should finish getting dressed yourself.” She waved at his open shirt, her eyes lingering even as she turned her head. “We’ve got to get going pretty quickly.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he said again, making a mental note, once this better-than-a-late-night-cable-show was over and they left the villa, not to let Megan bend over for anything.
Catching on to his level of distraction, Megan shot him a scathing glare...one that quickly dissolved into laughter. “This is ridiculous. Stop staring so I can get my shoes!”
Then, eyes to the ceiling, she muttered something adorably mild about men and Jodie and wishing she had a parka.
“Okay, low of me,” he conceded, not even trying to make it believable. “I’m sorry.”
“Right.” She laughed, only, the sultry sound of it died on her lips as he stepped close, catching her hips in his hands, giving in to the temptation to flex his fingers...just once.
Megan’s eyes went wide at the undeniably intimate contact, and he waited, gauging her response.
When she didn’t push him away, he backed her toward the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you sit, and I’ll help you with the shoes.”
* * *
Megan perched at the edge of the bed, still reeling from the feel of Connor’s hands sliding over her hips, moving the fabric against her skin as he guided her to where he wanted her to be. She shouldn’t have allowed it. Should have done more than stare up at him helplessly. But something inside her wouldn’t react to Connor as a stranger.
Her body remembered him...even if her mind did not.
She wanted him. This sexy barefoot man, dressed in black tuxedo pants and a crisp, white shirt hanging dangerously open as he teased her. And for the first time, she understood the kind of mind-numbing allure that led women to make the worst decisions of their lives. And smile about it after.
Connor swept up her shoes with a finger through the straps and then knelt in front of her to lift her foot. “Do they hurt after all the walking last night?” he asked, running his thumb around her heel and then up through her arch.
She stared, too caught up in the intimacy of the scene and how shockingly good it felt to respond with more than the barest shake of her head.
“Good.” Eyes locked with hers, he slipped the point of her shoe over her toes, gently fitting the heel and running a lazy circle around her ankle with his thumb. She watched, breathless, as his large hands deftly worked the delicate glass-beaded strap through its buckle.
So unbelievably sexy.
It was unreal.
It was...a fairy tale. Which was bad.
This man was telling her their marriage was based on the kind of up-front honesty and pragmatic realism that kept expectations attainable. And yet, everything about him—his incredible looks, his wealth, his knack for saying exactly what she needed to hear and, most of all, his romantic overtures—screamed too good to be true.
So what was she doing buying into the charade?
Letting herself see them years from now, chatting as they dressed together for some coming event.
Connor’s finger slipped beneath the buckled strap. “Okay?”
“Perfect.” Like everything else he’d shown her. Only, nothing and no one were actually perfect.
Connor’s mouth pulled into a rueful slant. “You make perfect sound like it’s not such a good thing. And like you aren’t talking about your shoe.”
But she was talking about the shoe, only not the way it fit.
“You’re telling me this marriage between us is going to work because we aren’t bringing any fairy-tale expectations into it. But here you are, down on one knee, fitting a glass slipper on my foot. Everything you do and say is like some fantasy come to life...which makes it hard to know what reality is actually going to feel like.”
Connor gave her a thoughtful nod and set down her bejeweled foot. “I admit, I’m making every effort to sweep you off your feet. I want you to fall for me.”
He picked up her other foot, giving it the same attention as the first. “But if it puts your mind to rest, I’m pretty sure Prince Charming wasn’t using the old shoe excuse just to get his hands on his wife’s leg.”
Buckles complete, he let his hands skim up over her calves, stroking a light path behind her knees as he went on. “What’s more, based on the target audience for those stories, I’d really hope he wasn’t entertaining the kind of thoughts running through my mind as I watched you wrestling your short skirt. Because there was nothing PG about where my head was at.”
“Really?”
A nod. “Strictly X stuff. I promise.”
“Connor.” His name was a plea on her lips, and the moment it sounded, the humor in his eyes faded and the lines of his face hardened.
“We’re good together, Megan. It’s not about glass slippers or fairy tales or love at any sight. It’s not about private schools or mutual goals or any of the other things we’ve talked about today. It’s about you and me fitting together. It’s about this feeling of rightness you told me about last night. The one I’ve had since I met you. And I keep seeing signs of it today. Tell me. Tell me you feel it too.”
“I feel it.” The connection was there. Undeniable between them.
But whether feeling right together for one day was the same as actually being right together through the rest of their lives...
“I just don’t know—” The words died in her throat at the sight of the burning heat staring down at her. The desire blazing in his eyes. Desire for her.
The same desire firing through her body, spilling hot through her center and filling her mind with a smoky haze. Suddenly she wanted those big hands everywhere on her. She didn’t want to worry about good judgment or long-term consequences. She simply wanted this man, whose promises sounded too good to be true, to deliver on the one in his eyes.
“Connor,” she whispered, drawing her leg slowly in, and the man with it. “You make me want...”
God, she couldn’t say it. Couldn’t even think it. All her rational thought was tangled up in the rising awareness between them, the slow glide of his touch over her skin, the need simmering between them.
And then he was off the floor, one hand moving from her leg to brace on the mattress beside her hip. The other climbing to the outside of her shoulder, so all she could do was lie back, staring into his eyes as his large body moved over her own. His knee replaced his left hand at her hip, and she was surrounded.
He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body, the wash of his breath against her jaw, the tickle of his open shirt grazing her arms. Decadent. Intimate. Too seductive to resist. Her fingers closed around the draping fabric, pulling him toward her until only the barest space remained.
She pulled again. A subtle nudge. Then a stronger tug, but all it earned her was another
