Page 57 of Fake Wife
“I want you in my bed. For the whole night.”
“Anything you want, Corbin.”
His forehead drops to mine and we stay like this, his hands on me, his forehead pressing against mine. Our breathing is heavy, and I run my hands up his arms, feeling his strength and tension.
I mean it. I’ll give him anything he wants. I only hope he returns the sentiment.
“We have to move if you want me in your bed,” I tease.
“I know. Are you sure you want me?” He kisses my forehead and pulls back, gaze close enough I can see my reflection in his eyes. “I don’t want to take anything from you you’re not willing to give, and this isn’t pretend, Teagan. Everything I’m feeling for you right now is more real than anything I’ve ever felt.”
His words slash through me and I surrender. To him. To us. To everything I want that runs deeper than signed names on a contract.
This isn’t for show. We’re past that.
My hand settles on his chest, over the pounding of his heart, racing beneath his dress shirt.
I pull my gaze off his chest and meet his eyes. “It’s real for me, too.”
He heaves a deep breath and lifts me, and I’m forced to wrap my legs around his hips to hold on.
He slides one hand to cup my ass, the other onto the back of my neck, and I’m so close to him, bodies pressed together, no hesitancy, no alcohol and no anger affecting this moment, I press my lips to his throat and kiss him.
“Jesus,” he groans as I slide my lips up his throat, to his jaw. My eyes close and I lose myself in the feel of him, his scent of fresh air and forests, which I now know is from so much work done around wood.
It’s not even cologne, it’s just him and his passion that’s as alive as his racing pulse beneath my lips at his ear.
He carries me up the stairs and down the hallway to his room, passing mine, and I barely notice before he’s laying me down on his bed, covering me.
My hips are moving, legs spread wide, and my center is soaking. I arch, searching for him, for comfort, when he untangles his hands from beneath me to cup my cheek.
“God, you’re beautiful. I stepped out of my car when you hit me and thought I was seeing an angel.”
His thumb presses against my lips, preventing me from speaking, but there’s no time before his mouth descends and I press my hands to his shoulders, pulling him closer.
He swipes his lips over mine and I am gone. Done for. This is not the kiss we shared in the car on the way to the gala. This is not like the kiss we shared in his workshop where we lost ourselves for a moment in frenzied passion.
His kiss is slow and it feels like he’s savoring the taste of me as his tongue licks my lips, tasting me like I’m his most succulent dessert.
I open to him, widen my legs and wrap them around his hips. He presses his hips against my center and I gasp at the sensation of him. He’s completely covering me, giving me his weight, and our kiss turns heavier, his hands sliding down my body as he leans back and pushes my shirt up.
Raising my arms above my head, I breathe out, amazed at this man touching me in such a gentle way. His hands tremble, as if the gentleness he’s showing me is costing him everything. He discards my top, tosses it to the floor and grazes his hand down my side, thumb brushing over the side of my breast, but his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, are fixed on me.
“I want to be gentle,” he says in a guttural voice, as if the words are being ripped from his throat against his control. “I want to be kind and sweet, but I want to be rough and wild, and I’m having a hard time remaining in control right now.”
Wow. I want it all. Hard and gentle. Soft and rough. Slow and frantic.
My chest heaves, thinking of all the things we can do, but everything he describes is beautiful. Perfect because it’s him, this enigmatic man who wants me.
“I want you however you come,” I whisper.
He blinks and shakes his head once, bending down to kiss me while his hand smooths the expanse of my stomach, running up to my breasts. “You mean that. You’d take me, however I came, wouldn’t you? Even if I wasn’t a millionaire. You’d take me if I lived in the slums and barely had two pennies to my name.”
He’s gutting me, pain in his voice and desire in his eyes, and it’s all a beautiful, ugly combination baring the torture he’s dealing with. The pain of his mom and his father and the weight of everything that belongs to him and his passionate woodworking that fits into none of it. And shit. Yes. I’ll take him however he comes, as long he comes to me at the end of the day.
“Please,” I say, my hands falling to the hem of his shirt. I tug on it, lifting it as far as I can and running my fingers along his muscled and thick abs as I do.
Beautiful and thick and carved, a man who works out andworks.His body is honed, but not purely with the grace of a man who spends hours in a gym. He’s earned this body, with the beauty of pure, hard work, and he’s so vastly different from anything I’ve read about him or seen of him.
