Page 47 of Never Been Worse

“We’re not talking here,” I say through gritted teeth before swinging open the door to the greenroom where Harper’s things are and slamming it closed behind us. She turns to look at me as I lock the door, her hands on her hips with irritation. I’d find it cute if I wasn’t so fired up.

“Wes, what was that?”

“What was what?” I move through the room, grabbing the few things she used to touch up her makeup and tossing them into her bag before zipping it shut and moving to her clothes neatly folded on a chair, tossing those into the larger tote she brought.

“Wes, stop. I’m talking to you. You’re freaking me out.”

My entire body stills with her request, my shoulders lifting and falling as I take in a deep breath to try and calm myself and find some kind of inner peace despite my blood boiling.

How dare anyone speak to Harper like that? How dare anyone put that look on her face?

“I’m not going to let anyone talk about my wife like that,” I say slowly, my back still to her. “He crossed a line, and that means we were done there.”

“Wes, I’m not—” she starts, but before she can finish her sentence, I turn, dropping her bag to the floor before I take two wide strides toward her, backing her into the wall with my body. It might not be my best move, considering I’m purposely moving at a fucking snail's pace with her, but any pretense of control I’ve been putting up is long demolished.

“Don’t finish that fucking sentence, Harper,” I say, then put a hand to the bare skin on her neck, feeling the need to have my skin on hers in whatever small way I can.

Today was too much.Too fucking much. Two interviews, the necklace, the tattoo. What was I thinking? I’m going to scare her off before I can even start to convince her to give this—giveme—a real chance.

But I can’t control myself around Harper, not anymore, not when the excuse of her having someone else on her arm is long gone. Not when she’s living in my house and wearing my ring, and sure as fuck not when she’s moaning my name as she makes herself come.

Not when I’ve tasted her, kissed her, held her.

“Wes—” she says, the word a whispered plea, not unlike the way it sounded through her bedroom door.

“You’re mine,” I growl, my body loosely holding her in place. She could easily escape and she’s choosing not to, choosing to stay and lift one of her own hands to my cheek like she somehow knows it might calm me.

It does.

I lean into her hand, my eyes closing for just a moment as I take a deep breath to try and center myself and continue. “You’re mine, Harper, so let me be the first to tell you. When you’re mine, I take care of you. That means no one talks to you like that, and no one questions you. It means I protect you. I know that’s a lot, Harper. I know you’re so stuck in the cage you created to keep yourself safe, but you need to know that’s who I am, and you need to know that’s who you are to me. That?” I move a hand, pointing it to the door and toward the mess we just left. “That will never happen again, not on my watch. And if it does, I’ll act the same way. I will always remove you from any situation where you feel uncomfortable, where you are made to feel less than. Do you understand?”

A long beat passes, the hand on her neck loosening so she can leave, her hand on my cheek never leaving at all. Her soft thumb shifts, grazing over the stubble that’s grown since last night when I shaved so I wouldn’t have to in the morning, like somehow, she’s finally understanding she can ground me, that she can center me with just a single touch.

“Yeah, Wes. I understand,” she says. “I understand, but it’s okay. I’m okay, Wes.”

I sigh with relief, the feeling all-consuming, before I take a small step closer, closing the barely existent gap between us until our bodies are pressed together.

“I want to kiss you,” I confess in a whisper, my lips brushing hers because I told her that I’d leave the choice in her hands. Something tells mewhenwe cross the line of me kissing her whenever I want, I’ll never want to stop.

“Then do it, Wes,” she replies, and with those words, I throw all common sense away, and I kiss my wife.

It starts slow, a press of my lips to hers, tentative and careful, but she deepens it almost instantly, her hand going to the back of my head, twining in my hair and tugging me close, groaning as my lips open to hers.

Her tongue slides out to meet mine, tasting and tangling as the kiss deepens, my hand moving to her waist to pull her closer still. My other hand moves up to fist in her hair. She moans as I pull on it, tugging her to where I want her and taking control of the kiss. My knees bend, and I put my hand on the back of her thigh to lift her, pressing her against the wall and groaning into her mouth as my hardening cock presses into her center. Her hips start to move in time with the kiss, and soon she’s moaning, grinding against me.

My hand is moving up the back of her thigh, toward her ass, while my other hand is buried deep in the back of her hair, guiding her to move her lips along mine as I devour her.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door, before a gentle voice speaks.

“Mr. and. Mrs Holden, I’m Lauren, the show manager, and I would just like to offer my sincerest apologies—” She starts rambling on about Marty’s behavior, but personally, I need her to apologize for interrupting mereallykissing my wife for the first time and getting close to finally touching that ass I’ve been dreaming about for longer than I’d like to admit.

I groan as she breaks the kiss, but thankfully she doesn’t back away. I rest my head against hers, and she starts giggling quietly, the sweetest, most adorable sound I’ve ever heard.

“We should probably let her out of her misery,” Harper whispers with a smile as the woman continues to speak through the door.

“I’d rather stay here,” I admit. The hand on my neck tightens, and I look up at her again, a small smile on her lips.

“Maybe…” She bites her lip and takes a deep breath. “Maybe we can do this again later.”

---