Page 38 of Hunter

He puts me back on my feet, and I wander around the room, taking in all the small details that hint at the man he is. When I approach the stoic four-poster bed that demands center stage, I run my fingertips over the green satin bedspread. Ivy wrapped around each of the posts gives it a feel of The Garden of Eden. Above the large wooden headboard carved with flowers and fruit is a painting of young lovers in an amorous embrace. The whole place is insanely romantic.

“Beautiful room,” I say, almost to myself. Hunter watches me intently as I take it all in. “Very…calming.”

“Calm is something a man in my line of work appreciates. The moments are few and far between.”

That makes me laugh. I cover my lips with my hand, snorting a little. A picture of him meditating pops into my head—Hunter cross-legged on a beach chanting to himself.

“What’s so funny, Bella? Do you not believe a man such as myself could be calm?”

“I’ve heard plenty of stories that suggest otherwise,” I say, and he ambles over beside me, then wraps his arm around my waist to pull me close.

“Do tell me what gossip you’ve been listening to and where such information is found.”

I shrug, wriggling out of his grip and returning to my tour of the room. He strides up behind me as I reach the doors to a balcony matching the one in my room. His hands clasp my middle, and he spins me around to face him, flicking from soft and calm to strong and in charge in a beat.

“Mrs. Devane,” he says, my stomach flipping with his name attached to mine. It’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time, but it still sounds so fucking good. When our marriage fell apart on our wedding day, I never began using his name in life. It didn’t feel appropriate. “Do tell your husband of the nonsense you speak and where you came to get that information.”

“I don’t want to be responsible for another man’s death, Hunter.” I place my hands over his and push them downwards. He responds by grabbing my ass and pulling me closer. “I am well aware of how a man such as yourself settles scores.”

“I need a name,” he repeats. “I don’t like people telling stories to my wife.”

“It would be a local gossip at the country club or something. Your reputation precedes you, husband.” He grins manically at the word “husband.” “But as you well know, there tends to be a grain of truth in most gossip.”

“Who did I kill?” he asks, clearly intrigued that stories are running around social circles he wasn’t aware of or at least chose not to be. I wonder how he could think otherwise, but perhaps he isn’t fully aware of how interesting he really is.

“What does it matter?”

“Well,” he says with a smirk. “I need to know whether they got their facts right or not.”

“You admit to killing men?” I tease. He gathers me back up into his arms, lifting me up, then walking back over to the bed. After laying me down, he kneels and drops a kiss on my lips. One strong hand takes my two, and he squeezes gently.

“Bella, this hand has shed more blood than I wish to admit.” He kisses me again, this time deeper than the last. “And for you, I will slay every man in London if you so wish.”

“Perhaps this a discussion for over breakfast,” I suggest.

“Mrs. Devane, I believe that is an excellent idea. Now, where were we?” He lies down on the bed beside me, propping himself up on his elbow. One hand cups my cheek, his thumb running over the skin. “Yes, we were recreating our wedding night, but this time with a happy ending.”

Warm lips lock with mine as his hand begins to roam lower down my body. It skims over the lace of my dress until it comes to a stop on my midsection. His fingers splay across my stomach, and for a moment I’m acutely aware of the fact this region will be a bit larger than the last time he did this. Hunter doesn’t seem to care; he kisses me slowly as he explores my body over my clothes, greedy fingers touching anywhere that can be reached, kneading my flesh as they pass over as if ensuring I’m real.

As time passes and my excitement heightens, my body warms while we reconnect. My dress tightens as the blood rushes to the surface of my skin, every inch of me is hot and ready for him.

“Can you help me out of my dress?” I ask, needing the coolness of fresh air.

“I’d love to.”

We both shuffle from the bed. I wobble to my feet, and we stand facing each other once more. He places his fingertips on my shoulders then slowly runs them down my arms. Each cell pulses under his touch as they pass, craving a little more attention.

“Turn around,” he says, his tone authoritarian.

Without speaking, I turn in his arms to face away. His fingers immediately grasp the bow at the base of my spine, and I feel him untying the ribbon. As he works, my dress becomes looser, freeing my curves. Eventually, he lets it fall to the floor, discarded as unnecessary. “Now, Bella, walk three steps forward then turn to face me.”

I pause, taken aback by the instruction. My expectation was that he would grab hold of me, molding my body as he pleased.

“Why?” I stammer, suddenly nervous that his focus is purely on me.

His hands snake around my waist as he pulls me back against him. Strong fingers flex against my stomach, my softness giving way easily to his force. Pressed against each other, his cock pokes at the base of my spine, solid beneath the material. Warm lips touch my neck softly, and my pulse quickens with anticipation of what he has planned for us.

“Because before I make love to my wife,” he says seductively, “I want to admire the woman you have become. Walk forward, turn around, put those hands on those hips, and pose for me. I’ve won the fucking jackpot.”

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