Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
I shake my head, looking out at the ocean instead of at him. I don’t want him to. I want him to stay and enjoy the rest of our dinner like we had planned.
When I don’t immediately respond, he says deliberately, “If you don’t want me to go, Kennedy, all you have to do is ask me to stay.”
Ask me to stay.
That makes me feel even more frustrated with him.
I don’t feel right asking, and it irks me that he’s toying with me on my wedding night of all nights, so I shake my head. “Whatever, Jonathan. If you want to go bang the two girls who thought you and I were getting married earlier and still shot bedroom eyes at you, have a great time.”
I pick up my skirt and turn to head back to the table.
“I don’t think you mean that,” he calls back lightly.
I don’t acknowledge his remark.
When I get back to the table, I’m happier than ever to return to my loyal, devoted sexy-as-hell husband. Milo looks up as I approach, and I lean down to give him a kiss.
My husband.
How freaking crazy is that?
His blue eyes glint with affection, his achingly handsome face alight with the glow of the candles and the string of lights overhead. “What are you smiling at?”
“I just called you my husband for the first time in my head. I’m a wife,” I state, carefully taking my seat so I don’t trap my dress.
Milo’s hand slides around my waist and he pulls me closer. “You sure are.” He leans in. “My wife.”
I sigh happily. “That’s just the best. Say it again.”
He laughs, then leans in to kiss my neck and rumbles, “My wife. My wife. My beautiful fucking wife.”
God, he’s so sexy.
Shivers dance down my spine.
Jet grabs an appetizer off the plate and tells me I should try one, and before long, I’m enjoying the two Granvilles who wanted to be here and not missing the one who didn’t.
Dinner is delicious. I was too busy getting ready earlier so I didn’t eat much. I inhale the food and drink a little too much, so before they bring out the little wedding cake Milo brought, I make a quick, wobbly detour to the bathroom.
I realize I’m tipsy when I make my way back to the table, but it feels nice. I’m pleasantly buzzed, and it’s a great night, so I don’t have any bad feelings to get lost in.
When I try to step over the bench, however, my dress trips me up and I lose my balance. I have to grab Milo’s shoulder to steady myself so I don’t fall.
Rough hands pull at my waist. I fall, but not on the ground.
When Milo pulls me down on his lap, I grin and wrap my arms around his neck. “My hero,” I tease.
He smirks. A shiver of warmth trails down my spine as he slides a devious hand up under my dress, resting his palm on my bare inner thigh. “Time to feed my bride some cake.”
Memories of Mexico resurface. The hotel balcony where he fingered me one morning while I ate breakfast in his lap. Maybe Mexico has the best fruit in the whole world, or maybe it was only so good because it was served up with a side of orgasms.
He wouldn’t do that here, though. Not with Jet sitting across from us at the table.
Maybe he would with Jonathan at the table.
I feel another tug of regret that he’s not here. I would banish it, but there’s no time.
As if summoned by my thoughts, the man in question comes sauntering over to our table, hands shoved in his pockets.
Feeling me tense in surprise, Milo turns to see what has caught my attention.
“Would you look at that? The prodigal son returns,” he says dryly.
Since Jonathan is on our side of the table and I’m currently sideways on Milo’s lap, his gaze drifts to his dad’s hand beneath my dress and he smirks. Milo had to pull up my floor-length gown to get under it, so a lot of my legs and thighs are showing.
I expect Milo to pull the material down to cover me since Jonathan is clearly looking.
Instead, he slides his hand higher and palms my pussy.
Mine, he declares without words.
I gasp at the possessiveness of his touch, heat and tension gathering instantaneously in my lower belly.
Absently rubbing my pussy through my white bridal panties, Milo keeps his gaze trained on Jonathan. “Back for dessert?”
He pushes a thumb into me and I fight a groan. Beset by wickedness, apparently, he moves it, rubbing my clit and making it nearly impossible to sit still or keep quiet.
I shift, trying to regulate my breathing, but it’s too hard. “Milo,” I whisper, gripping his shoulder.
I want him to stop, but I want him to keep going, too.