Page 129 of Some Like It Hot

There is so much in that sentence, it makes my heart ache. I sigh and lean into him. “Do you think married sex is better than single sex?”

“We’re about to find out.”

Fortunately, when we get to Books and Buns, Luna is in the kitchen and Lydia is busy with a customer, so Blake just drags me past everyone and up the stairs. When he turns the knob and realizes I left my apartment unlocked, he gives me a stern look.

“It was an accident!” I say before he can lecture me. “I was in a hurry.”

I don’t mention I probably forget to lock my door once a week. It will give Blake a heart attack.

But I’ve managed to survive twenty-eight years without him. I’ll survive without him again.

I hope.

Especially when he bends down and picks me up easily.

“What are you doing?” I laugh.

“Carrying you over the threshold. That’s still a thing, right?”

“I have no idea.”

Honestly, marriage has never been a goal of mine. I haven’t been planning a wedding in my mind since grade school like some women. I’ve always seen myself as someone who probably should live alone, even if I’m in a serious relationship.

My three guys have challenged that viewpoint.

And I’m not going to say I don’t gleefully enjoy having a hulking hockey player carry me into my apartment like it’s no big deal.

He kicks the door shut with his foot behind us and that slam sends a jolt of heat straight through my thighs. I cling to him, arms around his neck.

“You’re going to fuck me so hard, aren’t you?”

I want that. Hell, I need that.

Blake clearly has something else in mind. He sets me down, slowly, so that all of my body slides down his, my chest pressed against his, his erection presses against my belly. When I’m on my tiptoes, he stares down at me, gaze sweeping over my features, as if he’s memorizing them.

His hand sweeps into my hair and one by one removes the bobby pins that are holding my victory rolls in place. He lets them tumble to the floor, still not speaking.

It feels like time is standing still.

Our eyes are locked on each other and I feel very, very vulnerable.

Afraid he can see what I’m feeling, I try to distract him by kissing him.

I’m going for urgent. Hard, nipping presses of my lips on his, encouraging him to move faster as I wrap my thigh around his and grind myself against his hard cock.

But he slows me down. He cups my cheeks and presses a kiss to the corners of my mouth and runs his thumbs across my jawline. He kisses my nose, my eyelids, my temples, my earlobes until I’m trembling with an ache I can’t even describe.

I try again. I grab one of his hands and place it on my breast, inside the bodice of my wedding dress.

He obediently kneads my flesh before removing his hand and turning it over to brush his knuckles across my decollete in a soft, worshipful manner.

It feels too real.

Too devotional.

And I honestly feel like it might kill me.

“Take my dress off,” I demand, presenting him with my back so that he can’t see inside my heart, my very soul and see that I’ve been stupid enough to fall in love with him.

---