Page 16 of Guilty as Sin

I throw back the covers and climb into bed. My wife is more than welcome to join me, but I’m guessing she’ll insist on using the separate bed in the bridal suite. A queen instead of a king, but outfitted to the same level of quality.

The sheets are eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton. The finest available for breathable softness. They suffocate me like a sleeping bag full of burrs. I toss and turn as I consider my approach to this woman, this challenge I’ve been given, equal parts frustrating and intriguing.

It’s a matter of showing my wife how badly she wants me. So badly she won’t be able to deny it. Not even to herself.

Chapter 8

Cora

I spend my wedding night alone. Wrapped in a hotel robe, I sleep fitfully on the bridal suite’s sumptuous bed. My suitcase with my toiletries and pajamas had been delivered to the honeymoon suite’s bedroom that morning, I’d seen it on the luggage rack. But I’d neglected to move it here, a rare and foolish lack of planning on my part, because I’m not going back for it now. I would rather sleep naked in the lobby than enter the room where Brady’s sleeping.

Even though I find a packaged sleep mask and wear it to bed, I wake up to a blaze of sunlight through my eyelids. I must’ve flung the mask off with all my tossing and turning.

Giving up on getting any real rest, I brew myself coffee and hop in the shower. The provided toiletries are as high-end as everything else in this suite, ten times nicer than anything in my apartment. Slipping back into luxury is as easy as slipping into a clean hotel robe.

The coffee’s ready by the time I emerge from the bathroom. I pour myself a mug and wrap my hands around it until my palms burn.

“Thought I smelled coffee,” Brady says.

I jump, spilling coffee down the front of my once-pristine white robe. Nothing about this suite feels pristine anymore now that he’s here. Beneath the scalding water of the shower, I’d been able to forget about this whole fucked-up situation. But with my husband leaning imperiously in the doorway between our suites, it all comes crashing back.

“Good morning,” he says, annoyingly upbeat. He’s wearing black sweatpants and nothing else, his waistband so low I can see the V-line of his abs. When I drag my gaze up to his face, he’s smirking, as usual. I feel myself flush and I turn away. The designer coffee maker is suddenly the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. Brady chuckles.

“Can I have a cup?”

“I only made one.” I take my half-spilled coffee over toward the wall of windows. When I pass Brady on his way to the coffee maker, he moves deliberately close. I slip sideways. I do not look at his rippling abs, nor his sculpted shoulders, nor his smattering of dark tattoos across his body, that I’m absolutely not curious about.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks.

“This room is too cold,” I tell him, my back turned.

The pink-gold of the Chicago morning spreads out before me, gilded silhouettes of skyscrapers that I barely register.

“You could’ve come to my bed,” he says. “I would’ve kept you warm.”

I turn to face him, and immediately regret it. He’s leaning back against the counter, casually gripping its edge. The pose flexes his muscles in all the right places, and I swear his sweatpants now sit even lower on his hips. I force myself to meet his gray-green eyes.

“I told you I won’t be sleeping with you.”

“I thought you meant that figuratively.”

“I meant it in every sense.”

He evaluates me for a long moment. I’m fairly certain I cinched my robe tight, and that not much of my cleavage is showing. But the way Brady’s looking at me, I may as well be naked. I plant my feet a little wider to stand my ground. I’m proud of my body.

Most importantly, it’s mine.

The coffee maker chimes that it’s ready. When Brady turns away to pour his mug, I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

Mug in hand, he saunters over to join me at the window, and together we look out at the city side by side. Brady’s not quite invading my space, but he’s close enough that I feel his overwhelming presence.

I sip my coffee. It’s the richest I’ve had in a decade, smooth in a way that pairs perfectly with the glowing morning. I’m doing my best to remain as prickly as possible, but the scene is too peaceful.

Brady turns to face me. I can tell he’s waiting for me to face him too, but from the corner of my eye, I see the blurred version of his body lit golden in the sunlight. I don’t need to see that head-on.

“Breakfast should be here soon,” he says. “I wasn’t sure what you like, so I ordered everything.” He sounds proud of himself, as if ordering room service is an accomplishment.

“That’s wasteful,” I say curtly.