But I have to remind myself of the real reason for her question. She’s insecure about being in public as a couple. For Sabrina, our marriage is a ruse and a favor to her. Expressing my attraction openly right now might scare her off. And what if she feels, like, obligated to return my advances?
The thought kills my erection quicker than jumping in icy water.
“It’ll be fine,” I say, trying to seem nonchalant. Instead, I sound grumpy and unconvincing.
“I’m sorry you have to lie to your teammates in order to help me,” Sabrina says.
I grab my suit jacket on my way to console her. “Don’t be sorry. I?—”
What I am is speechless.
She’s waiting under her doorway, hair flowing and makeup flawless. Sabrina’s dress is dark red and glistens when it catches the light, the bodice fitted to deepen her cleavage. I allow myself a brief glimpse at her rounded hips and shapely legs.
When my wife steps forward and I get a whiff of her perfume, the aroma stirs my blood.
My wife.
“I’ve never seen that dress before,” I declare stupidly, struggling to keep my eyes away from the bodice.
“You think it’s fancy enough?” Sabrina’s hands are tightly closed, her elbows locked straight. It’s a pose of nervousness. I yearn to lift her hands to my face and run my lips along her knuckles.
“The dress is perfect,” I mutter.
You’re perfect, I want to say.
Instead, I take her tight fists and invite them to unwind. Entwining our fingers, I tuck one hand into the crook of my elbow.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is hoarse, sounding as parched as I feel.
“If you’re worried about convincing everyone, we should work on, you know . . .” I lose my train of thought when she flutters her impossibly thick lashes.
“On looking like newlyweds,” she completes my sentence. Her nervousness gives way to a generous smile. In typical Sabrina fashion, the challenge is accepted.
“Well? What would a newly married couple look like?” I ask playfully.
A blush blooms on her cheeks. I resist the urge to hold her face in my hands, like I did during our elopement.
I hadn’t planned on French kissing Sabrina in the courthouse. Now I’ll never get over how well she molded against my body and how delicious she tasted. A forbidden thought slams into me—at least one more time, I need to taste her, kiss her, sweep my tongue into her tempting mouth.
“We stay close and look honeymooney, I guess.” She shrugs. The movement shifts her bodice, the light quiver of her breasts daring me to look. I refuse to ogle.
“Honeymooney? I think I can manage that,” I say, facing away from her but keeping our arms linked.
When we arrive at the hotel, we cross the elegant lobby hand in hand.
A realization hits me: I’ve never been this excited for a holiday party.
Walking into the ballroom with Sabrina as my wife—my wife—is like no other experience I’ve ever had. There’s a mix of pride and possessiveness that sits on my chest, not like a burden, but like a medal.
We’re immediately flooded with congratulations. Everyone from the general manager to our equipment staff to my teammates and all their dates crowd into our space. There are introductions and pleasantries to get through, especially since I’m the team captain. My teammates share a lot about their lives with me. I’m sure there’s some lingering confusion about me leaving one weekend and coming back married. No one in the organization saw my announcement coming.
Sabrina and I agreed to keep the “convenience” part of the marriage a secret from everyone except her parents.
The festive evening morphs into a hodgepodge of food, chatter, and music. Sabrina and I don’t drink, though. It’s an unspoken alliance. The asshole who crashed into her was intoxicated. I’ll never drive a car after even one drink if it reminds her of that night.
Everything blends together except for one person who stands out above all. I’m hyperaware of Sabrina. Her tinkling laugh and delicate aroma. What she says and how she feels.
I’ve never touched her this much.
