“So six a.m.?” Eddie says, as we walk through the parking lot.
Oliver winces, but it’s infinitesimal. I don’t think anyone else notices. Or has registered that it’s already the middle of the night for him. “Yep,” he replies. “See you then.”
“Awesome. Night, man.” As an afterthought, Eddie calls out a goodbye to me too. April and Rachel wave before heading for the car. Since Rachel lives closer to them than to me, they’re driving her home.
My brother has tons of friends. One of the bonuses of growing up in southern California is people tend to stay here. Most of my friends from elementary, middle, and high school still live locally, and the same is true for Eddie. He’s not desperate for male company. And he’s never made an effort to hang out with any guy I’ve dated beyond polite chitchat before.
I assumed my mom and Rachel would be friendly toward Oliver. April too. But I thought my dad and Eddie would be reticent. Instead, my brother is making private plans and my dad invited Oliver to a baseball game. In the year I dated Declan, he didn’t get a single invite outside the events I brought him to.
“What’s happening at six?” I ask.
“He invited me surfing.” Oliver doesn’t look at me as he responds. He hasn’t looked at me since I suggested he watch me have sex with someone else and then shoved a secret he trusted me with back in his face.
“You surf?”
“No.”
“Eddie’s a good teacher. He taught me.”
“Great.” His tone is flat as he climbs into the passenger seat.
I click my seatbelt into place, gnawing the inside of my cheek.
Earlier, I wished Oliver would act exactly how he is right now—distant and cold.
He was too charming at dinner, patiently answering my mom’s questions. Too daring at croquet, making me enjoy it more than if I’d won. And then his phone had to keep ringing on the drive to Canyon, reminding me that he’s busy and important and had plans for this weekend that didn’t involve entertaining my family.
But now that he’s staring out the window like he’d love to be anywhere else, I’m hit with the persistent ache of regret.
I clear my throat. “My family liked you.”
“Sorry.” His voice is dry, no trace of apology.
I exhale. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
“For what?”
“Earlier. I shouldn’t have brought up…that.”
“If exhibitionism is your thing—”
An unexpected laugh spills out. “It’s not.”
“If it is, though…” There’s a teasing note to his tone, and the rush of relief is dizzying. I didn’t realize how worried I was the harm I did was irreparable until there’s a sign it wasn’t.
I bite my bottom lip to hold in another laugh. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise. You can trust me. And that probably means nothing to you, after what I said earlier. But you can.”
When I glance over, any amusement in Oliver’s expression is gone. He’s back to looking stoic.
Once he realizes my eyes are on him, he nods. “Okay.”
I swallow, nod back, and then tighten my hands around the steering wheel. It’s not the icy chill from the start of the trip, but it’s not warmth either.
“I applied to architecture school the night we met.”
My eyes are back on the road, but I catch the motion out of the corner of them as he looks my way.
“That’s why I went down to the bar, instead of ordering room service. A mini celebration, since I didn’t tell anyone I was applying.”
“Including me.”
“I just told you.”
“I mean that night,” he replies.
“I didn’t know you. You just wanted me to blurt that out, first thing? I had a hard enough time getting your attention.”
Oliver says nothing, for long enough I think he won’t. And when he does speak, it renders me speechless. “You’ve always had my attention, Hannah.”
I’d think it was a line, a sweet sentiment that means nothing. Except there’s a sincerity to the words that’s almost angry. Like the admission is being dragged from him. Or that it’s something he’d love to change but can’t. Rather than being romantic, the words sound painfully honest.
Since I’m not sure what to say in response, I say nothing.
The silence is a charged one. Not uncomfortable, but noticeable. It feels like those six words—You’ve always had my attention, Hannah—are lingering and growing between us with each mile we drive.
The same pulsing awareness that keeps resulting in stupid decisions—like marrying or insulting him—appears, making me restless and uncomfortable.
It’s been too long for me to respond to his last comment, and not long enough to broach a different topic.
Finally, I pull into the driveway.
Oliver says nothing as we climb out of the car and walk up the porch steps to the front door. I unlock the door and flip on the hall lights before kicking off my shoes and continuing into the kitchen.
I grab a bottle of sparkling water out of the fridge and twist off the top, taking a long, fortifying sip.
The footsteps that enter the kitchen are unexpected. I’m used to living alone to the soundtrack of nothing but my own movements. And I thought Oliver would head straight to bed.
I turn to face him, leaning back against the counter as I take another long sip of fizzy water. The bubbles scratch my throat, reminding me this moment is real.
“You struck out at the bar, huh?”
I raise both eyebrows. I was back at the table about five minutes after Oliver walked away. Aside from the one guy who approached me at the bar, I didn’t talk to anyone besides him and my family all night. Which he already knows.
