Page 81 of The Rancher Married the Wrong Sister
I turn off the water and reach for the fluffy white towel hanging nearby. The terrycloth is so soft it probably costs more than my monthly grocery budget back home. I wrap it around myself, tucking the edge between my breasts, and pad barefoot into the bedroom.
That’s when I freeze.
The bookshelf that takes up most of the far wall is moving. No, not moving. Opening. Like a door.
And then Gavine steps through it.
My heart slams against my ribs as he closes the hidden door behind him with a soft click. He’s changed out of his wedding suit into dark jeans and a black button-down that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. His dark eyes sweep over me, taking in my damp hair, my bare shoulders, the way I’m clutching the towel like armor. Which, let’s be honest, is exactly what it is right now.
“What are you—” I stammer, backing toward the bed. “Why are you in here?”
He advances slowly, and he makes me feel like some kind of helpless prey that has nowhere to run. “We have unfinished business.”
“I don’t understand.” My voice comes out as barely a whisper.
“The marriage.” His gaze drops to where my towel dips between my breasts, and something dark flickers in his eyes. “It needs to be consummated. For legal purposes.”
The words hit me like ice water. “Legal purposes?”
“A marriage can be annulled if it’s never been consummated.” He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne, that dark, expensive scent that makes my knees weak. “I won’t give Jessica any loopholes to exploit when she returns.”
“But you said this was just business—”
“This is business.” His voice is rough, dangerous. “The most important kind.”
Before I can protest, his hands are on me. One tangles in my wet hair, tilting my head back, while the other grips my waist through the towel. His mouth crashes down on mine with a hunger that steals my breath.
I’ve never been kissed like this. His lips are demanding, his tongue invading my mouth like he’s claiming territory. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can only feel the heat of his body pressed against mine and the way he’s kissing me like he wants to devour me whole.
A sound escapes me. Part gasp, part whimper. And he swallows it greedily. His hand fists tighter in my hair, angling my head so he can deepen the kiss even more. Stars dance behind my closed eyelids from lack of oxygen, but I don’t want him to stop. I never want him to stop.
When he finally pulls back, I’m panting, my lips swollen and tingling.
“Much better,” he murmurs against my mouth. “But we’re just getting started.”
His fingers find the edge of my towel and pull. The terry cloth falls away like it’s made of tissue paper, pooling at my feet. Cool air hits my heated skin, and I should feel embarrassed, exposed. Instead, the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, his hands skimming down my sides. “So much more beautiful than I imagined.”
His touch is gentle at first, almost reverent, tracing the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips. But then his expression changes, becomes raw and possessive, and his hands become demanding.
He lifts me easily, like I weigh nothing, and lays me back on the massive bed. I sink into the silk comforter, my damp hair fanning across the pillows. He follows me down, caging me beneath his much larger frame.
“You’re mine now,” he says, his voice a low growl that makes something deep inside me clench with need. “In every way that matters.”
His mouth finds my throat, and I arch beneath him as he trails hot, open-mouthed kisses along my pulse point. When his teeth graze my skin, I cry out softly, my hands fisting in the silk sheets.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my neck. “Let me hear you.”
His hands map every inch of my body with expert precision, finding places I didn’t even know could feel so good. When his mouth follows the path his hands have blazed, I lose myself completely. Every touch, every kiss builds the tension inside me higher and higher until I’m trembling, desperate, begging for something I don’t even have words for.
“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for.
“Please what?” His voice is rough with his own need, but there’s something else there too. Control. Power. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“I don’t know,” I admit breathlessly. “I just...I need...”
“I know what you need.” His touch becomes more purposeful, more focused, driving me toward some invisible edge. “Trust me.”
