Page 32 of Scorch

Not my house.

Our house.

He’s chosen his words deliberately.

“It’s not appropriate for you to watch me get dressed.”

“You’ve made it clear it’s not appropriate for me to step away.” He crosses his massive arms across his chest, his biceps bulging. “We’re wasting time, and it’s pointless. We’re getting married.”

“For God’s sake,” I curse. “Fine.”

I shrug out of his jacket and whip it at him as hard as I can. He catches it mid-air and casually shrugs it back on, his eyes never leaving mine. I swallow and turn to the mirror.

I hate these places. Mirror upon mirror under bright lights seems to highlight every flaw and bump and lump. I cast my eyes away and reach for a pair of jeans and a pair of black leggings. Black is forgiving.

“What was that?”

I turn in surprise to look at him.

“What?”

“That face you made. You looked in the mirror and made a face then turned away.”

“Did I?”

I’m focused on removing my fucked up clothes and not looking at him when I stand in front of him wearing only my underwear.

“Yeah.”

I shrug. “Don’t know. Maybe I’m uncomfortable getting undressed in front of a man I hardly know?”

“Mmm.”

He isn’t buying it.

I rip off the rest of my clothes and throw them into a heap. We’ll have to toss them out. I turn to face him. I want to take back some measure of control, and maybe standing in front of him wearing only panties and a shitty push-up bra under my ample breasts is one way.

I’m not wrong.

I intentionally bend over and pick a hanger off the floor. When I look up, his gaze is heated, his eyes half lidded, and a flush of color spreads up his neck, darkening his already rugged features. His jaw clenches, a subtle hint of his loss of control, and his breathing grows a hair heavier. The air around him seems charged. He shifts, his large hands flexed on his elbows as he seems to struggle to maintain his composure.

My heartbeat thunders.

It worked.

I do my level best not to wilt under the heat of his stare, fixated on me with raw, unhindered desire.

“You’re fucking gorgeous. Now put those on before I do something that makes us even later than we are.”

Oh God. Why does a part of me wish he would? Why does a part of me want him to?

I slide into the jeans, turn to the mirror, and try to button them. Too tight. My belly bulges, and the button doesn’t snap.

I turn away, mortified, and step out of them.

He watches me silently.

I reach for a second pair, and the same thing happens.

---