Page 73 of Love You Truly

Dash’s quiet chuckle tells me I look just like I feel. “Back atcha, wife.”

My cheek rests on Dash’s chest, and our bodies are bathed in sweat. “I sort of want to shower, but I can’t move.”

“If you can’t move, you can’t walk to the shower.” Dash’s voice sounds like maple syrup, and my ears are just as happy as the rest of my body.

“True.”

“I’d offer to carry you, but I thought you liked me sweaty.” He nudges me under the chin and shifts me so his lips can fall to mine. They’re salty and sweet at the same time, and I can’t imagine ever getting enough.

The bridal suite has treated us well. After the wedding, we came back to a champagne and fruit plate, which we devoured after our first round of sex. Or maybe it was after our third.

“I do,” I mumble against his mouth, which travels along my cheek to my temple, where he plants a soft kiss. “But I may not be quite as desirable when I’m a sweaty mess.”

He shifts again and pulls back just enough to focus on me. Our faces are a few inches apart and we lay side by side. I wrap my leg over his hip, and his hand comes to my hip. It’s like we can’t be with each other without touching each other.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” I’m still in a hazy, dreamy, post-sex fugue, so I’m really not understanding his question.

“Denigrate yourself. Suggest that you could possibly be undesirable when the very idea is an impossibility. You, my dear, are very, very desirable in so many ways.”

“You just like fucking me.” I don’t want him confused about the reason.

“You just did it again.” He looks confused and maybe even a little upset. And now I’m confused because I’m not sure what I’m doing that bothers him so much.

It seems important to keep the lines of communication clear now that we’ve included sex in our fake relationship. I want to make sure he knows that I know that he doesn’t have to pretend to catch feelings too. We can just be honest.

“What?”

“I don’t just like fucking you.”

I tilt my head because all evidence points to the contrary.

He shakes his head. “Of course I love fucking you. I really love fucking you, but that’s not what I mean. You said it like the only reason I find you desirable is because of this.” He points at the space between us, but I get his drift.

“I love doing all manner of things with you, with and without clothing, if I’m not being clear enough. And I don’t like you thinking that I’m only telling you I find you inexplicably desirable because I like fucking you. I find you incredibly desirable. Full stop.”

I feel chastened like a kid in school, but I’m not about to argue when he’s saying such nice things. So I say nothing and we lay side by side for a while longer in silence. I start to reach for his abs because they’re too beautiful not to touch, but he intercepts my hand and holds it against his chest instead.

“You don’t believe me,” he says, fixing me with those hypnotic blue eyes.

“I believe you.”

“You don’t. In your heart of hearts, you still think I’m under the spell of a good orgasm or I’m just paying lip service because I’m being nice. But you don’t truly believe that I desire the hell out of you.”

I’m ready to sling back some sort of rebuttal when it occurs to me that he’s right. There’s no point in arguing because he’s one hundred percent correct.

I squeeze my eyes shut because it’s almost painful to feel this seen and at this proximity. I don’t like such close scrutiny, especially when I can’t control what he sees.

“Fine. You’re right.”

I don’t open my eyes and wait for Dash to change the subject or get up for a glass of water. Or maybe the apocalypse will happen right here and now, and I’ll be saved from having to finish this conversation.

But I don’t feel the bed move, and it seems that Dash has stayed exactly where he is.

The apocalypse is a giant disappointment as well.

“Mallory.” The use of my actual name surprises me. I open my eyes to find Dash’s peering at me with concern.

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