Page 47 of Sinful Bride

“Of course! Occupational hazards do require certain stipulations so you don’t lose your fingers. Take, for example, a warehouse worker. If you were to tell me you stocked heavy boxes all day, I’d tell you to focus on designs that are flush with your finger instead of raised. Same with medical professionals, given the gloves and tearing.”

“Oh.” She breathes a self-conscious laugh. “I have to admit, I never thought of it like that. With any jewelry.”

“Most people don’t! But I’m not most people. And neither are you.” Emile’s smile widens as he gestures for her to show him her left hand. “Let me see if I can guess. No callouses, so no manual labor. Academic in nature?”

“Close.” Daphne grins. “I’m a gallery curator. Modern art, mostly, but I’m looking into featuring more classical pieces.”

“Are you now?” Emile asks in delight. “How wonderful!”

She blushes. “Well, it’s early stages. I… haven’t really decided yet. It will be expensive?—”

“And worth every penny.” I give her thigh a squeeze. “I’m sure you have a patron or two who will be more than happy to fund the new venture.”

The blush that spreads across her face is worth every penny I have yet to spend.

Emile beams with pride as he procures a particular book from his collection. “I love all of it! That gives us much more room to work with. Now, are we an elegant and opulent lady? Or more reserved and conservative in fashion?”

“Don’t think about where you’ve been,” I whisper in her ear. “Think about where you want to be. Who you want to be.”

I say it because I know she’ll automatically go for the least ostentatious, and not out of an actual style preference. It’s always been about survival. Drawing the least amount of attention to spare herself her parents’ wrath and judgment.

She needs to know—as much as I want to know—who she is beneath the armor.

“Somewhere in the middle?” She glances at me with uncertainty. “Yeah. Somewhere in the middle. I don’t do glitz and glamor, but burlap is too itchy.”

Emile laughs and flips to a section in the design book. “I hear you! Take a look at these and tell me what you think. What speaks to you, what leaps off the page…?”

I let them discuss different styles and options, content with simply watching him slip on various rings on her slender finger. Even more entertaining is gauging her response by the tiny ways her eyes widen, or her lips part, or the tops of her cheeks flush.

My response is considerably more primitive. And it’s only getting harder.

There’s something arousing about watching my woman being draped in diamonds and gold. And now that I’m thinking about her wearing these diamonds and delicate chains—and nothing else…

These pants are not getting any looser.

I lose track of time. It’s too easy to get lost in the sound of her voice, the feel of her warmth nestled into mine, the softness of her skin where my fingertips trace circles on her thigh.

But eventually, she decides on a ring. She slips it on and holds her hand up for me to see. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s way too small.”

Daphne’s face falls. “Oh.”

I study her hand. I want her to be able to wear it everywhere she goes, no matter what she does.

But I also want the whole fucking universe to see that when it comes to me and my wife, I will only give her the absolute best.

“Six carats.”

Emile tactfully hides his giddy surprise and calmly jots down the notes. Daphne just gapes at me, utterly speechless.

“Are… are you sure?” It comes out of her mouth more like a choked wheeze. “I don’t need?—”

“It’s not about what you need; it’s about what we want. You want to look and feel beautiful. I want to drape you in diamonds and pearls.”

And then fuck your brains out while you wear them.

Emile finished his calculations and opens his mouth to discuss pricing, but I cut him off with a subtle lift of my finger. We don’t need to be crude.

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