Page 152 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

‘And what did you get out of this arrangement?’

‘You.’Her fingers clenched and clung to his shirt. ‘We can have that again, Emma,’ he said roughly, his voice hoarse. ‘We can—’

‘Have a physical relationship—a marriage,’ she corrected, ‘without emotional attachment.’ He watched the blush bloom in her pale cheeks. The flair of her nostrils. The unsteady rise and fall of her chest. ‘Without lies or deception. No broken promises. Just...sex. Until I no longer want you.’

‘Or I no longer wantyou,’ he added, because if he was to have Emma in his bed again, she needed to understand the rules they played by.

‘I—’

He shook his head. ‘Understand this before you say anything,’ he growled. ‘Whether you want to stay in this marriage or not, everything I’ve said still stands. If you choose to leave, you will be financially secure. But if—’

‘If I want you to take me to bed,’ she said, ‘it will be sex only?’ Her blue eyes were fixed on his, probing, searching.

‘Exactly,’ he agreed, and something inside him shifted. But it didn’t feel like triumph. It was not elation zipping through his veins. It was heavier.Darker.

‘No emotions involved, Emma. Only desire. Only want.’ He placed his hand on top of hers. Watched her mouth fall open as his fingers covered her.

‘I can fulfil your every physical desire,’ he promised, because he could.

Hewould.

For three days and three months, he’d waited. Thinking of this moment. Of his Emma coming back to him. How he’d take his power back by giving her the illusion of hers. But in this moment, he didn’t feel powerful.

He felt displaced.

Alone on the ledge.

Waiting.

For her.

It felt like whiplash.

Emma ached with everything she now knew about their marriage and everything she still didn’t. He’d given her what she’d asked for on the terrace.

A better understanding of him.

But she wasn’t satisfied.

He’d brought her to a forest of cherry blossoms, a garden with a variety of spring blooms. Some she knew and some she didn’t. Iris. Yellow petals with stained tips of red. Tulip Don Quichotte. Deep strains of purple and pink.

It was overwhelming he’d do this for her. A wife who was supposed to mean nothing to him. Not emotionally.

It was as if he knew her. Not only her body as per their contract. But the woman beneath all that.

He’d created a place for her in his mind.

A place filled with knowledge of her.

This wasn’t sexual.

Itwasintimate. It was holding her hand, when every instinct told her to withdraw from his touch. It was knowing her in ways that had nothing to do with her body.

He saw her. He made her feel safe. And wanted.

But none of it mattered, apparently.

It had never mattered between them.

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