Page 20 of The Unwanted Wife

She raises her gaze to mine, and another teardrop squeezes out from the side of her eyes. Before I can stop myself, I lean in and kiss it away. She freezes. The taste of salt slides over my palate.

I clear my throat. I could tell her I did it because I care for her, that I never stopped thinking about her in all the time I was away from her; but because I’m still cursing myself for telling her I never forgot about that kiss on her eighteenth birthday, when I open my mouth what comes out is, "You’re the fiancée of the CEO of the Davenport Group; it’s expected."

Her features fall. She pulls her hand from mine. "Of course, it is."

"My grandfather wouldn’t believe our relationship otherwise."

"Right." She lowers her chin. Her green eyes are muddied with an emotion that weighs down her eyelids. The hunch of her posture indicates her weariness. Her utter dejection. And damn, if that doesn’t piss me off. I did that.

She’s the woman I’ve secretly hankered after all these years. The one who’s always appeared smiling and surrounded by a gleaming golden glow in my dreams. The one whose fingers I’ve dreamed of being wrapped about my cock. Also, her mouth. And being down her throat. And— Nope, not going there. Not when I’m trying to behave myself. Also, she’s Ben’s little sister—the reason I’ve tried to censor my thoughts. And failed. But I owe it to him to make her dreams come true. Which also means, keeping her happy, with her lips curved in the opposite direction of the one they are now. "Vanilla or chocolate?"

She rears back as if I’ve struck her. "Excuse me? What do you mean by that?"

I frown. I didn’t say anything wrong, did I? Unless she thought it to mean… oh. Aha! I tilt my head. "You didn’t think I was asking about your sexual preferences, did you?"

Her features turn an interesting shade of red. "Why don’t you scream that louder, so the entire store can hear it?"

"If that’s what you want." I raise my voice. "Do you prefer vanilla or?—"

She slaps her hand over my mouth. "Shut up, you know I didn’t mean what I said."

I flick out my tongue and lick her fingers. The taste of her intensifies, and all the blood in my body seems to drain to my groin. Her breathing grows uneven. Her pupils dilate. She sways closer, and I want to pull her close and close my mouth over hers. I want to wrap my fingers about her neck and hold her in place while I ravage her lips and slide my tongue over hers and drink of her essence… But I’m not going to because… Ben. The only reason I’m marrying her is so I can help her with her business. So I can give her the Davenport family name and set her up for life. A-n-d…

I call bullshit on that. If I wanted, I could throw money at her to pay off her debts so she could revive her business, but I’m selfish that way. I want… these few weeks… Maybe, if I’m lucky, a few months of calling her my wife. Of pretending what's between us is real. Of keeping her close and assuaging that yearning deep inside me. But I’ll never sleep with her. I cannot let this pretend marriage turn into the real thing. Where would that leave me with Ben? I cannot fuck his little sister. Not when he’s entrusted her welfare to me.

I lower my hand and step back. "You haven’t answered the question."

"Wh-what?" She blinks.

"Vanilla or chocolate?"

Her brow knits. She opens her mouth to protest but I raise my hand. "I mean, which ice cream flavor is your preference, of course.”

"Oh." The flush in her cheeks bleeds down to her throat and décolletage. I gave her enough time to shrug into a pair of jeans with a pink-pullover that’s cut in a V at the neckline. Enough to hint at the shadow between those spectacular tits.

I’ve managed not to let my gaze slide below her chin but now, I follow her flush to where it spreads into the valley between her breasts. "Not my fault your mind is in the gutter."

She snaps her fingers in my line of sight. I raise my chin and meet her knowing glance. Busted. Also, she mirrored the very same gesture I pulled on her. Touché, little one. I allow myself a chuckle, acknowledging she’s won this round.

She sniffs, then pushes her hair back from her face with her left hand, which sports my ring. Or maybe, I’ve won this one, after all? I hold her gaze, and without looking away, nod in the direction of the man standing behind the jewelry counter. "We’ll take it."

"I’ll take the chocolate, the vanilla and the honey pistachio." She hangs over the display case with the buckets of ice cream showcased behind it. "Topped with peanut butter, sprinkles and strawberry pop-tart."

I wince. "Did you leave anything behind?"

"Hmm"—she presses a finger into her cheek—"now that you mention it, I should add some wasabi peas to it."

I scowl. "Wasabi peas?"

"Also, some potato chips."

My stomach lurches.

"And balsamic glaze."

My gaze widens. "Did you say balsamic?—"

She bursts out laughing.

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