“You can’t strike out if you don’t play.”
He walks closer, leaning against the island and crossing his arms. I’ve spent way too much time admiring his forearms tonight. The map of veins and the lean lines of muscle. “Do you remember anything about that night?”
His voice is low. So low and so deep. Sexy.
I find too much about Oliver to be sexy, including that he’s still wearing a suit because he didn’t pack anything more casual. That he looks buttoned up but spent the night playing croquet with my dad and sitting in a bar with sticky floors listening to my sister-in-law debate baby names.
I pull my hair over one shoulder, watching him track the movement. His eyes on me feel like the fall of silk over skin. The slightest, barest tease that squeezes my chest and speeds up each beat of my heart.
“Parts,” I choke out.
“Which parts?”
“The bar. Meeting you at the club. Watching the fountains. Being up in the sky. Drinking. After that…not much.”
“The—our—wedding?”
I swallow. Shake my head. “No.”
“After?”
“Passing out in bed? Not really.” There’s a subtle reaction. Not much, but his cheek shifts. It boldens me to add, “Not much of a wedding night.”
“Is that what you wanted, Hannah?” His voice is all gravel. And there’s an added rasp to my name, like he’s well aware of how him saying it affects me. “A real wedding night?”
A throbbing starts between my legs, keeping pace with my racing thoughts.
What is it about Oliver Kensington that makes me lose all sight of logic? He’s logic. Solid, smart, and serious. But for the first time, I get how we ended up married.
I’m completely in control of my decision-making, and so, so tempted to make another stupid decision where he’s concerned.
Sex is messy. Lust is confusing. Desire is dangerous.
But as we stare at each other, I can’t find the willpower to care.
I buried what it was like to touch him—kiss him—beneath the stress and anxiety of our unexpected marriage. But the knowledge is still there, playing out in technicolor in my mind.
I nod.
There’s a flicker of heat in his gaze. “Can I fuck you, Hannah?”
The edge of the quartz countertop digs into the small of my back. Distantly, a siren sounds. But I’m barely cognizant of my surroundings. I’m focused on him, swimming in that intense green.
He’s really asking, just like he did before kissing me.
This isn’t foreplay or dirty talk. Part of him probably wants me to say no, to shut down this possibility between us that will complicate everything between us even more.
I take a step forward. The hardwood is cool and smooth against my bare feet as I push away from the counter and approach him.
Oliver doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach. He watches me walk, until I’m so close I can see the flutter of his pulse beneath his jawline. Keeping my gaze fixed on him the whole time, I start unbuttoning his shirt. One by one, they pop open, exposing bare chest.
Working at Garner Sports Agency means I spend a lot of time around professional athletes who stay in shape for a paycheck. Oliver could choose to never work a day of his life. But not only does he work, he works out.
His body is a masterpiece. Firm skin and sculpted muscles. I take my time with each button, my fingers brushing and lingering over each new inch.
Once I reach the final button, I run my hands all the way back to the top, spreading my right palm over his left pectoral until I find the steady thud of his heart.
“Yes.” I whisper my answer.
His hand splays on the center of my back the same way it did at the bar. Just like then, I want to sigh at the contact. It’s not sexual, it’s support. I stumble into him, and then he’s kissing me.
And fuck, can Oliver kiss. I’m swept into it, like a wave leaving shore.
He hasn’t shaved since he arrived. There’s a slight rasp as his stubble abrades my skin, the roughness of his scruff contrasting the soft brush of his lips.
I fall into it, into him. Wonder why I didn’t kiss him as soon as he walked out of the airport earlier, because embarrassment and uncertainty don’t seem like monumental enough barriers to justify resisting this sensation.
I whimper when his lips leave mine, and I’m too turned on to care how pathetic it sounds.
“Couch or bed?”
I deliberate for half a second. Couch is closer, bed is bigger. “Bed.”
In a move that I’m not expecting at all, I’m suddenly airborne. Breath leaves my lungs in a surprised whoosh as Oliver begins walking, leaving me with an upside-down view of my kitchen.
“What the hell?” I sputter. It sounds much less indignant than I was hoping for.
Oliver’s hand runs up my left calf and lands on my thigh, holding me more securely against his shoulder. Even through the denim I can feel the heat searing through the fabric and branding my skin.
“It’s my turn.”
“Your turn to…what?” The last word comes out breathlessly, as the world reorients again. I’m on my back, spread out in the middle of my mattress, with a smirking Oliver hovering above me.
“To touch you.”
