If so, then I’m the recipient of nauseous butterflies that make me want to hurl. I’ve been married for two and a half years—you’d think they’d die already.
My phone buzzes in my palm.
He’s coming up. – Ryke
“You two need to go—thank you but shoo.” I wave them off, especially as Lily tries to bound over for a goodbye hug. I recoil at the sight of one.
“Just a little hug?” Lily asks, pushing her fingers together as if I don’t know what little means.
Daisy sidles next to Lily. “I’ll be Rose’s stand-in hugger.” She wraps her arms around Lily’s scrawny frame and squeezes so much more than I ever would. It’s a terrific hug, which is why I don’t torture anyone with my stiff ones.
Lily squeezes Daisy back with equal sisterly affection. “That’s such a good hug, Rose,” Lily smiles. I give them five more seconds before I physically tear them apart, a hand on each of their shoulders, and I steer them to the door. Their smiles are welcome outside my room.
They leave just in time, racing down the hallway to Lily’s bedroom and disappearing out of sight. Connor is the only one who ascends the stairs. I shut the door before he sees my outfit, and my eyes flit over the room. Candles lit on the dresser and table, his favorite winter food from his favorite restaurant. His favorite music. And then me, his favorite person.
Everything is perfect.
For some reason, I’ve already concluded that he’ll hate it, so when he opens the door, I am scorching as hot as the flames behind me.
He sweeps my features and my body in a long, inexpressive wave, and my legs harden to cement. I force my feet to move nearer, and then I reach over his side and shove the door closed. All the while he stares down at me, my heels not equalizing our height difference.
I raise my chin, an inch or so separating our bodies. His hand slides to my hip, his firm grasp sending shockwaves and pulses below. “You’re wrong,” I tell him strongly.
“Am I?” he questions.
I nod once, refusing to concede on this matter. “I’m not celebrating your age, Connor. January 3rd is a day where I celebrate you existing for another year. I don’t care if you’re seventeen or if you’re eighty. You’re here, and I’m…” The compliment is right on the tip of my tongue. It tastes foreign but not foul.
His lips begin to lift in a grin. “Go ahead, Rose.” His enjoyment usually riles me to do otherwise, but today is different. He needs to see that.
“I’m grateful,” I say, “to have you in my life and if you hate all of this, then I will never try again. You can spend every single birthday after this one alone in another country, and I’ll let you leave without hassle.” I can’t read his stoic features, not as much as I’d like to. I think maybe the intimate dinner hasn’t persuaded him, so I push myself to do something else out of my nature. I reach for the zipper at my shoulder blades, attempting to undress.
He seizes my wrist to stop me, and his deep blue eyes possess me first, filled with serenity and finality. He zips the dress back to my collar. My heart pounds, my blood simmering, and I watch him walk around me to the table. Still standing, he begins to pour wine into the glasses.
He’s purposefully quiet, leaving me to guess his iron-locked thoughts. If he despised this, he’d be gone by now, so I cling to this fact and pull back my shoulders with more confidence. I strut deeper into our regal light blue and gray bedroom, taking a seat on my vanity stool.
He’s not interested in the food. That much I’ve gathered.
I find myself tapping my heel on the floorboards while he sips his wine. He watches my eyes narrow to pinpoints.
“If your silence is my punishment for handcuffing you,” I say, “then you should know that it’s more of a prize. Your voice bleeds my ears.”
His lips curve upward. “Vous êtes ravissante.” You are exquisite. His serious tone clenches my heart, his eyes sweeping my sheer gown once more, to show that he’s talking about more than my previous exaggeration. Then Connor picks up the second wine glass. “And I’ve spent the past three hours in a pantry with only Ryke as company, so I’ve had plenty of time to decide what your punishment will be. The silent-treatment isn’t nearly satisfying enough to be a part of it.”
“If I didn’t tie you up, you would’ve left,” I refute.
He doesn’t deny this. He stands in front of me, sipping his wine and holding out the second glass. I reach out to take it, but he draws it to his chest again.
I scowl at his juvenile tactic.
He grins more, and then he scans the room for the third time, his mind seemingly reeling, but I see the smile behind his eyes. “Say something nice about me, and I’ll give you the wine.”
I think he’s testing to see how far this “compliment” situation will go on his birthday. I fully meant to be kinder to him today, for the sake of celebrating him. But it’s difficult to compliment a man whose ego outsizes the room. “You’re not a horrible lover,” I start, even forcing a tight smile.
He drinks my wine. Ugh. “You can do better than that, Miss Highest Honors.”
I cross my ankles. He uses his foot to spread them open, my knees parted. My chest expands in a deep inhale, his dominance so apparent and unyielding. “You’re tall,” I say.
He drinks more from my glass, consuming about half. I love and hate that burgeoning, conceited grin. I love and hate his good looks: polished in black slacks and a white button-down, his wavy brown hair styled, his skin smooth with charming eyes and a self-satisfied mouth.
“I’m waiting.” He swishes the wine, cupping both glasses but he focuses just on mine.
“Your dick is huge.” I press my lips together.
He laughs once. “That’s a fact, darling. It’s not what I want from you.” He swigs another fourth of my wine.
I let out a breath. “You’re demanding when you want to be.” He almost raises the glass to his lips again but I speak quickly. “And you’re so brilliant and attractive; it becomes maddening”—my heart pumps faster—“that someone like you exists, and that you should be here in our bedroom, that we should share a bedroom at all—it’s unreal and the most fulfilling life I could ever think to dream.” I whisper, “I’m tragically in love with you, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
He clasps my hand and lifts me to my feet. I watch him pour his wine into my glass, filling it entirely before passing it to me. He sets his empty glass on the vanity behind me, the silence winding more and more tension. I take a small sip, my body already warm and flushed.
His hand rests on my lower back. I hold his gaze, imagining we’re alone in a ballroom together, dressed accordingly, prepared to conquer the world. He asks, “And how does time act on my birthday?”
Time.
“It’s malleable,” I breathe. There is no carriage ready to morph into a pumpkin at midnight. I’d push tonight into the morning.
My words seem to move him, his lips meeting mine first. He kisses me slowly, then more forcefully, lasting a brief moment that sets my pulse on fire. He rotates me to the vanity and pries the wine from my fingers. He sets the glass on the floorboards out of reach. “Put your palms flat on the surface,” he orders.
I push some of my Chanel perfume bottles aside and then place my palms on the wood, my back still straight.