Page 4 of The Husband Situation

Swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, he muttered, “I don’t remember anything about the strip or a magic show, but there’s not enough tequila in the world to make me forget...oh. Shit.”

He snatched something up off the bedside table and stared down at it for several long seconds. When he lifted his head and looked at her again, he wore an impassive mask that only sent more nerves squirming in her belly. Funny how right now, she so sympathized with that worm on a hook, about to stare death in the face.

“Patrick, what?” she whispered, hating that her voice lacked the strength that had also decided to abandon her. “Tell me. What is it?”

Instead of answering, he stretched his arm toward her, offering her whatever he held in his hand. She resented her moment of hesitation—but the fact that she did hesitate propelled her forward. She didn’t shy away from anything. Not a slightly crazypants family. Not from the challenge of two Black women starting a social media management and marketing business with ten thousand dollars and a million dreams.

Not from the bare-assed, tattooed Adonis in her bed. God, how hadn’t she known that ink curved around his ribs?

Oh right.

She’d never seen him unclothed before.

Now that she had, she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze from the wooden cross wrapped in a pair of large, delicate wings. She also couldn’t help but follow the floating trail of feathers that disappeared under his arm and around his torso...

Shaking her head, she moved closer and grabbed the object out of his hand, careful not to brush her fingers against his.

A picture. It was a picture.

“Oh God.”

It came out as more of a wheeze than a whisper, and her grip tightened until the glossy print crackled under her fingers. But even if she crumpled it up in a ball and pitched it across the room in an impressive curveball, that image would be branded on her mind.

Her, in the black jeans and green sweater from last night accompanied by a long white veil propped over her head. Arms raised, she clutched a bouquet of pink roses in her hand, and a wide grin stretched her mouth. Though his huge, solid body bent over hers and his face was buried in her neck, his mouth opened wide over the skin there, she could clearly see it was Patrick. Unbidden, she lifted her free hand to her throat, trailing her fingers over the same spot he kissed in the picture. And yes, it was impossible, but she could feel the hot press of his mouth, the wet lash of his tongue. She couldn’t remember the moment captured in time by a camera, but it didn’t matter. Heat swirled in her veins, swelling her breasts and pinching her nipples tight. And lower, between her thighs? Said thighs clenched around the deep, sweet and painful ache blooming there.

Snatching her hand away, she dropped her arm to her side and deliberately switched her attention away from Patrick—and his mouth. Instead, she focused on the bright pink plastic diamond on his hand.

And the huge, neon green one nestled on the finger of the hand grasping the bouquet.

She blew out a shuddering breath and lifted her gaze. But it didn’t meet Patrick’s.

Because he stared at the spot she’d been touching just moments earlier. And something she refused to define flashed in those narrow eyes.

Well, she might’ve decided not to define it, but her vagina cheerfully spoke up and volunteered an answer.

Desire.

Desire darkened that aquamarine gaze to nearly a denim blue.

Her breath snagged directly under the place he scrutinized, and the soft catch echoed in the room like an ear-piercing shriek.

Patrick blinked...blinked again, then his gaze locked with hers.

Breathing didn’t become any easier. But it was due to the inescapable evidence in her hand of what they’d done the night before. Definitely not because of the embers of heat that still flickered in his eyes. Andmost definitelynotbecause of the answering flames of need that licked at the underside of her skin.

Denial.

That was new. Must be a side effect of her alcohol-instigated nuptials. She’d rather have the toaster.

“We’re married,” she announced in a surprisingly steady voice, stating the obvious.

“Apparently.”

Patrick huffed out a sharp chuckle, scrubbing his hand over his head, the scratch of his palm over his short hair another almost discordant noise in the room. Dropping his arm, he rose from the bed, tugging the top cover and wrapping the voluminous white comforter around his hips.

She didn’t gape at him. Shedidn’t.

“Hey.” Fingers snapped in front of her. “Up here.”

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