His forehead drops to my shoulder blade. His lips brush my spine, soft, reverent, a counterpoint to the intensity of what we just did.
"Jesus," he breathes.
"Yeah." It's all I can manage.
He withdraws slowly, and I feel the loss of him immediately, followed by the slick evidence of what we just did sliding down my inner thigh.
“Don’t move,” he says, then I hear him wetting a paper towel at the sink. He comes back with the cool damp cloth and gently cleans me up before pulling my panties back into place, then smoothing my skirt down over my hips. Tender. Sweet. Thesame hands that just held me down and took me apart tending to me with utmost care.
I straighten on unsteady legs and turn to him. He's tucking himself back into his pants, zipping up, but his eyes stay fixed on my face. His gaze is warm and satisfied and full of devotion that makes my ribs squeeze tight.
"You should come home early for lunch more often," I say, grinning now.
His mouth curves. "I agree."
We stare at each other for a beat, and then we're both laughing. Breathless, disbelieving laughter. He pulls me against him, kissing my forehead, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. The laughter fades into quiet contentment.
"Hungry?" he asks.
"Starving."
He resumes pulling ingredients from the refrigerator while I adjust my bra beneath my blouse and settle onto the stool by the island. My body is still humming. The stuffed elephant sits on the island countertop in front of me, its sweet, silly smile squeezing my heart. I reach for it and hold it close, its fur impossibly soft against my fingers.
Nick slides a plate in front of me. He never does anything halfway, so of course the turkey sandwich is an architectural masterpiece that smells incredible. He settles onto the stool beside me with his own plate in front of him.
"I was thinking today," he says, watching me take the first bite. “I want you to myself for a while.”
I raise an eyebrow in question, my mouth full.
"Just us,” he says. “No cameras, no security, no wedding details to deal with." He pauses, and something shifts in his expression. It’s the careful lightness that means he's about to say what he's been planning. "So, I've made arrangements."
I set my sandwich down and give him a quizzical look. "What kind of arrangements?"
"A short trip down to the Keys. A few days, just the two of us. If you’re up for it, we can leave tomorrow morning. I’ve got everything lined up already."
I stare at him. "Nick. The wedding is twelve days away. We both have fittings, appointments, the final—"
"It will all be waiting when we get back." His palm wraps around mine on the counter. "All you need to do is pack a bag."
"But—"
"The doctor said minimize stress." His thumb traces circles on my knuckles. "This is me, minimizing your stress. Let me do this for you. For us."
More objections rise in my throat. The details I still need to handle. The calls I haven't returned. Not to mention the other hundreds of demands that pull us in multiple directions every day. How can we just leave?
But beneath all of those reasons why it’s not practical for us to go, need stirs. The bone-deep exhaustion of carrying it all. The desperate want to escape, to shed the weight of expectations and obligations and just be with him. No paparazzi. No security details following my every move. Just ocean and sky and time that belongs only to us.
I look at his face, recognizing the soft hope in his eyes. And something else, too. The private satisfaction of a man who has a secret he can't wait to share. Something's waiting in the Keys. I can see it in the way he's holding himself, three moves ahead and he won't tell me why.
Whatever he's planning, it's for us.
"Trust me," he murmurs against my lips.
I do trust him. Completely. With my safety, my heart, our future.
The last of my resistance crumbles. “All right. Let’s go.”
He leans in, captures my mouth in a kiss that's slow and deliberate, a promise and an invitation wrapped together.
