching from thigh to chest, and when he releases my finger with a pop and brings it to my mouth, I suck on the wetness, and it feels like I’m tasting his need.

He releases his hold on my wrist, only to dig his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck. When he tugs, I’m forced to tip my chin up, baring my throat to him. It’s a sign of submission, a clear invitation to him to own me, to mark me, to run his nose up my throat and sniff me again. I close my eyes and lean toward him, and when I feel his breath on my lips, a whine spills from me. I don’t care that I sound so needy, so greedy, so ravenous in my craving for him. I wait for him to kiss me, and he does. He bypasses my lips and presses his own to my forehead. Then he releases me. I snap my eyes open in time to watch him swing his legs over the side of the bed, slip into his shoes, and straighten.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen last evening." Turning, he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, where he must have placed it earlier, and strides across the floor of my studio apartment.

What the—! I sit up and call out to him, "Don’t you dare leave, Nathan."

He doesn’t stop.

"Oh, I almost forgot; you’ve had so much practice running. It’s what you do best, isn’t it? When things get real, you cut and run."

He pauses at the door, then grips the doorframe before he turns to look at me over his shoulder. "That’s right. And you’d do best to remember it."

17

Nathan

"Where in the bloody buggerin’ hell are the P&L reports? They were supposed to be in my inbox five minutes ago." The man on the other end of the phone begins to make an excuse, but I cut him off, "If they don’t reach me in the next three minutes, you’re fired. You know what? You’re fired anyway." I slam the phone receiver into its cradle, then look up as my assistant walks in.

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