Page 82 of The Rancher Married the Wrong Sister
And I do. Heaven help me, I do.
The tension builds and builds until I feel like I might shatter. My body arches beneath his expert hands, every nerve ending on fire. I’m so close, teetering right on the precipice of something that feels earth-shattering—
I bolt upright in bed, gasping.
The silk comforter is tangled around my legs, and my nightgown, the modest cotton one I packed in my overnight bag, is twisted and damp with perspiration.
A dream.
It was all a dream.
But my body doesn’t seem to understand the difference. My heart is racing, my skin is flushed and oversensitive, and between my legs...
I’ve never woken up like this before. Never felt this aching, desperate need that makes me want to press my thighs together and never let go. Without really thinking about what I’m doing, my hand slides beneath the covers, following an instinct I’ve never allowed myself to explore.
The first tentative touch makes me gasp. I’ve never...I mean, I know about this, obviously, but I’ve never actually...
But now, with the memory of dream-Gavine’s hands still burning on my skin, I can’t stop myself. My fingers move hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence as that delicious tension begins to rebuild.
It doesn’t take long. Within minutes, I’m biting down on my free hand to muffle my cry as waves of sensation crash over me. My body arches off the bed, every muscle taut as I experience my very first climax.
For long moments afterward, I lie there trembling, trying to catch my breath and make sense of what just happened.
But as the aftershocks fade and reality creeps back in, a different kind of trembling takes over. This one has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with terror.
What’s happening to me?
Three days ago, I was Wednesday Arthurs. The quiet sister, the good girl who’d never even been kissed. The one who blushed when Jessica brought home her wild stories about college parties and boys. Now I’m lying in a stranger’s bed, married to a man who sees me as a business transaction, having dreams that would make me blush to even think about in daylight.
And the worst part? I liked it. Every second of it.
I’m changing into someone I don’t recognize.
All because of a husband who doesn’t want me.
Chapter Three
THE FABRIC SLIDES THROUGHmy fingers like silk, emerald green cotton that will make the perfect book pouch for the romance novel I borrowed from the library yesterday. I guide it under the needle of the vintage Singer sewing machine, listening to the steady rhythm that’s become my favorite sound in this enormous house.
It’s been five days since our wedding, and this is the first time I’ve felt anything close to peace.
The sewing room is tucked away on the second floor, flooded with afternoon sunlight that makes the dust motes dance like tiny golden stars. According to Clarice, the head housekeeper, this was Gavine’s mother’s favorite room. She died giving birth to him, but apparently she was an accomplished seamstress who dreamed of making quilts for all her future children.
The tragedy of that hits me every time I sit at her machine. All those hopes and dreams, cut short.
But I can’t deny how perfectly her workspace suits me. Bolts of fabric line the walls in rainbow order, and her collection of vintage buttons fills Mason jars on every shelf. It’s like stepping into a craft paradise I never dared dream of having.
For years, I squeezed my quilting supplies into a corner of my bedroom, working on tiny projects by lamplight after finishing my bookkeeping duties. Jessica always rolled her eyes at my “grandma hobby,” but here...here I can spread out. Create something beautiful without judgment.
Well, mostly without judgment.
I still feel like a fraud every time I pass the staff in the hallways. They’re all perfectly polite, of course, but I catch the whispers.
“The quiet wife.”
“Nothing like her sister.”
“Wonder what he sees in her.”
