Page 15 of Marrying the Gardener
“That’s a peck,” he rumbles, voice husky and taut against my lips. “Open your mouth a bit more. What we’re about to pretend to do is frenzied and messy. There’s no space for shame or restraint in the headiness.”
“Ew.”
“I know, darling. I know.” Eyes closed, he appears to be tempering his breathing. “Try not to think about it; just let yourself feel.” His voice is so soft, so careful, so guiding. “You’re in love. There’s only heat and skin and want and promises. Bite me, if that suits you better than kisses. Leave marks.”
A breath quivers through me. “Will you return them?”
“I might, for propriety. But don’t worry. Even though I don’t mind you ripping me to shreds, I’ll be gentle.”
He better. I have knives in my room, and I know how to use them…to get the wings on my eyeliner straight…but stabbing someone with them seems fairly straightforward, so…
SoI need to chill and recognize that—despite everything—Kaleb is being patient, calm, and considerate. Manly, yet not themanlyI’ve come to know.
Tongue dry, I lean in, part my lips some more, and whisper, “I appreciate your efforts and expertise,” before I kiss.
His throat bobs against my mouth. “Happy to put it to such good use.”
I nip, ignoring his sharp intake of breath, ignoring the way he shudders, ignoring how raw his voice goes. “Perfect,” he breathes. “Keep at it, Rose-red. Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
With that confirmation, he turns toward the garage exit, marches me across my yard, and heads for the front doors of my home.
By some miracle, I remember to smile as I wipe sanity from my thoughts and do everything in me to follow his suggestion tofeelnotthinkas though I amfeelinganything other than…ill.
Chapter 5
?
I’m not sure how I’ll survive one week of…this.
Kaleb
Crimson likes tobite. Before I so much as get her front door open, she’s nipped me seven times, and, no, I amnotokay. Thanks for asking. My legs are threatening to give out, and all I want to do is get her in her bedroom so I can fall to my knees and beg her to have her way with me, beg her to make this marriage of ours trulyreal.
Swinging her front door closed behind me, I offer a gruff, “Which way, baby? Which way to our room?”
Perfectly—in a way that undoes perhaps the last shred of my sanity—she matches me for breathiness. “Up the stairs.” A soft sound leaves her. “Last door on the right. Hurry, Kaleb. Please”
My heart launches itself outside my chest as my name on her tongue in this tone echoes in my skull, rewriting DNA, undoing me at the seams. When her fist finds my hair, I amnot well. Not even a little bit.
“Ms. Nightingale?” an older woman’s voice reaches me. I turn sharply toward it, finding a gray-haired lady wiping her hands on her crisp white apron as she emerges from what appears to be an elegant kitchen far brighter than the one at the Bachelor mansion. The woman’s eyes flick between her mistress and me. “Lunch should be ready in about thirty minutes… I wasn’t told to expect…anyone else.”
Right now, I fear my face screamsblindly, unquestionably, categorically in love with the woman in my armsmore so than it can even hope to whisperusing her for her status and money,so I steel myself. Letting my lips graze Crimson’s beautiful face when she lifts her head, I embrace the arrogance of already giving Crimson’s staff demands. “Have lunch brought to our bedroom. Leave it outside and knock once.Don’tinterrupt us.” With that, I head toward the stairs, before I collapse.
Looking much too adoring for my heart to handle, Crimson smiles blissfully up at me and says, “Thank you, Ava. I’ll explain things later, okay?”
Ava’s brows knit. “Now, just hold on one—”
I ignore her, steadily climbing the flight of stairs dead ahead. Following Crimson’s instructions, I reach her bedroom, locate her bed, and place her on the comforter. Then, I step back. I swallow. I stare.
Hair mussed, she breathes deep, elbows planted behind her, propping her up. Her fingers tremble as her chest rises and falls and…I need to cool down.
Dragging my eyes off her, I take in the room. Elegant. Regal. Devoid of character.
The costly real wood furniture exists without blemish or trinket to mar it. Perfectly white, it soaks in the sunlight streaming from the sliding glass doors across from the double-door entrance. They lead onto a balcony, so I send myself outside. Filling my lungs with air, I soak in the balmy summer breeze and settle my rampaging heart. In the sprawling green yard below, a doberman pinscher takes note of me, stands at attention, ears alert, and pulls its lips back off its teeth.
Reentering the room once the fire beneath my skin has calmed some, I pull the rouge curtains closed behind me and say, “You have a dog?”