His head dips, finding a sensitive spot right above my collarbone. He presses his lips right on the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. I didn’t even know that was a sensitive spot. Not until right now, when he gently sucks before swiping it with his tongue, and my nerve endings respond like a lash of lightning finding metal.
Oliver’s mouth journeys up my neck.
Sometimes licking, sometimes sucking, sometimes nibbling.
Always touching.
By the time he reaches my jawline, I’m a panting mess. A puddle of need. So wet I can feel it gathered between my thighs.
I thought this would be a quick encounter. Sexy and satisfying, but not slow. It was supposed to be instant gratification. Mutual relief.
Not this growing, glowing sensation that makes me never want to move. To sink into the way it feels like he’s worshipping me.
When he kisses me, it feels like falling.
But in the best way. When you know you’ll land safely so you can enjoy the rush.
I’m not sure if I should feel so safe around Oliver. We both have the means to hurt the other. We’re a precarious stack; one stumble away from destruction.
But I sink into it anyway.
His tongue slips into my mouth, the slide practiced and sensual. My hips lift, desperately trying to relieve the building pressure. The only sound I can hear is my heavy breathing, the desperate pull of oxygen loud and desperate.
Oliver’s hand slides across my stomach, deftly unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans. Anticipation arcs through me as the pulse between my legs becomes more insistent.
I’m about to have sex with my husband, I realize.
There are too many emotions associated with that statement that I’m too overwhelmed to name, so I just close my eyes and feel.
Denim is tugged away efficiently, cool air caressing my bare skin as my jeans get tossed to the floor. I sit up and pull off my t-shirt, sitting on my bed in just a bra and underwear.
At least I chose a lacy, matching set this morning. I didn’t want Oliver to think I made an effort, but I wanted to feel good today. When I got dressed this morning, I didn’t think he’d see me like this.
The only light in here is what’s spilling in from the hallway. I only catch a quick glimpse of Oliver’s shadowed expression before his head ducks, teeth grazing my nipple through the lace of my bra.
I gasp, my back arching and my chest lifting like an offering as the inferno inside me sparks.
“Fuck, Hannah.”
He sounds tortured. Overwhelmed. Wild.
“Fuck me,” I tell him.
Oliver chuckles, the sound dark and decadent. It slides across my skin like a hint of smoke or a drop of whiskey.
I lift my pelvis, seeking out more contact. Begging without the words. My fingers dig into his shoulders, feeling the muscles bunch beneath my touch. His tongue is tracing circles on my chest, and my entire body thrums with each lick.
“Please.”
His hand slides up my bare leg, setting my nerves off in a frenzy. The texture of his skin running over mine and the rub against his suit is too much—and not enough.
“Please, Oliver.”
He rolls away, and for one horrible second, I think it was all a tease. That he was wondering how much I wanted him, and just got his answer. But then I hear the rustle of fabric and the crinkle of a wrapper, and I realize what’s happening. I reach behind and unsnap the band of my bra, letting the heavy weight of my breasts fall free.
Then Oliver’s hand is there, managing to make the discomfort better and worse as he rubs my nipple into a hard point. His other hand takes a slow journey down my chest and stomach until it’s between my legs, tugging off my underwear and leaving me totally naked.
I feel him there, sparks of electricity racing through me as the head of his cock grazes my clit before he pushes inside of me. It’s a relief to feel the length of him filling me. And a stretch to accommodate his size. He presses deeper and deeper, until I’m certain I can’t take any more. When he withdraws, there’s an immediate ache as I clench around nothing. And then he’s spreading me again, inciting a delicious ache.
“Faster.” I breathe the word, my hands moving lower, fingernails scraping his back. I need more.
I’m stripped down to the basest of instincts. Nothing but need. Right now, none of what got us here matters. It just matters that we’re here. That the thick drag of Oliver’s dick is pushing me higher and higher, a perfect pressure that will end in euphoria. I can feel it building in my center, the heat and pleasure so close I could cry. I angle my hips, desperately trying to take him deeper. To climb the peak faster.
“You’re so tight. So wet.” He murmurs the words right next to my ear, low and gruff, and my breathing becomes so fast that it’s embarrassing. “Feel so fucking good.”
I clench my inner muscles, smiling when he groans.
A heady rush of power courses through me, mixing with the lust and the desperation.
I love that I’m affecting him. That he’s admitting I affect him.
“You take me so well. Even better than I imagined.” His tone is low and uneven, a rasp that warms my skin like the lick of a flame and washes over me in waves of arousal.
He’s thought about this.
It feels like this moment has been building ever since I heard his voice in that bar. I remember how it felt when he looked over at me, the rush that accompanied his attention. How it amplified to an almost unbearable intensity, reverberating throughout my entire body.
