Page 46 of The Unwanted Wife

“He needs you as much as you need his money; maybe even more. Surely, there’s more at stake for him, considering he needs to get married to confirm his position in the company.”

I nod slowly. “We’re equal partners in this.”

“As it should be in a marriage.” She nods.

“There’s no reason for me to think I’m the helpless one here.”

“You and helpless?” She rolls her eyes.

I manage to laugh. Of course, she hasn’t seen how I melt into a puddle when I’m in his presence. Nor am I going to tell her that. Having her think I’m able to resist the powerhouse that is Nathan Davenport gives me the courage to think I really can hold my own in this relationship. There’s a banging on the door.

“I’m coming,” I yell, then wave at Zoey. “Talk soon, babe!” I disconnect the call, toss my phone aside, then head for the service entrance.

I throw the door open and am faced with Nate’s very angry countenance.

He has his fist up like I’ve caught him mid-action rapping at the door—a fist he now lowers. “You opened the door without checking who it was.”

“I thought it was a service delivery.”

“Were you expecting a delivery at night?”

“Well…”

“And I’m standing in an alley,” he says through gritted teeth.

I look past him into the darkened space. “So? That’s why I thought it was a delivery."

"I could have been someone who wanted to harm you."

You’ve already harmed my heart; beat that! is what I want to say aloud. Instead, I brush at the strand of hair that’s fallen over my face and sigh loudly. "Are you going to stand there yelling at me? Or do you want to come in?"

He raises his gaze from my mouth to my face, and a peculiar look overcomes his features.

"What?" I frown.

"You have something—" His voice is both harsh and soft, at the same time. He swallows, then raises his arm and touches my cheek. He shows me his hand, and I spot the dough on his fingers.

"Oh, Star Trek." I scratch my head, and some more dough comes off on my hand. I shake it off.

"You used Star Trek as a swear word." He sounds dazed.

"Old habits." I shake the hair strands again, and this time, my fingers come away empty.

"It’s gone," he murmurs. His gaze caresses my features. His mis-matched eyes are alight with an expression I can’t quite place. He pulls out a handkerchief (silk) from his pocket and hands it over.

I hesitate. "I’ll dirty it."

His brows draw down. "That’s the general idea."

When I hesitate, he takes my hand in his, then gently runs the cloth over my fingers. Goosebumps trail up my arm. And when he drags the cloth between them, a line of fire zips down to my clit. My pussy throbs. My thighs quiver.

I pull my hand from him, turn on my heels and walk inside. I’m aware of him following me, of the door closing with a snick, and it feels so final. I walk back to my place behind the cake batter. I reach for the buttermilk and pour that in. Then place the bowl on a wet cloth and hold it in place. I grab the mixer, dip it into the ingredients, and turn it on. If I were making a batch for the bakery, I’d use the stand mixer, but because this is an experiment and I much prefer having complete control over how I mix the ingredients, I prefer the hand mixer.

The sound of the whirring fills the air. A few minutes later, I stop, raise the whisk and survey the batter for clumps. Satisfied, I set the whisk aside and turn, holding the bowl.

And of course, he’s there. He’s standing with his legs in a wide stance, his broad chest blocking out the sight of the kitchen behind him. His arms are crossed so his biceps strain at the sleeves of his fitted jacket. His blue eye blazes at me; his brown eye seems to be spitting sparks. His gaze is so intense, I’m forced to lower my own—which means, I catch the bulge between his thighs. "Oh," I gulp.

"Indeed," he says in a dry voice. Then leans over, dips his finger into the batter and brings it to my mouth. "Open."

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