Page 42 of Sweet Surrender

I shift, my morning hard-on aching now that it has fuel to feed its fire.

She looks like something I could lose myself in. Even with this roaring hangover, I’d gladly suffer if I could get lost in her.

How the fuck is this going to work? I scrub a hand over my face. That promise I made Nathaniel? The promise I made last night? I pride myself on being a man of my word but fuck if I think I’m going to be able to keep this one when my wife looks like that.

It’s not fair to ask a man to kiss a woman, to be as comfortable as we were last night, and then not want to fuck her.

It’s a normal reaction. A natural one. One any other man would struggle with especially after he knows how goddamn good her kiss tastes.

The difference? I’m taking her home with me. How will that go?

Sixteen weeks without touching her. Sixteen weeks without sex. Fuck, what was I thinking?

“Hey.” Her raspy voice draws my attention back up to her face, and I’m met with a sleep-drugged smile and eyes that I know for a fact are way clearer than mine.

I don’t want to be broken, Jase.

I look at her across the space, her wedding ring sparkling from the sun streaming through the open blinds, and smile back.

“Hey,” I murmur but don’t move out of the bed like my brain screams I should do.

“Sorry.” She tugs the T-shirt down. “I got up in the middle of the night—morning—whatever. My dress was itchy so I picked up the first thing I could find. I think you threw this off and I picked it up.”

“No worries.”

“I’m probably a disastrous mess.” She starts to pat down her hair that is going in a million different directions. She has black smudges under her eyes from her mascara, but I can’t look away. “I’ve got morning breath and bedhead and no doubt raccoon eyes. I probably—”

“Yes, you’re a disastrous mess.” I chuckle as she goes to shove against my shoulder playfully. I reach out and wrap my fingers around her wrist, but her hand remains there and her skin on mine isn’t doing my cock any favors. I rub my thumb over the diamond on her finger to calm it down with a cold dose of reality. Still didn’t help any. “If your husband can’t handle you first thing in the morning, then it seems we’ll have a serious problem in our marriage.”

She snorts. “Can we cite that as the reason for our divorce? Can’t handle morning version of spouse?”

“Hmm. Not sure that will fly.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“Besides, the bedhead is cute.” I part groan, part grimace as I try to adjust my cock that’s painfully constricted by the pants I still have on from last night.

“Oh,” she says with a start, her eyes wide as she glances down again and then back up. She scoots out of bed in a hurry. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—I should have thought about that. I didn’t—”

“Relax,” I say as I stand up and turn to adjust myself. That only makes matters worse as I know she’s watching. I glance over to her as I slide my hands out of the inside of the waistband and hope that works.

Oh yeah, she’s most definitely watching.

“It’s a cock. It’s morning. You’re . . .”—standing there with lacy boy shorts and hard nipples beneath my T-shirt. Fuck, man— “a woman,” I finally say and smile through the grimace. “There are some things a guy just can’t control.”

“Yes. Um.” She flits about the room like she seems to do when she gets nervous. But her eyes shift down to my cock again and back up.

No complaints there.

I hook my thumb over my shoulder toward the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower.” A cold one. “Jet’s on the tarmac. We can leave whenever you want.”

“Jet’s on the tarmac?”

“Yeah.” I wink. “The Gizmodos don’t fly commercial.”

“Oh.”

The shower is indeed cold—has to be—or I might risk marching back out there and showing Hendrix how hard my cock actually is. I’m tempted to jerk off, to relieve the ache, but think better of it.