Page 102 of One Wealthy Wedding

He seems so unbearably lonely, and I want to hug him. But there’s no way he’ll let me.

So instead, I say, “I’m cold.”

“I am not turning the heat on for you. It’s already set to seventy-five, and the thermostat is all the way in the gym because this house is old and stupid. You’ll warm up.”

“Feel my fingers.” I poke him in the side, and he grabs my hand, feeling my fingers.

He heaves a long-suffering sigh before he says, “Come here, then.”

He turns on his side and lifts the blanket. I scoot into his warmth, pressing my forehead to his chest. His bare chest. There are just a few crisp hairs pressing against my face. Crisp hairs, firm muscle, hot skin.

“You really sleep naked. You’re not doing this to mess with me?” I whisper.

A laugh rumbles up from his chest that I feel under my cheek. “You’re the one who wanted to cuddle.”

“For warmth.”

“Sure. Whatever you say, princess.”

I snake an arm around his waist. This is what I wanted. Just one hug, to show him I don’t think he’s a disappointment. To tell him with my body that I think he’s impressive and good and kind, because I can never tell him with my words. His breathing deepens. I’ll move away in a minute. As soon as he’s asleep.

I fall asleep before I can remember to move.

32

Theo

There’s a woman pressed up against me. Not unusual for a weekend morning. But this woman is Cat, and that makes all the difference.

Don’t move. Don’t even think about moving.

I wasn’t kidding when I told Cat she turns me on more than anyone ever has. I can’t even put my finger on why. It’s something about the shape of her legs, the way her breasts are smallish but her ass is round and her waist is high and small, but her stomach isn’t flat. Maybe it’s her face, with those full pink lips and that tiny, naughty freckle and her big eyes with sooty lashes. It’s an intoxicating combination.

My body agrees, need climbing and spiraling through my groin and sinking spikes into me. I’m hard against my stomach, where Cat’s lower back has trapped my erection. She sighs in her sleep and settles closer to me.

Because I’m a masochist, I catalog all our points of contact. Her leg between mine. My hand on the silky skin of her stomach. Her hair draped over my arm. Her scent in my nose. I take a shallow breath and close my eyes. I won’t wake her. I’ll just pretend for a minute. It’s a well-worn fantasy, but it starts with reality. A memory of my last summer back from college and her first.

She’d snuck out again. I met her at the back of the house, and we pelted down the lawn to the lake. The lake was secluded, but, it turns out, not secluded enough. Our aim was innocent—swimming in the lake at midnight—but something about the stormy night and the rain sluicing down turned innocent to arousing. At twenty-one, I liked girls a lot. I’d kissed plenty, had fooled around with a few. I was just starting to realize there was something about me that drew women in. But no one looked at me like Cat did. Like she saw me. And that was hotter than anything. Well, nearly anything. When I tossed her into the lake, and she came up shrieking with laughter, the breath left my chest. She was a fantasy come to life. A wet, dangerously beautiful woman, with slight breasts, an ass the perfect size to fill my hands, and absolutely no knowledge of how lethal she was.

Of course, she wrapped her leg around mine.

Of course, she looped her arms around my neck to keep her steady in the water. I was the stronger swimmer, after all.

But when she pressed close, with the intention of dunking me, we both realized how dangerous close could be.

She sucked in a breath. Her lips parted.

My blood rushed in my ears. I’d wanted her for so long, and I was leaving after this summer and never coming back.

So I kissed her. And it was everything.

Her lips were cool and delicious. Her body trembled when I spanned her waist with my hands. In reality, I stopped as soon as I hardened against her in the cool water.

In my fantasy, we’re in my bed, and she’s not nineteen anymore. She’s twenty-eight and she’s wearing my T-shirt. She looks at me like she wants to kill me most of the time, and fuck, it turns me on. In my head, she’s riding me, just like she does every single time I fantasize about her—so I can watch her. It starts this way every time. Sometimes I come in my hand before we can switch positions in my head. Sometimes I make it all the way through to the delicious part when I flip her, press her into the mattress, and wrench her hands behind her back. When I make her take me, and she loves it.

She might have started things back then, but if we were together today, I’d finish them.

Cat shifts, pressing that perfect ass into me, and I tense. I should not be fantasizing about her. I need to escape. I need to get the fuck out of here and work out and try to forget about her. Just another minute. Just another minute pretending Cat Peterson wants me.

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