I don't want to think of anything else. I just want to feel, and I know that Adrian can make that happen. That first and only night ruined me for other men, and I'm tired of fighting what my body clearly wants.
My hand moves lower. Almost of its own accord. Fingers trailing down his chest. His stomach. I can feel the coarseness of his hair as I get closer.
"Seraphina."
His voice is rough. Sleep-thick. But there's warning in it.
I freeze.
"Don't," he says quietly. "Not like this."
I pull back and look at him. His silver eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide, and I can feel how hard he is against my thigh.
"Why not?" My voice comes out smaller than I intend. "You want me. I can feel it."
"I always want you." His hand comes up to cup my face. "But I want you consumed by me."
"Then consume me," I say, voice husky.
His brow raises, and he rolls us over so I'm underneath him. For a moment, I think he's going to slide inside of my body. I spread my legs, cradling him in between. His silver eyes are molten and alive, and I know he wants me.
He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my lips before sitting up. The sheet falls away and I'm suddenly very aware of how naked I am. How vulnerable.
"We need to talk." His voice isn't angry, simply matter of fact, as though he's talking about the weather. "Get dressed.Meet me in the kitchen." He gestures toward the dresser where fresh clothes have been laid out.
It's not a request. It never is.
He gets out of bed, and I groan as I watch his ass and back muscles flex. Damn, he's fucking insanely hot.
I sit there for a long moment, cold now without his warmth. Part of me wants to follow him, entice him back to bed, make him give in.
But I know he's right. We do need to talk, so I get out of bed and put on the clothes someone left me and make my way to the kitchen where I smell fresh coffee.
Adrian is standing by the counter, two mugs already poured. He's changed into fresh clothes. Dark jeans and a black t-shirt that clings to his shoulders.
He looks dangerously good, and the pulsing between my legs intensifies.
I want him.
It's sick, but the timing is impossible, and the want doesn't care about logic.
He's my husband, and my body seems to forget that he has forced my hand.
"Sit," Adrian says, gesturing to the bar stool.
I sit. Immediately.
He slides a mug toward me. Cream. No sugar. Exactly how I like it.
"How do you know how I take my coffee?"
"I watch you," he says.
"We've been married for like three days."
He shrugs. "Three days. Three years. Doesn't matter. I pay attention."
Something about that statement cracks through my defenses. Not the possessive declarations or the promises of protection—but this. Him knowing how I take my coffee because he watched me. Him noticing something small when my whole world was falling apart.
