I looked up to find Rafe standing before us, his presence commanding even in this intimate setting. The wordwifeon his lips sent a shiver straight down my spine.
Smirking, Evie looked between us. “Well, it's not a real marriage, so technically she's notyourwife.” She emphasized the word with air quotes, clearly teasing but the words hit me with unexpected force.
Rafe merely shrugged, his expression unreadable as he extended his hand to me. “She has my name. She shares my bed. She's my wife.”
There was something possessive, almost primal, in the way he said it that made heat pool low in my belly. Without hesitation, I placed my hand in his, allowing him to pull me to my feet.
“We'll be right back,” I assured Everlee, whose eyebrows had nearly disappeared into her hairline.
“Take your time,” she called after us as Rafe led me away from the sitting room and down the hallway. “Dinner's not for another thirty minutes.”
His hand was warm around mine, his grip firm but not tight as we moved deeper into the penthouse and farther away from the chatter and laughter of our friends. I knew this place well enough to recognize we were heading toward Liam's home gym, a room rarely used by anyone during these gatherings.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as we turned the corner.
Rafe didn't answer, simply continued to lead me down the hall until we reached the gym door. He pushed it open, checked that it was empty, then pulled me inside and closed the door behind us with a soft click that somehow sounded like a promise.
Chapter 19
Rafe
The gym door closed behind us, shutting out the sound of laughter and conversation, but not quite muffling it completely. We stood there for a moment, suspended in time, her back against the wall and my body caging her in. I hadn't planned to drag her away from our friends like some kind of animal, but those words she'd spoken earlier had been replaying in my head on fucking loop.
Four days I'd been holding back, giving her space, fighting against the memory of how she'd come apart in my lap. Four days of imagining her underneath me, on top of me, wrapped around me. And then she'd gone and said that shit right before we arrived, knowing I couldn't do a damn thing about it. Until now.
"Rafe," she breathed, her eyes wide and dark in the dimly lit room. "What are you doing?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't find words that would adequately explain the hunger that had been clawing at my insides since that afternoon in the music room. Instead, I pressed closer, pinning her more firmly against the wall with my hips. The softcurve of her body yielded to mine and her breath caught as she felt the hard evidence of exactly what I was doing.
Her chest scraped against mine with each quick, shallow breath she took. The thin silk of her dress was a pitiful barrier between us, doing nothing to hide the heat of her skin or the way her nipples had tightened into hard points. When I reached down and slid my hand beneath the hem of her dress, she made a small, desperate sound that sent more blood rushing to my already painfully hard cock.
"We shouldn't—" she started, but her protest died as my fingers traced the seam of her underwear.
"Shouldn't what?" I asked in a low rumble. I pressed my finger more firmly against her, the thin fabric of her underwear doing nothing to hide how wet she already was. Her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed as her hips pushed forward into my touch.
"We can't do this," she whispered, even as her thighs parted wider, inviting me in. "Not here. They'll know—"
"Know what?" I leaned down, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. "That I can't keep my hands off my wife? That I've been thinking about touching you again since the moment I stopped?" I slid my finger beneath the edge of her underwear. "That you're so fucking wet for me already?"
Her answering moan bounced off the walls, and her hand flew up to cover her mouth. The knowledge that she was this desperate for my touch, this greedy for pleasure, sent a thrill of satisfaction straight through my system.
"Shhh," I cautioned, even as I slipped two fingers inside her. "Don't want everyone to hear what we're doing, do you?"
She shook her head, teeth sinking into her lower lip to keep quiet as I began a slow, torturous rhythm with my fingers. Her hips jerked, and a tiny, broken sound escaped her.
"That's it," I murmured, my free hand coming up to cup her face. "Take what you need from me."
As she rocked against my hand, her eyes stayed locked with mine. Something about that direct gaze sent a wave of guilt crashing through me. Here I was, finger-fucking her in my best friend's gym while everyone waited for us in the other room, and I still hadn't told her the truth about the part of me I'd kept hidden for so long.
My voyeuristic tendencies had been my dirty little secret for years—the reason I frequented places like Vice and Virtue. The places where I could watch without participating, maintaining that safe emotional distance I'd cultivated my entire adult life. Watching was safer than feeling. Watching let me control the narrative.
But with Cecelia, I didn't want distance. I wanted to show her every dark, twisted desire I'd kept buried. Could I tell her that? Could I reveal that part of myself and risk her disgust, her rejection?
The thought froze the breath in my lungs.
"Rafe?" Her voice, breathless but concerned, broke through my thoughts. "Where'd you go?"
I forced my attention back to her, to the warmth of her body and her tight pussy around my fingers. "Nowhere," I assured her, resuming the movement of my hand. "Just thinking about all the things I want to do to you."
