Page 79 of The Unwanted Wife

Every night, he’s shown me how innovative he can be when it comes to bringing me to climax… Or rather, edging me until he brings me to climax.

One night, he took me to the verge of orgasm over and over again.

Just thinking about it sends a wildfire of electricity humming across my nerve-endings. I manage to keep the blush off my features and lean back in the chair in my tiny office in the bakery. "The interviews are going well.” I clear my throat. “I identified one team member from the ten candidates I met.”

He whistles. "You’ve been busy."

"Not as much as you. When did you get the time to put in calls to the employment agency, so they’d not only put forward the CV’s of eligible employees, but also talk to me first to ascertain my requirements, then prioritize me over their other clients?"

"I can be persuasive." He schools his face into an innocent expression.

"You mean, you didn’t give them a choice?" I scoff.

A one-shouldered, casual shrug, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at me with just the right amount of casual boredom that tells me—"Hold on, you own that employment agency, so they had to prioritize your call?"

"You might be right," he concedes.

I laugh. "Why am I not surprised? In fact, I should have expected that." I should be grateful that he thought of the demands of my business and anticipated my needs again, just like he did with the migraine medication. But there’s a part of me that can’t help but feel resentful.

He must notice the dueling sentiments on my face, for he frowns. "What is it?"

I shake my head. "Nothing."

"Tell me," he murmurs.

When I hesitate, his gaze narrows. "Tell me, Starling." He lowers the tone of his voice, and the hushed dominance inherent in it causes a flurry of goosebumps to scatter across my skin. That cascade of electricity across my nerve-endings intensifies, and yet again, I manage to school my features into one of seriousness.

Apparently, I’ve learned a lot from my husband in the few weeks we’ve been living together. Namely, how to hide my emotions.

"I don’t want to come across as ungrateful, but I also can’t stop myself from thinking about how easy it is for you to make things happen. You wave a hand, and a company drops their current projects and prioritizes yours. You raise an eyebrow, and I have a line of people waiting outside my door to be interviewed. Do they even want the job, or were they promised money to pretend to be interested and—" I break off because he’s flared his nostrils, and anger clings to the contours of his beautiful cheekbones.

"Are you implying I had to bribe people to come to you for an interview?"

I shift around in my seat. Shit. Guess I shouldn’t have said that? But it’s the truth. And why should I be afraid of saying what’s on my mind with him? "I’m saying, because of who you are and how clever you are with your negotiations, people likely don’t have a choice when you ask something of them." Like I didn’t when you asked me to marry you.

I don’t say that last line aloud, but he must hear the implication in my words, for the furrow between his eyebrows grows deeper. "I’m not going to apologize for who I am and how I get what I want."

You wanted me, and you got me.

"I did." He nods, doing that mind-reading thing again. Ugh! How does he always know what I’m thinking?

"And I want your talent to be seen and recognized by the world," he growls.

My treacherous heart flips at his praise. Those little bubbles of electricity cascade to my extremities.

"And you’re selling yourself short again, if you think people don’t want to work with you." He sets his jaw.

"Why would they want to work with me? I’m a little, one-woman, almost-bankrupt business?—"

"—who makes the most delicious desserts in this city, probably in this country, and has the most innovative names, which are bound to be a hit with your audience, provided"—he holds up a finger—"they know about it. Which is why you need the team, so you can up your game?—"

"Fine, got it. I know all the reasons. It still feels wrong that it should all come so easily, now that?—"

"You’re my wife?"

That cascade of desire under my skin, turns into an inferno. Jesus, he only has to say my wife, and I’ll do anything he asks of me. My breathing grows shallow, and sweat beads my forehead. I can no longer keep my reaction off of my features, and he notices, for a sly look comes into his eyes. "Are you wet, wife?"

"What?" I squeak.

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