“What I want you to do is marry me.”
4
LAVENDER
“I’m sorry, what?”
I give my head a tiny shake, then rub my finger over the sudden ache between my brows. One minute, I’m considering selling sex to the hot man with the magic tongue, and now I’m hearing things.
Should I blame the orgasm or the champagne?
“It’s a little unorthodox, I know.”
“Oh. Good.” I nod. Not that I’m agreeing. “At least I know I’m not hearing things.”
“Unorthodox, as I said.”
“Or completely bonkers. Crazy. See also: stark raving.” I bark out an empty-sounding laugh. “You think the way to get your money back is with wife duties at sex worker’s prices? Really expensive sex worker prices, but still.”
I wonder how many sexual encounters three hundred grand buys you?
“This is a business proposal, not a romantic entanglement. I would be payingyoufor your time. Not your—”
“Blow job skills? Good, because I’m not sure I could compete. Some might argue I should be paying you.” I want to slap my hand across my mouth. Why the hell am I paying him compliments?
“Would you care to repeat that?”
The grin of shit-eating proportions spreading across his face says I don’t need to.His deliciously handsome, delightful-to-ride face.
My God. Shut up, brain!
And my brain said, “Hold my beer.”
“Or maybe that was part of the plan? Get Lavender pussy drunk on all those fun, sexy chemicals so she can’t make good decisions.”
“Do you often refer to yourself in the third person?”
“Or maybe going down on me was supposed to be an incentive.”
“You’re saying it wasn’t?” he asks with a mocking graveness.
“You should’ve taken your shot while the chemicals were still flowing,” I retort, skirting the truth because the alternative is asking for riding his face to be written into the marriage contract.
Raif Deveraux (henceforth referred to as “The Husband”) shall go down on Lavender Love Whittington (henceforth referred to as “The Wife”) no less than three times per week.
“We could do that.”
“What?”
“I like how you leave it open-ended.”
I blink rapidly as my brain plays catch-up.
“Nolessthan three times per week.” The way his eyes move over me feels like a promise. It leaves every inch of my skin tingling. And, as though I need the added visual, he swipes his thumb across his full bottom lip. “Hell, make it three times a day.”
All the waves of pleasure. All between my legs.
Meanwhile, upstairs, my brain is still trying to make sense of this situation.
