Page 85 of The Unplanned Wedding

That sounds good, but before I can reply, my stomach growls loudly.

His lips twitch. "Dinner then."

He carries me out through the double doors near the window and onto a balcony, which has been set up with a table and two chairs. The table is set for dinner, complete with flowers and candles. There are also outdoorheaters, so the slight chill of the September evening is minimized. He places me in one of the chairs and pushes it in. When he’s satisfied, I’m comfortable, he walks around and sits in his chair.

I notice the damp hair that he’s combed back and realize he showered. His chin is shadowed, the way it often is when he works late into the night in the office. I know a lot about this man and yet, very little. He’s also wearing a black T-shirt which stretches across his chest and jeans which cling to his powerful thighs in a way that makes my pulse race.

"I like you in casual clothes," I murmur.

He pulls a phone from his pocket, and his fingers dance across the screen before he pockets it again. "And I like watching you sleep."

"Oh,"—I swallow—"how long did you?—"

"For a few minutes. Not that I haven’t stalked you before."

My jaw drops. I suspected he watched me around the office but to hear him confess that is…Whoa."What’s brought about this bout of honesty?" I frown.

"Figured since we’re here and married, and since I aim to stay married to you, it’s time for me to be upfront.”

I try to understand what he’s implying, but the conclusion I draw doesn’t make any sense. "You mean?—"

"I don’t believe in divorce, July."

I blow out a breath, "You mean, we’re going to stay married, no matter what happens?"

If I’m being honest, it’s a relief that he doesn’t believe in divorce. It means... One way or another, he’ll always be in my life. Goosebumps pop on my skin. My chest feels lighter, and I don’t dare examine these sensations too closely.

He regards me closely. "I wanted to keep my distance from you, but it seems that’s out of the question."

"What are you saying?"

The door to the suite opens; a uniformed member of the staff leads another, who rolls in a cart. He sets a dome-covered plate in front of each of us. Then whisks off the covers, one at a time.

"For madam, there’s coconut ceviche with passion fruit caviar and avocado mousse." He turns to Knox. "Duck à l’Orange for you, Mr.Davenport. Enjoy." He bows, then leaves with the other guy who wheels out the cart with him.

The tropical scent of the coconut, accompanied by the sweeter notes of the passion fruit, teases my nostrils. I’m suddenly very hungry. I dig in and the sweet, delicate flavor is tinged with a subtle nuttiness that causes me to groan with a mouthgasm. I take another mouthful, and another. I’m halfway through the food before I look up and catch him watching me.

"What?"

"You have—" He reaches over, scoops some of the food from the corner of my mouth and brings it to his. He sucks on his thumb, and my entire body feels like it’s about to burst into flames. I take another few mouthfuls, and with each, his blue eyes turn a shade of indigo that’s almost black. Our gazes meet, and the desire I see in them sparks a heavy pulse between my legs. I point my fork in the direction of his plate. "You’re not eating."

"I’m hungry for something else."

There’s no mistaking what he’s alluding to. An answering emptiness, having nothing to do with food, gnaws at my belly. Heat streaks through my veins. I’m so turned on, I might melt into a puddle right now. I place my fork down and swallow.

"What… What are you hungry for?" I’m proud that my voice comes out sounding steady; my insides are churning like I’ve swallowed a washing machine.

"What are you willing to offer me?"

I try to read his expression, but it’s closed, except for his eyes. His attention is locked on me, reminiscent of a panther stalking through the undergrowth. Another shiver grips me. My panties are so wet, they stick to the insides of my things. Once again, it feels like I’m drawn into the vortex of his attention, like I’m being absorbed intohim.

I rise to my feet as if in a dream. Then walk around to stand next to him. He pushes his chair back, and as if we’ve practiced this move, I step into the space between his massive thighs. With him seated, I’m a little above eye-level with him. It’s how tall he is. His shoulders overwhelm the chair, and his arms dwarf those of the chair.

He reaches up and in a gesture that’s already familiar to me, he removes my spectacles and places them out of reach and at one end of the table. Then he leans back in his chair. He watches me with a hint ofcuriosity that zips a ripple of anticipation through my nerve-endings.Does he expect me to tap out? Does he think he can overwhelm me by putting me on the spot, so I’ll sidle away and beg off?I bet he’d be relieved if I did. For even though he seems to have decided that he wants me to be his wife, in every sense of the word, I sense hesitation in him, which I can’t quite understand.

“Everything.” I swallow. “I’ll offer you anything you want.”

“Careful.” He looks me up and down, “I might take you at your word, and where would that leave you?”

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