Page 38 of Unmatched

He’s out there for sure. I hear him fumbling with his key.

This is it.

I try to remember to breathe.

The door opens with a click and a rush of cool air. And though he doesn’t say anything when he enters, I can tell I’m no longer alone. He lets the door slam shut behind him, and when he locks it, the sound of the deadbolt seems to echo through the hotel. For a moment, I panic, doubting it’s really Anton behind me, wondering if I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life and set up this whole crazy scenario with a stranger after all. What if I’m the one who’s here cheating?

But then he clears his throat, and I pick up the familiar scent of his clean, earthy cologne.

I exhale. And now it’s all I can do not to turn around and hurl the lamp at him across the room. I didn’t realize until this moment how much I was hoping he wouldn’t show up.

“Hello.” His voice is low and gravelly. And...was there a hint of surprise? My fingers tighten along the edge of the sheet. He can’t know it’s me. I’ve planned everything too perfectly. We’ve been married seven years, but I don’t have any identifying marks, and it’s too dark for him to really see.

“Hello,” I whisper in my practiced faux-southern accent. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

I don’t turn around. My heart pounds. I keep expecting him to figure it out, switch the lights on and yell at me, or just leave, but he does none of these things.

“Wow,” he breathes. “You are . . .”

His voice comes closer. He’s clearly taking in every inch of me, but he trails off midsentence.

“I’m ready,” I say through my teeth.

Behind me, he hesitates. Then I hear him remove his shoes and shirt, and unbuckle his pants. As they fall to the floor, I can picture his figure, tall and powerful, abs rippling down to his narrow hips. All taut, lean muscle from working out like it’s his second job. And then, of course, there’s the rest of him, also standing tall, I have no doubt. Just as robust, and big enough to make anyone gasp. I say a silent, insincere apology to all the legit Unmatched girls he didn’t connect with. Sorry, bitches, this one’s still mine.

He’s close enough now I hear him swallow, but he doesn’t speak.

Is he actually nervous? Jackass.

The bed dips behind me, and I suck in a breath. I sense the heat of his hand near my hip, but he doesn’t make contact. Not yet. Just hovering. “Can I...?”

My throat tightens. For a second, I can’t speak. That’s my husband. Always such a fucking gentleman.

“Please,” I whisper, realizing too late that I forgot the accent. I quickly add, “I need you.”

Half a second later, his hands are all over me. Gripping my flesh. He takes a fistful of my ass and squeezes hard, then runs his other hand down the length of my thigh, gently parting my legs on the way back up. His fingers drift toward my center, which I realize with a sudden flash of mortification, is growing moist. I clench my thighs—I don’t mean to, it just happens—blocking him from going any further, from making that discovery through the open middle of my panties.

Unfortunately, this is the same way I’ve shut him down countless times at home, and he hesitates. Quickly, I arch back, grinding against his hand. He responds with enthusiasm, hardly missing a beat. His fingers change direction, tracing the edge of the lace encircling my hips and waist. His other hand runs along my back, snaking around to explore my newly designated F-cups. One of his thumbs brushes over the tip of my nipple, and we both shudder.

“You can’t be real,” he whispers, and my mouth tightens into a bitter smirk.

He traces his lips along my arm, my chest, focused solely on my body in the dim light. But I can tell by the trajectory that his mouth is seeking mine, and that seems like a bad idea. I try to turn away, avoid him again, but this time his grip tightens in a way that’s commanding, unfamiliar. He slips one powerful hand around to grip the back of my neck and holds my head still, so all I can do is brace myself for his lips.

And they burn.

Scorching against my flesh, he traces kisses along my jaw, sampling every inch until he zeroes in and closes his mouth over mine. His tongue plunges past my lips, and despite every hurt swirling through my head, I find myself opening to him, tasting and sucking him like I don’t want to let him go.

He inhales deeply, then pauses. And I can tell something’s wrong. His hands are no longer moving; his whole body has frozen. Something’s finally occurred to him, and my charade falls away like an unused wedding veil. Our lips part. I raise my gaze, meeting his eyes for the first time since he entered the room, and somehow I manage to speak.

“Hello, Anton.”

One moment, he’s holding me in a heated embrace against his nude body. The next, he nearly throws me across the bed in his effort to get away. I land face down on the blankets, and by the time I sit back up, he’s backed into a chair across the room, his discarded shirt clutched over his groin.

My instinct is to cover myself too. To reach for my clothes or one of the robes hanging in the hotel closet. But I resist. I’ve never understood female superhero attire. Wonder Woman. Xena. Even Sailor Moon. Fighting battles with their legs and breasts barely covered, wielding little more than swords or wands, defending the world from injustice while standing nearly nude.

Except now I think I get it. Now I understand the power of the costume.

Straightening, I thrust my chest out, kneeling on the bed as I reach up to remove the itchy wig. I pull a few pins, toss it aside, and let my own light blonde hair spill down over my shoulders.

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