She smells like lilac and tastes like champagne. Her warm curves crush against me as she deepens the kiss. I slide my hands down her back and settle them on her hips, tugging her closer even though there抯 nowhere to go. We抮e already pressed as tight together as two people can be.
If the hem wasn抰 out of reach, I抎 pull up her dress and slide a hand between her thighs. Instead, I journey back north, cupping her left breast and confirming she抯 not wearing a bra. She moans my name and the sound ricochets around my insides.
This was supposed to be a tease梐 preview of what she抯 missing out on tonight by choosing to fly across the Atlantic. It抯 turned into torture. She抯 affected, but so am I. Rock hard and desperate.
Scarlett pulls back first. I let her move away, watching as she straightens her dress and smooths the fabric. I want her梑adly. I抳e never been this affected by a woman before. If she wasn抰 a former Ellsworth turned Kensington, wasn抰 my wife, I抎 tell her exactly how much. Describe exactly what I want to do to her.
Hell, I抦 tempted to do it anyway. But then she smirks梩riumphantly, knowingly. And I抦 reminded of just how far out of my depth I am with her.
揧ou want nothing from me, Scarlett??I pose it like a question, but it抯 a taunt.
揘othing,?she reiterates. Her voice is as resolute as it was on the dancefloor, but there抯 no empty edge this time. There抯 a teasing lilt that calls out my lack of indifference but also tells me there抯 at least one thing she wants from me.
Before either of us can say anything else, Sienna appears and herds us toward the front of the hotel. She抯 talking a mile a minute, relaying details I don抰 care about. I gather the gist is the walk we抮e about to make to a waiting limo.
A smaller hand slips into mine right before we reach the doors. I have no idea when the last time I held hands with someone was. This shouldn抰 count. We抮e the main event in an elaborate show, and this is just one piece of the choreography. But for a few seconds, the warm press of her palm is all I can focus on.
The doors open to a dazzling display of light and sound. A literal carpet梬hite, not red梙as been rolled from the entrance of the hotel to our waiting car. Small potted trees strung with twinkling lights separate the pathway from guests tossing flower petals.
I force a wide smile onto my face. A glance at Scarlett shows she抯 beaming just as bright and false.
Our families are waiting by the limo. Cameras flash as I shake my dad抯 hand and hug Candace. I watch as Scarlett hugs her mom and gets a kiss on the cheek from her father. Like a dutiful husband, I help her into the back before climbing into the car myself.
揘ew dress just for the car ride??I ask as the limo begins to move.
揧ou expected me to fly six hours with a five-foot train??
揑 didn抰 give any thought to the clothes you抮e wearing, actually.?
She raises one eyebrow.
I raise one back. 揇o you have anything on underneath??
There抯 a glimpse of amusement before her expression shutters to blank. 揝omething you抎 see梚f we got married for real.?
I get what she means, that we抮e not the traditional love story. We didn抰 meet at Harvard, bonding over a harsh professor at a study group. We didn抰 date for years. I didn抰 propose on a rooftop covered with flowers and pop a bottle of prosecco. But?揥e are married for real, Scarlett.?
She tilts her head to stare out the window instead of replying.
Fifteen minutes later, we抮e pulling up to the private terminal of JFK.
揃ye.?That抯 all she says before climbing out.
I watch from behind the tinted glass as she talks to the driver for a minute before an attendant comes over to retrieve her bags. She has three of them, which makes me realize I never asked how long she would be gone for.
The driver gets back into the car. Scarlett heads inside the airport. And the limo pulls back into the busy traffic.
When it stops for a second time, outside a building on Park Avenue, I抦 confused. Then, I realize where I am. I step outside into the humid air and walk into Scarlett抯 lobby. It抯 expensive and minimalistic. The space is mostly black with gold accents. There抯 one desk, which a man with gray hair is standing behind. He gives me a respectful nod as I pass.
I use the plastic card Scarlett gave me to call the elevator and then type in the code I memorized.
She was right. Her place is nicer than mine.
I step out of the elevator. The far wall is mostly glass, showing off the terrace that spans the full length of the building, overlooking Central Park and the Reservoir.
The floor plan is mostly open, the spectacular view uninterrupted. There抯 a neat formation of white couches and a gleaming black Steinway sitting in the corner. I walk deeper, discovering the formal dining room, a living room, the library, a study, and then the kitchen.