“Yes, I do.”
His fingers tighten at my waist, hard enough to leave a mark, and I know he’s at the breaking point.
“Please.”
The grump doesn’t bother responding to my plea. Not verbally, at least. His next kiss is fierce. Overwhelming in intensity. It’s everything I want. His lips slide across mine with delicious warmth as his tongue strokes mine.Thisis what I need. A man who craves my touch and isn’t afraid to show it. He’s not cowled by my intellect or by my career. He sees me as a woman.
His woman.
“Bed,” he mutters.
I’m still dazed from the kiss. Knees weak with tingling toes I don’t move fast enough for him. He scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder before I realize his intention.
“Marshall.” His name comes out in a whisper. I’m not sure whether I’m bothered by his impatience or thrilled by the greedy way his hands roam over my ass.
“I’m not fucking you on the couch, Tabitha,” he says sternly. “And if I don’t get you into the bedroom that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
My thighs clamp together as the evidence of my arousal soaks my panties. It’s such a foreign feeling. When I’ve touched myself, it’s taken several glasses of wine, a carefully chosen romantic movie, and a vivid fantasy to get this level of pulsating desire. I try to be discreet, but my squirming draws Marshall’s attention as he strides through the cabin.
His hand shifts lower edging up my skirt until his seeking fingers find the damp spot at my center. One finger strokes my seam confidently, the pressure teasingly light.
“Fucking hell,” he groans. “You don’t play fair, clever girl.”
His voice is so deep, so guttural, that it makes me shiver as a bolt of heat runs down my spine.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he says under his breath as he opens the bedroom door.
“I’m loving this house tour,” I tease him. “Are the hardwood floors original?”
He slaps my ass, chuckling when I yelp.
“Keep it up.”
Emboldened by his touch I don’t heed the edge of warning in his tone.
“I was hoping for a different kind of wood, but I guess—”
My words die abruptly as he drops me onto the bed. It’s a rare luxury compared to what I’ve seen of his cabin so far. The house is rustic with rough but functional wooden furniture that clearly came straight from the surrounding forest. The bed? A glorious four poster king with smooth edges, a dark varnish, and a mattress soft enough to float.
He settles over me, the bed dipping under his weight. The room is quiet except for our mingled breath, and the muffled sound of wind whispering through the pine trees just on theother side of the cabin walls. I reach for him, and he catches my wrist, desire blazing in his dark eyes.
We linger in that suspended moment. Marshall brushes a stray lock of hair from my cheek, his thumb tracing my jaw with aching tenderness. I thought myself well-prepared for this marriage. Now, as his hands drift down my body helping me out of my clothes, I realize how silly that was.
The realistic expectations I set? Gone.
I don’t know why I believed this would be a marriage of contentment. Or respect.
His touch is a match lighting my body on fire. His kiss is a silent promise of more than respect. More than mere contentment.
It’s passion. It’s desire. It’s something fragile and new, but undeniable.
Fate brought me to Marshall. All the way across the country to this grumpy man who sees more than a brilliant scientist when he looks at me.
My hands slide down his bare stomach, moving over his muscles like surfers riding a wave.
“Tabitha,” he moans when my fingers reach the waistband of his jeans.
He doesn’t protest when I unzip his pants or pull down his boxers. His dark brown eyes just watch me in heavy silence as I look my fill.