He’s possessing me in a way I’ve never experienced. I usually guide guys during sex, telling them what I like and what I want. Some get off on it, some get offended by it, but none of them have escaped it.
Except Oliver. Since he kissed me, I’ve barely managed more than moans.
I don’t have to make a single decision. He’s controlling everything, the same way he seems to manage each aspect of his life.
I never want him to stop. But my body is also desperate for release, the pleasure I’m chasing hovering just out of reach.
My hands explore up and down his back, feeling muscle and tendon shift beneath my fingers as he moves above me. His mouth drops to mine and we’re kissing again, his tongue taking my mouth with the same skilled assault as his cock fills my pussy.
His pelvis grinds against mine, stimulating every sensitive spot. Pleasure crashes through me, sudden and consuming and incredible, as I spasm around him.
I lose all sense of time or place or self, catapulted into a personal nirvana.
I’m still floating in clouds of bliss when Oliver flips me over, his hands lifting my hips up and back before I’m spread open by his hard cock again. I gasp, readjusting to the new position and realizing he didn’t come during my explosive orgasm.
Everything is ultra-sensitive, the pleasure of him stretching me again even sharper and more intense. The angle is different and deeper, and Oliver takes full advantage. With each stroke he almost totally withdraws, a slow drag that feels like I can feel every ridge and vein even through the barrier of the condom. Then he fills me all over again, stretching me until I take every inch.
My body is beginning to build toward another peak faster than I would have thought possible. My breathing is ragged, heat trickling through me in endless streams. Sweat dampens my skin.
“You’re close to coming again.” Oliver groans the words, arousal deepening them to a low growl. “I can feel it.”
I moan, my hands fisting the soft fabric of my comforter as he pulls out completely, sliding around my opening and gliding against my clit. Teasing me with the promise of more pleasure.
I don’t know how he hasn’t come yet. His dick is so rigid it barely moves as I arch my back and rub against him, trying to force more friction. Trying to get him back inside of me.
Oliver’s hands leave my hips and run up the sides of my abdomen, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake as he explores my body. One hand grazes the hard point of my nipple and I jolt at the fresh rush of pleasure.
Then his hands are back on my hips, sliding down to spread my legs open wider for him. Cool air brushes the wetness that’s gathered there, feeding the relentless ache. A second orgasm no longer sounds impossible. It feels inevitable.
He slams into me again, suddenly and forcefully enough it feels like taking him for the first time all over again.
“The only way I’ll ever see you getting fucked is if I’m the one fucking you, Hannah.”
There’s a dark possessiveness in the words, an undercurrent of intensity I’m not expecting. I picture what he sees, me spread and desperate for him. The complete opposite of taunting him about bathroom bar sex with another man.
I moan and whimper as he sets a punishing pace, pounding into me over and over again until I’m careening over a cliff into blissful oblivion. I come again, clenching around the hard length of his cock as he continues to rock inside of me.
Tremors quake through me as mindless pleasure washes over me with the force of a tsunami, pulling me under in endless waves. I’m barely aware enough to feel the jerk inside as he ejaculates, finally finding his own release.
I collapse onto the soft cotton of my bedspread, feeling like a towel that was just wrung out. There’s a satisfied hum running through my body as I roll onto my back, luxuriating in a completely relaxed state.
I run a hand through my hair, brushing blonde strands out of my eyes and away from my face. My breathing begins to slow, desperate pants turning rhythmic and easy, as I watch Oliver lean over and grab a tissue off the bedside table.
He removes the condom, wraps it, and then tosses it into the trash. Even flaccid, his dick is impressive. My pussy is swollen and satisfied, but there’s a fresh pulse between my legs, remembering how that long, thick length felt inside of me.
I can tell he’s unsure what to say or do. That he’s preparing to leave and walk down the hall to the guest room.
It’s what he should do. What I should want him to do.
But before my eyes flutter closed, I whisper, “You can stay.”
It’s not really an invitation. Because invitations serve a purpose, and I’m not sure what the point of him staying is. I’m exhausted, and I’m not the one who flew five hours and is three hours ahead. All we’ll do is sleep. And I should want the bed to myself. I like my space; it’s why I live alone.
So I’m surprised when the dip of the mattress sends a small thrill through me. When the sound of his breath is soothing instead of annoying.
Even with my eyes closed, I can sense him moving. A few seconds later, the cashmere blanket I keep at the bottom of my bed is draped over my body, the soft fibers lightly brushing my bare skin.
There’s a delicate, fragile flicker in my chest. Waking up married to a stranger is one of the scarier things that’s ever happened to me. But right now, I feel safer than I ever have.
And it’s all Oliver Kensington’s fault.
