Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(42)

He towers over me. All I can see is him. All I can smell is him. All I can hear is the blood pounding through my veins. And all I can feel is his breath against the shell of my ear as he bends down close and whispers, “Are you still sure?”

A shiver races down my spine. From the corner of my eye, I can see his lips moving. So close and yet so far away. Deep down, I know that if I told him this wasn’t okay, he’d put an end to it all immediately.

“Yes,” I reply in a hushed whisper, tilting my head to line us up.

And that one word is all it takes for Rhys to close the few inches between us. The first press of our lips borders on chaste, but heat suffuses every limb. The pressure recedes ever so slightly, and then I kiss him back.

Our lips move in perfect synchronicity, with more urgency than I expected and less fervor than I crave. His stubble tickles my face, and I can taste his minty breath. His hands pulse where they hold me, and I hear the deep groan that rumbles in his throat—I feel it in my jaw. It twinges between my shoulders, twists in my hips, and curls my toes.

I can’t help but match his vibration with an impulsive whimper of my own. My hands slide up over the lapels of his rented tuxedo, my fingers gripping and pulling him closer.

Just a little bit more.

A loud hoot from the crowd that sounds an awful lot like West draws us back into reality. Our lips part and our foreheads press together for a beat, as though we both need a moment to recover.

There was no tongue, and it didn’t last long, but something about the kiss rattles me in a way I can’t make sense of.

Doris’s simple “I now pronounce you husband and wife” pulls us back a respectable distance from each other. Cheers, whistles, and applause ring out from the small number of attendees.

But I barely notice. I’m too busy staring at my husband. The man with dark furrowed brows, rosy cheeks, and a menacing glare.

I’m not sure what’s got him looking so surly. Maybe he just realized he’s officially stuck with me, and a three-year-old, and a cat I adopted mostly just to piss him off.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if he’s as confused by this ceremony as I am.

Because yes, I’ve kissed plenty of men.

But none of them have felt like that.





CHAPTER 20


Rhys





Tabby: Still allergic to pussy…cats? The bouquet didn’t seem to bother you at all. ;)

Rhys: Exposure therapy. ;)



THIS FUCKING BACKLESS DRESS. THAT FUCKING KISS.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I know Tabitha’s dress pickings were slim, I’d put money on this being another one of her antics intended to drive me absolutely insane.

Ditching me on a bowling team.

Getting a cat I hate.

Kissing me like she means it.

Choosing a wedding dress that makes it impossible to touch her in even the most casual of ways without feeling her bare skin.

We’re at the Bighorn Bistro for the reception, surrounded by friends and family—Ford and Rosie, West and Skylar, and the unlikely pair of Bash and Crazy Clyde.

We kept it simple and casual with our small group. The food is incredible. Farm-to-table, locally sourced, and served up family-style. The wine is French and fucking delicious.

Everything is going great for our big fat fake wedding… except I can’t stop resting my hand on my wife’s bare back.

Dinner has been cleared, and people have moved into smaller groups. Tabitha and I stand chatting with her parents in the corner. Her dad is telling a story about how one of the first recipes she ever tried to make was a lemon chicken dish.

He’s chuckling so hard he can barely get the words out. “It came out so terrible that even our family dog wouldn’t eat it.”

There’s a manic energy to her parents. Like they’re so desperate to make today happy that they are ignoring the elephant in the room. Or multiple elephants in the room.

The fact that Erika isn’t here. The fact that their daughter married a man who has been around for the blink of an eye. I guess I can’t blame them.

“Our Tabby Cat has come a long way since then,” he finishes, holding his glass up in a toast.

Tabitha shakes with silent laughter, and the muscles in her back flex beneath my hand, the little dip over her spine becoming more pronounced with the movement. She may be petite, but she’s strong. Hours standing, unloading food orders, and doing all the physical labor that comes with running a kitchen show in her build.

Those first weeks, I was concerned about her weight, especially the gauntness in her face, so I love seeing a little color come back to her. I take great satisfaction in knowing what I did today may have played a part in perking her up. And my dick takes too much satisfaction in the way she just stepped closer, her hip bumping against my side as her arm circles my back. The warm weight of her frame pressed against me makes me stiffen. Everywhere.

She looks up at me, white teeth on full display, sparkly eyes amused. It’s only taken a couple glasses of wine for Tabitha Garrison to get really comfortable faking it in public.

“So, what’s the honeymoon plan for you two?” Lisa, her mom, asks with a suggestive brow waggle.

“Not so sure yet,” Tabitha replies as I eye her warily. “We’ve got Milo, and I can’t leave the bistro for long. Plus, Rhys needs to get back to work soon.”