Page 62 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I smile. “Let them wonder.”

He kisses my temple. “They won’t have to wonder much longer.”

And I know, this isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.

34

GRAYSON

The road to Big Sur curves like it was made for slow seduction. Every bend unveils a new postcard, steep cliffs blanketed in wildflowers, coastal fog slinking between redwoods, and the Pacific pounding into rock below like it’s trying to make a point. The wind plays through the trees, salty and sharp, and sunlight gleams across the hood of our rental SUV.

Margot sits in the passenger seat with her legs tucked under her, wearing a cream sweatshirt that's unmistakably mine and a pair of oversized sunglasses. She’s flipping through the resort itinerary like she might cancel it if the font isn’t right.

“This place better have room service,” she mutters. “And not the kind where they bring you three artfully placed blueberries and a judgmental smile.”

“It has a private chef,” I say, smirking. “And a tub on the balcony with a panoramic view of the ocean. Also, robes. The fuzzy kind.”

Her mouth quirks up. “Acceptable.”

The resort is perched on the cliffs just beyond a bend so sharp it looks like a mistake. Hidden in the trees, built from stone and glass, it looks like it was dropped there by some god with great taste. The driveway is gravel, the check-in is private, and the concierge speaks in hushed tones like we’re royalty.

Our suite is its own private villa. Fireplace. Infinity tub. Huge bed with pillows you could disappear into. A bowl of ripe figs sits next to a handwritten welcome card:To the Kings—may your forever be sweet, spicy, and scandal-free.

Margot raises a brow. “Think they know who we are?”

“They definitely read tabloids.”

She wanders into the bathroom and comes back ten minutes later wearing nothing but a towel. Her hair is loose and damp. Her skin’s flushed. And she’s smiling at me like she knows I’m already ruined. I cross the room in three steps.

I pin her gently against the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the sea, the late afternoon light painting her skin in molten gold. Her towel slips. It hits the floor without a sound. She stands there, completely bare, the ocean behind her, eyes steady on mine.

“You’re staring,” she says, voice husky.

“Wouldn’t you?” I reach out, tracing the curve of her waist, the soft rise of her belly, the fullness of her breasts. “You’re… impossible.”

“Then you better do something about it.”

I do. I drop to my knees, kissing a path down her stomach. She gasps as my tongue finds her, my hands gripping her thighs, spreading her pussy wider as I taste her like I’ve been starving. She’s already wet, already wrecked for me, and the sounds she makes, fuck, they could bring a man to his knees. Her fingers twist in my hair as I work her with my mouth, slow and deep, until she’s shaking, whispering my name like it’s a secret spell. When she comes, she arches back against the glass, her cry echoing into the vastness of the sea.

I lift her and carry her to the bed. My cock is hard and ready for her. I stroke it slowly, my eyes scanning her gorgeous body. Then with one swift motion it goes in between her folds, deep and deeper. Then I take her again. And again. Until her voice is hoarse and her skin slick with sweat and we collapse into each other like two puzzle pieces that finally clicked. I kiss her shoulder. Her cheek. Her mouth.

“I think you killed me,” she mumbles.

“Then I’ll resurrect you, and do it again.”

She laughs, throaty and wrecked. “Romantic.”

“I’m a poet in bed.”

We lie tangled in sheets that smell like jasmine and sex. The fireplace crackles in the background. Outside, the sun lowers, turning the cliffs to bronze.

Margot props herself on one elbow, brushing hair off her face. “So… married sex is apparently better?”

“Absolutely. It’s in the vows.”

“Remind me to add an addendum.”

I trail my fingers down her thigh. “To what?”

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