Page 84 of The Unplanned Wedding

That’s when the pilot announces we’ve commenced our descent into Paris.

35

June

Oh my god, his words are so filthy. And I should be disgusted. And I’m not.Since hearing them, my body seems to be running a fever. The wetness between my legs hasn’t decreased at all. I soak in the tub of the massive bathroom that opens onto the equally beautiful room of the hotel we checked into.

It’s a suite on the top floor of a beautiful heritage building from which I spotted the Eiffel Tower. My husband showed me the closet, stocked with everything I'd need. Apparently, he chose everything and ordered it while we were in the air. I'll never know how they were able to deliver everything so quickly. He ordered me to settle in and said he was heading to the gym.

I checked my phone, but for once, my inbox was empty. Seems Mary already forwarded the emails from my inbox to hers. I snapped a picture of the Eiffel Tower and messaged it to Zoey and Irene to let them know I was okay.

Then, I separately messaged Harper and Grace, bringing them up todate with what had happened in my life—specifically, my newly married status. My phone instantly started buzzing with messages and questions from both of them, but I tossed my phone aside and decided to take a bath.

After soaking for almost an hour, I dry myself, then step into the closet to pull on the lacy lingerie I find there. The silk chafes against my bottom, and a frisson of heat squeezes my belly. I turn around and take in the reddened fingerprints on my sore butt. My chest grows hot. My scalp tingles. That mark of ownership from him means so much to me. And when I look at the ring he placed on my finger, I feel complete.

My life finally has meaning. I was kidding myself by thinking I could take a stab at independence. It means nothing. It doesn’t satisfy me the way serving at my master’s pleasure does. The realization sends a burst of anticipation up my spine.

I reach for a lacy robe, then change my mind; the array of dresses is too tempting. Also, while I do want my husband to make love to me on my wedding night, perhaps changing into a robe so early in the evening seems presumptuous?

I step into a blue dress that reminds me of his eyes. It’s simple, yet expensively cut, with a sweetheart neckline. The lacy sleeves that clasp at my wrists remind me of my wedding dress. It highlights my curves, so when I look at myself in the mirror, I almost blush at how it cinches my waist and accentuates my hips. But as he’s told me, he likes the width of my hips and my hourglass figure. The dress hugs my throbbing arse cheeks, and I welcome the pain. It reminds me of the touch of his hands on my butt. I shiver.I can’t wait to find out what he does to me tonight. It’s my wedding night. My first night with my husband, and I’m in Paris. Whoa, is this really happening to me?

I walk over to the window and, once more, look out on the Eiffel Tower. The sun had set by the time we arrived in Paris, and it’s all lit up and looks incredibly romantic. Exhaustion courses through me. Must be the result of the bath, which relaxed me to the point that I now feel sleepy. I settle on the chaise lounge by the window and lean back against the cushions.

The next thing I know, I’m being lifted and carried. I crack my eyelids open and glimpse his stern jaw. I’m held against his broad chest, and hefeels so solid, so strong. I use the excuse of being half-asleep to cuddle into him. His arms tighten around me, and I sigh. "What time is it?"

"Eight p.m. You’ve been asleep for almost two hours." Then his forehead crinkles. “Are your eyes okay?”

“Huh?” I look at him questioningly.

“You’re blinking your eyelids,” he points out.

“I fell asleep wearing my contact lenses. I shouldn’t have done that.” I half laugh.

“Why do you wear contact lenses, when you can wear glasses?”

His tone is curious, a genuine question in his eyes.

I shrug. "I’ve always tended toward being heavy. And then I got teased for wearing glasses in high school. Once I started working and could afford to buy them, I switched to contact lenses.” And then I discovered how expensive they are, so I only wear them on special occasions, like tonight. I wanted to look pretty for him tonight.

“Hmm”—he studies my face—“I prefer it when you wear your glasses.”

I blink slowly. “You prefer that I wear my out-of-style glasses?”

“It’s sexy.” His lips quirk. “I find you sexy in whatever you wear, but especially with glasses on.”

Heat flushes my cheeks. “You find my wearing glasses sexy?”

“Would you be more comfortable wearing them now?” He comes to a stop. ”Youwould be more comfortable wearing them.” It’s a statement, not a question anymore.

“I guess you’re right,” I concede.

“Then you should swap out of your contact lenses.” He walks into the ensuite, then sets me down on the counter next to the sink where I placed my contact lens supplies and eyeglasses. He watches me as I slide my contact lenses back in their case, then slip on my spectacles.

He scoops me up in his arms again.

I squeak, "Where are we going?"

"I ordered dinner, unless you’d prefer to go directly to bed?"

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