"We have all the time in the world."
"Not if, as per your father’s will, we need to produce an heir before you’re forty."
"I’m happy to try for it the old fashioned way, if you are."
When she stays silent, I slow my pace. I glance down to find her eyes fixed on me.
"What do you say, LadyBird? Let’s do this properly. Give this relationship a chance of becoming something real."
She hesitates, then nods. "I guess there’s no harm in trying."
* * *
I carry her from the plane toward the cabin. We’re on an island an hour away from the one on which we got married. I piloted the plane into the air, leaving the pilot to take the motorboat back. By the time we gained enough altitude that I could put the plane on autopilot, she was already asleep. I watched her features—more relaxed in sleep than I’ve ever seen them before—until it was time to land the plane. Now, I shoulder open the door to the cabin, cross the living room into the bedroom, and place her on the bed. Her wedding dress fans out and over the sides of the mattress. The starlight pouring in from the window emphasizes the dark circles under her eyes and the hollows under her cheekbones. She’s more tired than she’s let on.
It's been an eventful few days for both of us. But we’ve made it this far, and for the next few days, at least, we don’t have to worry about the outside world. I undo the straps on her shoes, gently pull them, and place them on the floor beside the bed.
Then I head back to the plane to get our luggage, which I stow in the walk-in closet. I slide out my phone, walk around the bed, and place it on the nightstand. I pull off my bowtie and jacket, toe off my shoes and socks and crawl into bed. I am asleep before my head hits the pillow.
When I awaken, sun streams in through the windows. I turn my head, but the spot next to me on the bed is empty. I glance around the space and spy the unopened suitcases visible through the doorway of the closet. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, walk out of the bedroom, and come to a stop.
She’s asleep on the couch, her head on a cushion, her arms around another. Her train has been abandoned in a pile of lace on the floor but she’s still wearing her wedding dress, my ring on her finger and the chain I gave her around her neck. Something hot coils in my chest. My heart begins to race. My pulse gathers speed until it’s beating against my temples, my wrists, behind my eyelids. My groin tightens, and I can’t explain why. She’s done nothing to seduce me. She’s not even awake. Yet looking at my woman, a primitive surge of possessiveness fills me.
I walk over and squat down next to her. I whisper my knuckles down her cheek and her breath hitches. She turns on her back. I take in the neckline that’s slipped down to bare the slope of one breast. Her waist is tiny, her hips flared, the shape enhanced in that perfect guitar-shape I so love. The dress clings to her legs and shows off her shapely ankles. Her feet are bare, her toenails painted a feminine pink. I reach over and trace the shape of her arch, the curve of her heel, up the line of flesh of her leg that disappears under the dress. I continue over the fabric, over the swell of her thigh, to the underside of her breast.
When I raise my gaze to hers, her eyes are open. The black of her pupils has bled out until only a circle of blue remains around it. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are parted. I lean in, then bend my head and sniff the curve of her neck. She shivers. I turn my head until my lips are poised over hers. Her breath mingles with mine. She swallows, and I feel the tension in her body ratchet up. She bites down on her lower lip and I feel the tug all the way to the tip of my cock.
"Liam," she whispers. Her breath catches. "Liam." This time, my name comes out on a whine.
One side of my mouth kicks up. I rise to my feet, and hold out my hand.
She blinks, then places her hand in mine. I tug and pull her to her feet. "Are you hungry?"
She opens and shuts her mouth.
"I’ll take that as a yes."
* * *
"I’ve seen you cook before, yet I’m still surprised that you can."
"Why is that?" I pour the freshly-squeezed orange juice into her glass, then top up mine before taking a seat next to her.
"I’m not sure why, but you don’t look like a man who cooks." She glances at the French toast I’ve served both of us. We’re seated on the patio that adjoins the kitchen, and the stretch of grass in front of us leads to the beach. The sand is white, the waves are blue, and the yellow sun is beginning to climb the sky. A bird skims the current, and a gull calls out from our right.
"What kind of a man do I look like?"
She looks up at me from under her eyelashes. "You look like a man who has people fetching and carrying for him. Someone who can take down governments with a tilt of your head, someone who can plan takeovers of companies without breaking a sweat."
"And I’ve been brought to my knees by you."
"What?" She shakes her head. "I don’t think I heard that right."
"You did. I don’t go around confessing my past to anyone. No one in my family knows about what happened to me."
"No one?"
"Weston guessed something happened during the time he was taken, but he’s never been able to get the full story of what the younger me went through. If my parents noticed that I was subdued, they put it down to being upset about what went down with Weston and his friends. It’s one reason why I became closer to the Seven. Not that I hung around in the same circles as them—they’re younger than me—but there’s a certain sense of our being kindred spirits."