Page 52 of Sins of Arrogance

But I’m not. Ner­vous? Yes. I have no idea what hap­pens next, but I’m shak­ing be­cause I want him to touch me.

What­ever that means, how­ever that plays out.

“I know the rules,” I say, my voice barely above a whis­per. “We’re not sup­posed to… not un­til af­ter the IVF.”

Some­thing flick­ers in his eyes. Ir­ri­ta­tion? Re­gret? Hunger?

“Aye. But it doesn’t mean tonight has to be cold. That I can’t make you scream my name with ec­stasy.”

Mick shifts and sud­denly I’m be­ing lifted high against his chest and he car­ries me up the stairs and into the pri­mary bed­room.

Some­thing set­tles in­side me. Be­cause he re­mem­bered. Tra­di­tion. Honor. Me.

When he sets me down be­side the bed, the scent of roses has grown stronger and I re­al­ize the en­tire bed­spread is cov­ered in fresh petals too.

Mick turns me to face away from him and I see my­self star­ing back from a mir­ror as big as a life-sized por­trait.

My cheeks are flushed and my eyes are wide. My hus­band stands be­hind me, but he’s not look­ing at the mir­ror. He’s look­ing at me, his ex­pres­sion in­scrutable.

I see his arm shift­ing and feel his fin­ger­tips on my back. They trail across my shoul­der blades.

“So soft. Like silk.” It’s as if he’s talk­ing to him­self, not me.

Then he starts un­do­ing the but­tons on my wed­ding gown. Thirty-six tiny pearl but­tons that took Fi nearly five min­utes to do up this morn­ing.

Mick’s deft hands fin­ish in less than two. He doesn’t fum­ble. He doesn’t pause. Each but­ton slips free like it was made to obey him.

And sud­denly I can feel the air on the skin of my bare back.

“No bra?” he asks, his voice husky.

“No.” I could ex­plain that the modiste in­sisted the off-the-shoul­der de­sign would look bet­ter with sup­port sewn into the bodice.

She as­sured me that my larger than av­er­age boobs would not shake like jelly when I walked. She’d been right.

But she’d said noth­ing of how I would feel when my new hus­band tried to peel the satin down my body with noth­ing to cover my naked breasts.

With­out even think­ing about it, both my hands came up to press the dress against my chest so it will not slide down and off.

Mick doesn’t frown. Or look im­pa­tient.

In fact, one cor­ner of his mouth tilts in some­thing like a smile and he slides his big hands around my body and places them over mine. “Feel­ing shy?”

“I am shy.” At least I am now, and he knows it.

He never met the other Kara. The dare­devil. The girl who leaped for the next ad­ven­ture with­out look­ing where she might land.

Mick’s been here the past year get­ting to know the busi­ness. Bro­gan told me he was here to get to know me too, but that’s a lie.

I never saw Mick alone. We didn’t date or take walks on the shore to talk. He wasn’t here for me, no mat­ter what my fa­ther claimed.

He’s not even in this room for me.

This is all about ce­ment­ing an al­liance.

He leans down so he can speak close to my ear in his panty melt­ing Irish brogue. “There’s no need to be shy with me.”

“I can’t help it.” But that’s not true.