MADDISON
Ican't breathe. I can't think. I'm vaguely aware that people are clapping, but all I can focus on is the lingering pressure of Sebastian's lips against mine, the heat of his body imprinted on my skin.
That kiss rearranged my brain, and a magnetic current slithered through my system.
Now I can't get it out of my head.
My lips tingle as he leads me away from the altar, his hand steady around mine. I'm on autopilot, smiling at faces that blur together, accepting congratulations from people whose names I should remember but can't because my brain is short-circuiting.
It's like I blinked and slid into a different version of me.
Sebastian Clay just kissed me senseless. Sebastian freaking Clay. The man I've secretly watched while pretending not to notice how his thighs flex when he walks or how his eyes crinkle when he laughs. The man whose acai bowl order I know by heart along with every other detail of his professional life.
And now I'm married to him. For money. For PR. For...
He leans close, his breath hot against my ear. "You okay, baby?"
That word. That deep, rumbling voice. It's not fair what it does to me.
"Fine," I say, but my voice comes out all wrong—husky, breathless. "Just trying to wrap my head around what just happened. I was single just a few minutes ago. Now I have a husband."
"Take your time. We have all night."
The promise in those words makes me shiver. I know it's just for show—the photographers are still clicking away, and everyone's been flooding social media (hashtagMadforMaddison, which was Sebastian's brilliant idea)—but my body doesn't seem to understand that.
I risk a glance at him, and it's a mistake. He's devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, the crisp white shirt contrasting with his tanned skin. His raven black shoulder-length hair is pulled back into a neat bun, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw. Those blue eyes watch me with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly.
This is going to be a very long night.
"Dance with me." Sebastian extends his hand as the band plays something slow and jazzy. The rooftop venue glitters with string lights, the skyline creating a backdrop that even the most expensive wedding planner couldn't improve upon.
I take his hand, letting him lead me to the small dance floor where a few other couples sway. His hand slides to my lower back, large and warm through the thin material of my dress.
"Everyone's watching us," I say, hyperaware of the photographers, and it makes me self-conscious.
"Let them." He pulls me closer, the side of his mouth lifting. "You look beautiful, by the way. I didn't get to tell you earlier."
I flush at the compliment. "Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself."
"Only pretty well?" His mock offense makes me laugh. "You need to practice complimenting your husband."
I almost choke when he says that. "I've seen you sweaty and disgusting after games. Don't forget I also know what your laundry bin looks like. It ruins the mystique."
He spins me unexpectedly, then brings me back against his chest. "And here I thought you found me irresistible."
"You wish," I say, even as my body betrays me, my core pulsing at the proximity and the feel of his rough hands. I really want to focus on the dance, but I can't, not when my body feels like it's on fire.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks when I've been quiet too long.
“About how surreal this is. Yesterday, I was your PR manager, and today I'm your wife. Oops, pardon my whiplash."
His thumb traces small circles on my back. "You were never just my PR manager."
"No? What was I then?"
"A pain in my ass." His grin softens the words. "The only person who calls me on my bullshit."
I laugh. "Someone has to."
