Kat Cantrell - Matched To Mr Right

“You know, I do have a problem with you.” His gaze traveled over her and that’s when she saw the vulnerability he’d hidden behind a mask of false allegations. “You’re still dressed.”

Baffled, she cocked her head and studied him. Hints of what he was so carefully not telling her filtered through. All at once, she realized. He was threatened by other men and conversely paralyzed by his conscience, which had dictated that he wouldn’t touch her until she was okay with what he could give.

His body language was equally conflicted. His fingers curled and uncurled repeatedly, as if he wanted to reach for her but couldn’t.

She was his wife. But not his wife, in the truest sense.

Her heart softened. He wanted something he had no experience with, no vocabulary to define. And she’d been trying to force him into admitting his needs by sharing his bed and denying him the only outlet for his emotions that he understood, assuming her way was best.

Well, this was all new to her, too, but she wasn’t above changing course to give him what he needed.

Their connection was already there. Instead of waiting on some murky criteria she doubted either of them could verbalize, she’d just show him.

That was a good enough reason to strip for him.

Dannie locked her gaze on his and reached up to her nape to unclasp her dress.

* * *

Leo was acting like an ass.

Knowing it didn’t give him any better ability to control it, or to eliminate the constant spike of lust when he caught sight of his wife. Seeing her laugh with another man had generated something ugly and primal inside.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like how he’d focused so much energy and attention on this deal with Tommy Garrett and then spent the night sulking in the corner instead of using the opportunity to do his job. His wife had picked up the slack. His wife. Once again, she’d kept the importance of the evening front and center while he wallowed in jealousy.

How dare she be so perfect and imperfect at the same time?

A few more fingers of scotch might have dulled the scent of strawberries. But he doubted it. When he was this close to his wife, nothing could dilute the crushing awareness.

Daniella’s fingers danced across the back of her neck. His gut clenched as he realized what she was doing, but the protest died in his throat as her glittery dress waterfalled off her body, catching at the tips of her breasts for one breathless second. Then it puddled on the floor, baring her to his greedy gaze.

A beautiful, half-nude vision stood before him. Daniella, in all her glory. Fire raged south, ravaging everything in its path to his center, numbing his extremities and nearly bringing him to his knees.

It would be fitting to kneel before a goddess.

“Daniella.” His raw voice scraped at his throat and he cleared it. “What are you doing?”

He knew. She was doing what he’d been pushing her to do. But she was supposed to slap him. Or storm out. Or push him in kind, the way she always did. As long as she punished him for being an ass, any response would have been fine.

Except this. And it was a far more suitable penance to get exactly what he asked for.

“I’m eliminating the problems,” she said, head held high. “All the problems.”

That was impossible, let alone this way. “Put your clothes back on. I’m—”

Actually, he had no clue what he was. Nothing could have prepared him to feel so...ill equipped to be in the same room with a woman who radiated power and sensual energy.

He shut his eyes.

Strip yourself as bare as your body, she’d suggested. But his wife’s simple act of disrobing, of making herself vulnerable, had accomplished that for him, even while he was still fully dressed.

Everything about her touched him in places no one had ever dared tread.

This night was not going to end well. She wanted something he couldn’t allow himself to give her. Once that bottle was uncorked, he’d focus on nothing but Daniella and lose his drive to succeed. Then he’d fail her—and himself—on a whole different level, which he could not accept.

“Leo.” The softness in her voice nearly shattered him. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

He did. God help him, but he couldn’t resist. His gaze sought hers, not the gorgeous bare breasts there for his viewing pleasure. His eyes burned with effort to keep them trained straight ahead.

“I would never—” she emphasized the word with a slash of her hand “—dishonor you with anyone else, let alone a friend or a business partner. I respect you too much. I’m sorry if I behaved in a way that made you question that.”

Her words, sweetly issued and completely sincere, wrenched that hollow place inside. He’d been treating her horribly all night for who knew what reason and she was apologizing. “You didn’t. You were just being a good hostess.”

A very poor depiction of how absolutely stellar a party she’d thrown. She deserved far more than degradation at the hands of her husband. Far more than the absent, unavailable man she’d cleaved to.

“I really hope you think so.” Her expression warmed. “You’re the only man I want. Forever. That’s why I married you.”

The sentiment flowed like warm honey through his chest. This was the kind of romantic nonsense he’d gone to EA International to avoid. But then, wasn’t she describing exactly what he’d asked for? Fidelity and commitment? It just sounded like so much more than that from her mouth, so deep and profound.

What was he supposed to do with that? With her?

“Don’t you want me, too?” she asked, her voice dropping into a seductive whisper that funneled straight to his erection.

“So much more than I should,” he muttered and regretted saying it out loud.

“Then come over here and show me.”

His feet were rooted to the carpet. It wasn’t going to be just sex. Maybe just sex wasn’t possible with someone he’d made his wife.

Regardless, he’d married Daniella, and consummating their relationship meant they were embarking on forever at this very moment.

Part of him strained to dash for the door, to down the rest of the scotch until the unquenchable thirst for Daniella faded from memory. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with the other part that compelled him to accept everything she was offering him, even the alarming nebulous nonphysical things.

“So the touching moratorium is lifted?” he asked. “Or is this the precursor to another round of rules?”

Apparently he wasn’t finished lashing out at her. If he infuriated her enough to leave, they could go back to circling each other and he’d put off finding out exactly how weak he was.

He didn’t want her to leave.

“This is about nothing more than being together. Do whatever feels right to you.” She spread her arms, jutting out her perfectly mounded breasts. His mouth tingled and he imagined he could taste one. “Standing here in nothing other than a tiny thong is turning me into Jell-O. I’d really like it if you’d kiss me now.”

“A thong?” He’d been so focused on her front, the back hadn’t even registered. The feel of silk beneath his pinky when he’d pushed past the fabric at her waist during the party rushed back and he groaned.

Slowly, she half turned and cocked a hip, bare cheek thrust out. “I wore it for you. Hoping you’d pick tonight to make me your wife in more than name only.”

He was so hard he couldn’t breathe. Let alone walk. Or kiss. Neither was he ready to cross that line, to find out how far she’d suck him down the rabbit hole if he gave in to the maelstrom of need.

Her lips curved up in a secret, naughty smile. Palms flat against her waist, she smoothed them downward over the curve of her rear, down her thighs. “If you’re not going to touch me, I’ll just do it myself.”