Page 171 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“Hopefully eating.” Drew says.

“I don’t see how,” Christian grumbles.

“Would you like me to feed you?”

He gives me a look that might as well be a hand down my pants. “I’d love that.”

It’s like the entire world disappears sometimes. When I look into those bright blue eyes filled with unshakeable devotion, sometimes I can barely remember to breathe. His fingers brush the back of my neck.

His grin is amused. “You okay?”

“You’re beyond perfect,” I say.

I love the way those eyes soften when I turn into a mess for him. It still gets me right in the gut—the man I was when we traveled together to Rome—emotionally abandoned, chained to a life I hated, loyal to a fault to a woman who wanted me for the security I was able to provide but not the love I was dying to give.

So much has changed for both of us since that trip, but I still find Christian to be the most interesting person in any room. He still makes me laugh and maintains the ability to make me tell him things I’ve never told anyone. The keeper of my secrets, the owner of my heart. The safe space no amount of money could have bought.

“Are you always like this at weddings?” he asks.

“I can’t recall ever being happy at a wedding other than ours.”

“Let me take you for a walk. I swear I won’t do anything to ruin your hair.”

“I don’t think I’d mind if you did.”

Christian rises. “We’re going to the bar. Anyone need anything?”

“Wine,” Larry says. “Bottles of it.”

“You got it.” Christian takes my hand and leads me away. I notice Silas watching us, but when he sees we’re not coming for him, he turns back to the banker’s daughter with a bright smile—the opposite of his cautious stare.

Christian passes the bar, and we walk through a set of opendoors onto a landscaped terrace with a view of both bridges that cross the East River. The spring air is crisp and cool, and the sun has nearly set.

“Breathe,” he says as he turns to face me and take my other hand.

I take a long, deep breath for him. “I’m fine.”

Sinatra comes on the sound system, and Christian gives me a grin. “Perfect. I was ready to skip to the dancing anyway. May I?”

“Of course,” I tell him, pulling him into a dance frame. He let me teach him how to dance during the run up to our wedding, and he’s naturally graceful, so it’s always a pleasure, and we do it more often than most normal couples probably do.

Tonight, we fall into a simple foxtrot and get a few glances from other wayward guests, but I’m assuming it’s because we’re so smooth together and look amazing in our tuxedos.

“What’s the first thing you think of when you think of our wedding?” he asks.

There were so many memorable moments. Fischer’s toast. Jericho’s open weeping. My mom and dad’s ridiculous Greek line dance.Ourfirst dance to Jeff Buckley’sHallelujahwhich meant more to both of us than we could explain to anyone who questioned the choice. I’ll grant it was unconventional.

What I actually remember first, though, when I think of that night, was the kiss, which of all our kisses, I remember with perfect clarity.

He’dreachedfor me. He’d slid his left hand with my ring on it over my cheek, gripped my head and met my parted lips with his. When I felt the smooth glide of his tongue, he effectively erased all my fears that I’d let my heart lead me down another wrong path.

He was right there with me—wanting me exactly as much as I wanted him.

“You kissed me with tongue in front of four hundred people.”

“You kissedmewith tongue.”

We change directions, and I shake my head. “Why do you ask?”

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