Page 53 of The Wrong Husband
Someone alert the endocrine board—my hormones have launched an unauthorized Formula One race through my bloodstream.
“I—” I don’t want to give in to the treacherous warmth that shoots up my arm from where he’s touching me. “I—” I glance around. “I want to know who’s flying this balloon.”
“Hmm.”
I sense his amusement but refuse to show how disconcerted I am. This man watched me from afar. He checked out my social media feeds. He knows things about me which I’ve forgotten I’ve shared with the world. He hasn’t done anything illegal but… It makes me feel vulnerable and… Yes, flattered. I feel giddy thatthis incredible man is so focused on me.What is wrong with me?Why am I not more upset about this?
To my relief, Connor doesn’t comment about my abrupt change in subject.
Instead, he nods toward the far end. “The pilot’s up front.” Now that he mentions it, I can make out the operator, half-shielded by the metal frame of the burner at the center. He’s in a small cabin with a window, through which I can just about make out his outline. We’re far enough from him that we have complete privacy.
As the balloon begins to rise, the ground drifting away beneath us, my pulse kicks up—a shiver of fear chased quickly by the thrill of being airborne.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until Connor slips his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.
"Hey," he murmurs. "You’re safe. Just look."
The balloon begins to float up, putting more distance between the ground and me. I feel my worries drop away. He was right about that. I focus on the breathtaking sight of the city sprawling below us. The world seems to stretch infinitely, a vital part of the larger tapestry.
"It’s beautiful," I whisper, barely noticing when he pulls a thermos from the picnic basket and pours steaming hot chocolate into a mug.
He hands it to me, brushing his knuckles against mine as he does. I take a sip, the warmth sliding down my throat, grounding me. We stand, wrapped in blankets, cocooned together in the morning air.
"Sometimes," Connor says softly, his lips brushing my temple, "you just need to see things from a different angle. Life doesn’t always have to be about fixing everyone else. Sometimes it’s about just…being. About taking care of yourself. About letting someone else take care of you."
I don’t answer. Words feel too fragile for what’s blooming inside me. So, I lean into him instead. I turn my face into the solid warmth of his chest, letting his steady heartbeat ground me. I breathe him in. All strength and heat and quiet protection. For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself exhale. Like I’m home. Like I’m his to protect.
When I tilt my head up, his gaze is already on me—steady, unflinching.
There’s something stripped bare in his eyes. A kind of raw vulnerability that knocks the breath from my lungs. We look deeply into each other’s eyes. The connection is so intimate, it feels like our secret selves are reaching out to each other, entwined in a slow dance neither of us fully understands, but both of us crave.
He dips his head, until our eyelashes entwine. His lips brush mine. Whisper soft. His breath tastes of mint and that darkness I’ve come to associate with him. The one calling out to the part of me I’ve hidden from everyone, especially myself.
The kiss is tender but underlying it is a charged promise.
One which speaks of long nights spent with my skin sliding over his. Of sweat-beaded brows, and heaving chests, and choppy breaths. Of his mouth on my swollen breasts, in the dip of my navel, the rock-hard bud of my clit. Of unspoken promises that he seems to feed to me as his tongue slides over mine. A shudder spirals down my back.
He takes my now empty cup and places it down on the blanket next to us, along with his.
He straightens, and when he pulls me up on my tiptoes, and then even closer into his broad chest, I melt into him.
The city below blurs into a kaleidoscope of color. I thread my hands through his hair and tug. A growl rumbles up his throat. He grips my hip, the other large hand sliding down to take ahandful of my butt. He squeezes. A moan trembles from my mouth.Oh God.
My arse should not be such a collection of sensitive nerve endings sending signals to my brain, causing my thoughts to meld into each other.
Just when I think I can’t take more of the emotions enveloping me, he deepens the kiss. He holds me firmly against his crotch, where the evidence of his arousal lays heavily against my lower belly. A hormonal storm is brewing in the quadrant of my lower abdomen.
Uterine contractions: imminent. Hypothalamus to ovaries—stand by for launch.
The kiss goes on and on. The electricity from the meeting of our mouths zips around my chest, circles my nipples, and arrow to my pussy. My clit throbs with such intensity… I ache for so much more.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his chest.
The quiet hum of the burner above us is a contrast to the wild boom of my heart. "Talk about changing my perspective."
He chuckles, then tips my chin up and surveys my features. His own are filled with satisfaction. "I hope you’re hungry. I am."
Then the world tilts. He lowers me onto the cushions and follows me down to cover my body with his.
