My One Week Husband by Lauren Blakely

As we recap our plan, my gaze drifts briefly to her throat, to the column of her neck.

What does her neck taste like? Would she moan if I bit her earlobe? Would she cry out if I smacked her arse?

“Does that sound like a good plan?”

No idea what the plan is.

“Sounds fantastic,” I say, figuring I can wing it.

Sort of like how I deal with these flare-ups of attraction that happen when I’m around her.

I manage.

I’ve been wildly attracted to her since we met, and I’ve never acted on it.

I need her too much. Anything more than a late-night fantasy would be the height of foolishness.

Risk is one thing, but I abhor stupid decision-making.

As we step off the train an hour later, I slide my aviator sunglasses on and crook my lips into a grin. “Let’s go see if this hotel is as naughty as we expect it to be.”

She casts me a glance. “I’m not sure hotels are naughty. It’s more that the people staying in them are.”

I couldn’t agree more—and last night, thinking of her, I definitely was. “You have me there.”

We sail into the boutique hotel, where I scan the lobby, mentally recording every detail, then inquire about a room.

The front desk manager says one is available right now, so I check in, perusing the restaurant, the bar, and all the amenities as we go, making our way to the elevator and up five stories.

Once we’re off the lift, we head into the room, but we have no plans to stay, only to appraise it.

I unlock the door, open it, then say, “After you.”

“Always such a gentleman.”

Once inside, Scarlett oohs and aahs, her gaze landing on a mirror on the wall. It’s sleek and modern, and positioned perfectly for a crystal clear view of any and all bedroom sports.

The mirror screams sex.

Her lips form an O. “That mirror is so decadent.”

I move behind her, meeting her gaze in the glass. “I trust you’re thinking about decadence for one thing and one thing only?”

She hums a yes. In her reflection, I swear I can see trysts and liaisons flickering across her green irises.

This woman.

What would she do if I were to reach my arms around her, unbutton her blouse, and let the fabric fall down? How would she respond if she were revealed to me in the mirror?

Would she want to be watched? Would she want to see how I look as I undress her, as I slide off all her clothes, as I run my hands along her soft, delicious flesh?

She’d see the truth of my desire.

The way I crave her and crave control at the same time.

If we existed in a parallel universe, I’d worship her as I put her on her knees. I’d adore every inch of her skin before I tied her up, had my way with her body, and fucked her into blissful oblivion.

Get a grip.

I blink away the dirty thoughts.

I must focus.

But it’s hard when she tilts her head and seems to be considering something in the mirror.

It’s hard, too, when I don’t want to tear my eyes away from the beauty with the sculpted cheekbones and full red lips.

“What are you thinking, Scarlett?” I ask.

She meets my gaze in the mirror. “This one is so much better than the one at our hotel in Avignon.”

“So you’re a mirror connoisseur?”

She nods, looking a little guilty. But it’s not a bad sort of guilty. Rather a dirty, delicious sort. “I am.”

Then abruptly she blinks and wheels around, almost as if she’s been thinking something she shouldn’t while she was gazing in the mirror.

She clears her throat and gestures toward the lavatory. “I should go check out the bathroom.”

“Go forth.”

She heads there, then gasps. “I’m going to retire right here, right now.”

Laughing, I follow her. The bathroom is sumptuous, with marble tile, thick towels, and a clawfoot tub.

“I love a clawfoot tub,” she says in a reverent whisper. Then, like a good investor, she heads to the bath, sits on the edge, and turns on the water, testing, I presume, to make sure it doesn’t come out rust colored.

“It’s perfect,” she says, then turns off the tap and whirls around.

She loses her grip, almost slipping.

“Oh!” she cries. Her skull heads toward the tap.

I lunge toward her as she stretches out her arm to brace herself on the edge of the tub, but she whacks it on the tap.