Page 60 of Fake Wife

Font Size:

Page 60 of Fake Wife

We fell asleep a tangle of naked limbs entwined together after I took her like a barbarian on my floor. It’s not how I wanted our first time to go, but when she fell to her knees and took my dick in her mouth like she needed it for her survival, I lost my damn mind.

I don’t feel bad about it, either. Making love to Teagan is better than with any woman I’ve ever been with. Rich society women who care about money and prestige are frigid and proper and too fucking uptight to let go of their control, and the schemes they try to hide in their eyes, to ever enjoy sex as much as Teagan does.

Fucking Christ. I thought she was going to kill me when she put her mouth on me, sucking me deep and handling me with care.

She wasn’t doing it because she thought she had to, like a blow job is a requirement from a man. I mean it’s enjoyed, fuck yeah, but enjoying it because a woman desperately wants it versus it being a duty are two very different things.

And now, waking up with her sleeping next to me, on her side and facing me, her lips slightly parted, hair draped over her cheeks, and cute, occasional little puffs of breath, she’s no longer just my angel.

She’s mine.

To have and to hold. Till death.

If I could move up our wedding any sooner, I’d marry her tomorrow.

On Teagan’s hand beneath her cheek, Eleanor’s ring rests on her slender ring finger. I reach out and twist it slowly until it rests perfectly centered on her finger.

I could have taken her to any jewelry store, had her pick out anything she wanted, but this is perfect for her.

And I know it would make Eleanor happy that it’s on this woman’s hand.

It might be fucked, but this is why I know I’m falling in love with her. Eleanor would have loved Teagan. She’d love her kindness and her laughter, the way she lives without caring what people think about her. She’d love Teagan’s loyalty, however misguided, and she’d love her dream of owning her own farm for the simple fact she wants to live her life helping people, making people feel better.

Fuck. She and I, we’re not so different. I don’t want to heal people with my furniture and wood designs, but I do want them to walk into their homes and feel good. I want them to see the work done by my hands and smile, feel peaceful whenever they see it, in a way I always did as soon as I entered Eleanor’s mansion despite the opulence of the furniture there.

And Teagan wants the same. She wants to wake up every morning, work hard, take care of other people and change lives.

Somehow we click. We fit.

And I want her more than I could ever imagine wanting anything except to make Eleanor happy.

I close my eyes and grin. “You did this, didn’t you?” I whisper, thinking of my grandma and her wacky ways. “I bet you maneuvered all of this, down to the accident, from your grave.”

I’m smiling, something I don’t do often when I think of Eleanor. Her death is too fresh, but somehow I know she did do this. She sent me Teagan to give me a home again, not just a house.

Romantic thoughts like these are bullshit, or at least it’s what I always assumed. What the hell do I know about romance? My idea of making love is carpet burning the hell out of a woman’s back and marking her neck like a damn teenager with no remorse.

I brush my thumb along the mark I left accidentally, but still liking it. I want her to have a thousand marks of me on her. Everywhere, where people can see and some for only my eyes, in places I’ve never considered marking a woman.

And Teagan will have them. She’ll have my marks on her everywhere so no matter where she is, when she looks at her body, she’ll have the visible reminder whom she belongs to.

But not now; now we have talking to do, decisions to make, and things to accomplish so we can get out of this mile-high cell and back to where we belong.

“Morning, angel.” I brush my thumb along her cheek, tracing tiny little freckles and dusting a stray eyelash off her cheek. “Wake up.”

Leaning down, I kiss her forehead, her eyebrows, and the tip of her nose, smiling as her eyes flutter open and widen when she sees me.

“Hey,” she whispers, her voice groggy from sleep. I continue kissing her, brushes of my lips on her flesh while she stretches and cringes.

“Sore?” I like the idea of it, taking her so roughly she still feels me.

I kiss the mark I left on her throat, licking it with my tongue as if to seal it into her flesh forever. Like a tattoo.

God, I’m turning into a nasty man.

Or the man I’m supposed to be.

Either way, the insane possessiveness I currently feel toward the woman beginning to writhe under me heats my blood, turns me into a fierce creature I barely recognize, but enjoy all the same.