Chase winks. “Kind of like our marriage. Huh, babe.” His voice is liquid sex, and I unintentionally moan with arousal.
Whitney whispers, “Oh my God, they’re gonna have sex behind the island.”
Trent mutters, “Or on top of it.” He looks intrigued and a little interested.
Dude what? You are not watching Chase and I have sex.
I pretend I’m fine from the past half hour’s events within this kitchen between Chase and me.
I am not fine.
But I am aroused beyond belief and in need of an orgasm. One only Chase can give me.
We win the cook-off by a landslide. Bree—she and Weston showed up this morning—actually weeps a little when she samples our dish. “It’s the honey. It tastes like affection and… arousal.”
What it tastes like is regret. I regret kicking Chase out. Again.
Like lust. I want my husband between my thighs, like right now.
Like every late-night fight we’ve had while making food that led to hot as hell sex on the closest surface.
But instead, I smile and say, “Thanks. We pair well with red wine and bad decisions.”
And Chase is just looking at me.
He knows I’m going to break the rule.
Soon.
CHASE
* * *
There’s a moment every night—right around midnight—when the house goes quiet. The string lights dim. The waves are the only sound from the beach outside. And the walls forget what they heard during dinner.
That’s when I hope she’ll roll over and tell me to get my ass in the bed with her.
Every single night.
Tonight, she does, sort of.
I can’t sleep, so I get up, careful not to wake her, though I don’t think she’s asleep. Pulling on shorts, I head to the kitchen for some water.
A few minutes later, she walks into the kitchen barefoot, wearing the robe I gave her two Christmases ago.
It’s short. Black. Dangerous. Very similar to the one I ruined by ripping it off of her the first time she said “I love you”, her mouth full of whipped cream and my hand between her soaked thighs after she came undone on it.
I freeze mid-sip of water. She sees me and stops before rolling her eyes as I drink her in.
She’s so beautiful.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Chase,” she says. “I came for leftover cake, not cocky commentary.” But her voice is giving her away.
Really, Roxy? You didn’t follow me in here?
Okay, we’ll play it your way, baby.
I nod. “What flavor are we talking?”
