My heart is hammering. I dip my head, gliding the bridge of my nose along hers, the faintest touch of skin against skin. She exhales, trembling slightly, and I swear it takes everything in me not to give in. My lips brush the corner of hers—barely there.
A whisper of a kiss.
A promise I can’t keep.
But probably fucking SHOULD.
The air between us sparks.
I pull back, breath ragged, my forehead dropping to hers for a second before I collect myself and step away.
My chest heaves, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
Don’t.
She deserves much more than this. More than me. More than a man who’s spent most of his life trying to outrun his demons.
But God help me—I’ve never wanted anything more than to rip that ridiculously, impossibly hot wedding dress off my wife’s body and finally—finally—make her mine.
I deserve a sainthood.
Knight me.
Crown me.
Checkmate me.
Fuck. Me.
Chapter twenty-four
Seraphina
Want to Want Me – Jason Derulo
Iwanted my husband to kiss me.
The thought echoes through my head like a confession I can’t take back. My lips still tingle where his almost touched mine, that whisper of warmth lingering like a secret between us. I can still feel his hands on my waist, his breath against my skin, the solid thud of his heartbeat against my chest.
So why did he pull away?
Now he’s standing by the balcony railing, his back to me, the soft evening light catching in his dark hair as the wind tousles it.
The sky behind him is a wash of violet and gold, the sun dipping lower, brushing the world in amber. The air smells faintly of jasmine and ocean salt. Trey leans on the railing, his broadshoulders tense, his head bowed slightly like he’s deep in thought. He looks impossibly beautiful—raw.
What are these feelings floating through me, tugging at my chest, that make me feel like I’m standing on my tippy toes, leaning over the edge of a chasm? He’s there—just out of reach—and my heart wants to dive anyway. It shouldn’t. I can’t. I shouldn’t ask for more…but I want to.
He showed me his church. I felt it the moment we stepped inside—every instrument, every quiet corner of reflection, every prayer lining the walls. He peeled back the layers of himself, let me see his heartbeat, and somehow mine found its rhythm in sync with his.
He wants me to make my own choices. I think I almost have…even as deviant thoughts fight for attention and I shove them aside. He is my husband, and that should mean nothing, yet it means everything.
I feel envy. I feel lust. And deeper, there’s a whisper stirring inside me—about this man. This stranger. This Samaritan. He is wild. He is free. He is funny. He is kind. Every part of me wants to follow him over the edge.
He’smine.
At least on paper.
I want to draw him like this. Dressed in his wedding shirt, the top buttons undone, waistcoat hanging open like he couldn’t be bothered to finish the job. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing the curve of muscle beneath skin and ink, veins trailing down his forearms like living art. He’s standing there, half in shadow, half bathed in the soft dusk light—messy, beautiful, and completely unaware of what he does to me.
