“So, have me.” Gavin gave me a wicked smile but I shook my head.

“I’m not riding you wearing a wedding dress while Ben watches.”

Gavin chuckled. “Probably a good call. He’s a good employee, and I wouldn’t want to have to kill him.”

And then we were home—in our bed—all tangled limbs and urgent kisses. We made love slowly, so achingly slow and tender.

But as amazing as it was, a little spot inside my chest still hurt at Gavin’s refusal to make a baby with me.

Epilogue

Emma

We’d adjusted to living together with only a few minor bumps in the road. Gavin was a neat freak and employed a housekeeper who came twice a week to do all the cleaning and laundry. I joked that that fact alone was worth marrying him for.

His sexual appetite for me hadn’t cooled, not that I’d wanted it to. The fact that he needed me pretty much daily—that he couldn’t seem to pass me by in the hall without stealing a kiss—it made me feel incredibly wanted. Incredibly loved and cherished.

We alternated cooking and ordering takeout, and generally figured out a simple system that worked best for us. My favorite was the quiet nights we spent in the media room, sharing a ten-dollar pizza and a sixty-dollar bottle of wine while cuddled together on the couch.

When we first announced our engagement and then our wedding date just a few weeks later, it had been difficult to convince our friends and family I wasn’t pregnant. From our first date to our wedding day was only three and a half months. But when you knew, you just knew.

This was no shotgun wedding. My affections for Gavin had begun almost a year before we officially met, so to us, of course, it felt like much longer. A year of an unrequited crush, a year of yearning—it was a long time. And we were done waiting. It was a whirlwind engagement, but we wanted to spend every night together, to wake up together every morning. He was my other half, and his presence made me feel whole.

By Christmastime, when I wasn’t “showing” and was still drinking an occasional glass of wine, Bethany and my mother were forced to finally ease up about the whole baby thing.

But I didn’t want to think about that right now, didn’t want to think about the conversation about kids I’d forced onto Gavin the night of our wedding. We would figure it out and navigate it in our own way, just like we did everything else. I had to have faith—the alternative was just too grim—and it was Christmas, time to be festive and happy.

Pushing those thoughts from my brain, I turned toward the full-length mirror again, hurrying to get ready for the ugly-Christmas-sweater party we were attending at Forbidden Desires tonight.

I knew Gavin was going to appreciate the black silk stockings and black Christian Louboutin heels he’d gotten me. He hadn’t even said anything; they’d just appeared. But he was always doing things like that lately, ordering me wonderful gifts online, or picking up things he thought I’d like in cute little boutiques on his way home from the office.

Sometimes, for no reason at all, silky lingerie would arrive in a gift box. A designer handbag was delivered the day after I complained about the straps on my old purse fraying. My favorite, by far, was a vintage book of poetry that showed up at the breakfast table.

And then tonight, I found my new sexy, daring heels sitting on the ivory-colored tufted bench at the end of our bed with a note in Gavin’s neat handwritten scrawl.

Wife,

Wear these for me tonight?

— G

I couldn’t refuse him. The shoes were exquisite, but paired with my ugly Christmas sweater? The effect was more comical than sexy.

I arranged my long hair over my shoulders, hoping that would hide some of the hideousness, and strutted from the bathroom, trying to own my new look. No one at the party could fault me for not trying, because the dancing green and red drunken elves across my chest were proof of my level of commitment to tonight’s festivities.

“Gavin?” I called, rounding the corner to the living room. I found him standing near the fireplace, reading the Christmas card my parents had sent. Every year, they wrote a lengthy Christmas letter to all their friends and family, and this year’s included their bliss at their only daughter’s marriage to a Mr. Gavin Kingsley. It still warmed my heart to think about how they had accepted him into the fold, despite their initial reservations.

“Fuck,” he said gruffly when he looked up.

I tugged on my miniskirt again. “I look stupid, don’t I?”

He placed the card back on the mantel before turning to face me again. He stalked toward me with calculated steps, not stopping until he’d wandered around behind me, appraising me from every angle.

“You look stunning.”

“Gavin?” I said in a warning voice when he stopped to face me.

My heart rate accelerated because I knew that look in his eye. It was one that said he wanted to dominate and control, and fuck me until I was a gasping mess. And I also knew that our friends and family were waiting on us. My parents would be there, for heaven’s sake.

He wasn’t wearing an ugly Christmas sweater, but then again, he was Gavin fucking Kingsley. I’d never expected him to. Instead, he was dressed in a pair of perfectly tailored dark jeans, low suede boots, a crisp white button-down shirt, and the tie I’d gotten him as a compromise. It was hunter green with little red Christmas trees all over it. The effect was actually quite adorable, and I melted a little inside.

He stroked my cheek, his eyes still molten and adoring.

“You wore it,” I murmured.

“Of course I did.”

• • •

Gavin

“Take off your skirt and panties,” I said, my voice resolute.

Emma hesitated, lifting her delicate chin to meet my steely gaze. “But we’ll be late for the party.”

I stalked closer. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

For a moment, I didn’t think she’d obey. It would have been a first—but then she reached beneath her leather miniskirt and drew a pair of lacy black panties down to her knees. When they dropped to her slim ankles, she rested a hand on my shoulder, supporting her weight as she carefully stepped out of them, making sure they didn’t get tangled in the lovely stiletto heels she wore.

Next came the hiss of the zipper on the back of her skirt as she lowered it. Then Emma was standing before me with her bare cunt, her mouthwatering cunt, and wearing nothing but black silk stockings and heels with that ridiculous fucking ugly Christmas sweater.

I knew she felt a little strange and highly exposed, and that was what I wanted. I’d use her uncertainty to test her limits, to push her to new levels of pleasure.

Releasing my belt with a swift tug, I unbuttoned my jeans and drew down my zipper, freeing all nine inches of my hard dick. Her gaze fell to my groin, and Emma sucked in a sharp inhale as two bright spots of color appeared high on her cheeks.

Her body and all its reactions were an aphrodisiac to me.

“Do you see what you do to me?” I hissed, sounding angrier than I actually felt.

Emma didn’t respond.

“I thought being married was supposed to calm you down, that it would make me docile and relaxed. Instead, I get hard every time you walk into the room, and I want you more with each passing day. I want to make you cry out in pleasure, to watch you lose yourself, to know that it’s me and only me you come for.”

“Yes,” she said softly, sagging against my chest.

“What was that, sweet wife?” I whispered near her ear.

Emma straightened, meeting my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Bringing my hand between her legs, I stroked her once, so slowly, savoring how soft and warm she felt. And smirking at the fact that she was already wet.

“Is that for me?” I asked, teasing her slick skin. It was soft. So heavenly soft, and I wanted to lose myself in her. To push inside and never leave. But, first things first. I took a deep breath, composing myself.

Tossing my tie over one shoulder, I placed one hand firmly against her shoulder, encouraging her to sink to her knees before me.

Realizing that she rested on the hardwood floor, I sighed and coaxed her forward by taking a few steps back until we were on the plush living room rug. God, when had I become such a fucking softy? Falling in love would do that to a man, I supposed.