“Mala told me about your mom, she sounds wonderful,” I offer, and he smiles, relaxing slightly.
“She is. My father’s stern-sounding, but it’s just his rigid upbringing as a proper English Gentleman and ruthless killer.”
“That sounds exhausting,” I admit, “trying to keep up the image all the time, even at home?”
“I’m not sure if he knows how to turn it off,” he says. “He’s always been a good father, and the love he has for my mother is intense and, occasionally, emotionally scarring to Isobel and me when we’d catch them making out like teenagers.”
A chuckle escapes me, picturing his horrified expression. “That sounds nice, that they still love each other that much.”
We’re sitting at the farm table, the fireplace warming the kitchen, fighting back the gray skies outside and making the space so cozy. Despite my worry about ever sitting down again without flinching, after a hot shower and some wonderfully soft cashmere leggings, I could walk normally.
Sort of.
At least I thought so until I stand up, taking our dishes to the sink. There’s a slight chuckle from Wallace and I spin around, eyeing him suspiciously.
“What?”
He’s wearing his mischievous smile, which only makes him hotter. “Ye have the gait of a lass well-tended to in bed.”
I blush so hard that it feels like my face is on fire. “Well…” I’m striving for a haughty tone. “We never actually did it in bed.”
His laughter follows me up the stairs as I head for the closet, wondering what outfit is appropriate for a Zoom call with your in-laws. The painfully awkward conversation of, “Hey, folks! How are you? Your son made me marry him not seventy-two hours ago!”
Somewhere between the third and fourth time Wallace had at me last night, he’d grabbed a pile of my clothes off the hangers in the guest bedroom and brought them into the dressing room connected to the master. I joined in and we moved everything he’d ordered for me into his domain. He even laid out a fluffy blanket for Murder Mittens on the window seat so she can look out over her forest empire.
Now, staring at the tidy row of dresses, blouses and skirts, my mind is blank. All of Wallace’s clothing is on the other side of the dressing room, surrounded by expensive walnut paneling and dressers to hold his ties and watches.
That area almost looks untouched, but the bureau holding his jeans, t-shirts and sweaters has fingerprints smeared on the shiny wood, coins, and various unidentifiable things he’s pulled from his pockets at night scattered across the dresser top.
It’s clear my husband is not by nature a suit guy. The only one he’s worn was for our photo shoot and I could feel his relief when he stripped out of it. That’s fine, since I can’t imagine him any hotter than he is in a pair of jeans that hugs his ass.
Now, though, he heads over to the suit section, pulling out a crisp white shirt and a dark blue suit.
“So we’re dressing up?” I say lightly. When he looks at me, I’m startled by the bleak expression in his amber eyes.
“We’re dressing up,” he says, walking over and pulling the hangers aside, picking out a Gucci dress, the color of the ocean on a sunny day. “This one, you’ll look a vision in it.”
Suddenly desperate to see a smile from him again, I attempt to seductively strip down to my undies.
“You’re killing me, wife,” he groans, big, rough hands on my hips. “Get that dress on before I change my mind.”
Kissing him, I grip his shaft, already half hard.
There’s the filthy grin I’m looking for.
Wallace takes me into his study, settling us on a battered leather couch in front of alarge monitor. This room’s a bit more cluttered, weapons hung on the wall, an antique pistol, two swords crossed. He has pictures of him and his cousins on the shelves, a few of his family. There’s a web camera on his desk that he aims at the couch.
“What?” He’s straightening his jacket and catches me smirking at him.
"You're not going to light a fire?” I ask, nodding to the dark fireplace. “Look at all that fancy wood, arranged so nicely and just waiting for-”
One snap of his fingers and there’s a fire blazing merrily.
“Okay, you have to tell me how you’re doing that because you’re either a wizard - which I’m fine with - or you’ve perfected some sleight of hand,” I say in admiration.
“Ye think ye deserve my secret?” he purrs, lips hovering over mine.
“Uh-huh…”Smooth, Scarlett.I can’t think when he’s hovering over me like this.
