Exposed

  I gave her my gift earlier, a pair of flawless, two-carat, emerald cut diamond earrings that perfectly match the five-carat diamond engagement ring I slipped on her finger during the plane ride here. I bought them this morning when I was getting the ring because I couldn’t resist the thought of seeing her wearing them and nothing else, but I didn’t expect her to get me anything—after all, the wedding was about as short notice as we could get.

  I strip off my jacket and ruined dress shirt before kicking off my shoes and settling on the bed with the bottle of champagne on the nightstand next to me and Chloe’s present on my stomach. I don’t open it—I’ll wait for her for that—but I do shake it a little. Unlike my wife of three and a half hours, I love surprises. Especially when they come from her.

  Whatever’s in the box shifts and moves, piquing my curiosity. In the bathroom, the shower cuts off, and a couple minutes later, Chloe pokes her head out of the bathroom door. Her face is scrubbed clean, her hair piled on top of her head in a haphazard topknot, and she’s dressed in nothing but a white hotel towel.

  She’s never looked more beautiful.

  “Well?” she asks with a mischievous grin. “Are you going to open it?”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Excuse me, but when I come to bed, I expect to be the only present you open for quite a while.” She nods toward the box. “Go ahead. Look inside.”

  And with that, she closes the bathroom door with a loud crack that echoes through the suite.

  It’s stupid, but my hands are shaking as I follow her orders, tugging at the ribbon that is the only thing keeping the lid on the box. Except it’s not stupid, is it? Because it isn’t nerves that have me trembling—Chloe is my wife and nothing can change that now. It’s relief. Overwhelming, all-encompassing relief that we made it through all the bullshit to end up here. No matter what happens, no matter what the future brings, she’s mine now. She’ll always be mine.

  With that thought running through my head on a loop, I open the box. And laugh in delight. Because this is just one more piece of evidence proving that Chloe knows me better than anyone else on earth. It’s a cookbook, one devoted exclusively to smoothie recipes.

  I lift it out of the box and find there are a bunch of other little things beneath it. Because, when I’m not going for the grand gesture, that’s what Chloe and I do. We collect little things that remind us of each other and send them to each other just because. I started it with a Vitamix and a bunch of strawberries—hence the smoothie cookbook—but after a not-so-brief power struggle over the blender, Chloe went with it. Because she gets me. Because she knows what the wacky collections of odds and ends she sends mean to me.

  I start with the cookbook, opening the front cover to find Chloe has written, “To Ethan: If I’m going to be waking up to a smoothie every morning for the rest of my life, I figure you need a few new recipes. Xoxo, Chloe

  I’m still grinning as I flip through the book, noting a couple recipes (sans blueberries, of course) that I think my wife might like. Then I move on to the rest of the treasures at the bottom of the box, and impossibly, I grow even happier. Because the collection of mismatched things proves that Chloe has been thinking about me a lot, even in the time we were broken up. There’s no way all of the things here came from high-end boutiques in Vegas. Which means she brought some of them with her from California. Which means she was collecting them for me even when we weren’t together.

  The knowledge warms me because I’ve been doing the same thing. Even as I told myself to let her go, even as I swore that it would be better for her not to have to look at me every day and be reminded of what my brother did to her, I’d been picking up little things I thought she would like. Odds and ends that I hoped would make her smile. That she was doing the same—that she’d been as unwilling to let go of what we had as I’d been—means more than I can even wrap my head around.

  The first thing I pick up from the bottom of the box is a piece of sea glass the same bright, verdant green as Chloe’s eyes. It’s smooth and shiny and cold, rounded at the edges from years of being tossed around in the ocean, of being beaten against the shore. Instinctively, I close my eyes and make a wish as I turn the glass between my thumb and forefinger again and again and again. It’s something Chloe taught me to do weeks ago, when we first found a piece of sea glass—red that time—on the private beach near my house in La Jolla. She’d insisted our wishes be frivolous then. Tonight, I’m hard-pressed to keep my wish light. Not when I now have so much to lose.

  I slip the now warm glass into my pants pocket for safekeeping, then pick up the small box of salted caramels from Whole Foods that she’s also given me. I mentioned once, in passing, that they were my favorite. I can’t believe she remembered.

  Next comes a small, strawberry-scented candle from Mr. Zog’s. Again, it blows me away that she remembered strawberry’s my favorite sex wax scent—she’s only seen me surf a few times, seen me wax my surfboard even less, and yet she still manages to get the scent right.

  The fourth item I pick up is a heavy keychain in silver and gold. It’s a compass, beautifully crafted and totally functional—I can’t stop myself from holding it up and checking to see if it can find due north. It can, and as I admire it some more, I notice that the back is just a little rougher than I expect it to be. Turning it over, I read the words Chloe had engraved for me.

  For Ethan, the man who will always be my home.

  A wave of love swamps me, so overwhelming that my heart stutters in my chest and I can’t help wondering if, by the time morning creeps across the sky, there will be any part of my soul that she doesn’t own. Any portion that still belongs to me. Or if I’ll miss the loss…or even notice it.

  I gently put the compass aside, then reach for the last thing in the box—a small piece of translucent paper, folded several times. I pull it out, unfold it slowly, then read the words scrawled across it in Chloe’s flowing script.

  I wonder if your body wants mine the way mine wants yours—the kisses—the hotness—the wetness—all melting together—the being held so tight that it hurts—the strangle and the struggle.

  —From a love letter by Georgia O’Keeffe to Alfred Stieglitz

  Fuck.

  My cock grows hard at the words, at the darkness and the power and the need revealed by every syllable. I’ve had Chloe half a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours and still it doesn’t seem to matter. I want her with everything I have, everything I am. I always will.

  I’m nearly desperate for her at this point, can’t help thinking about storming the bathroom and yanking her into my arms where she belongs. The only thing holding me back is that this is Chloe’s wedding night and I want to make it as perfect for her as I possibly can. Even if it means that I go stark, raving mad.

  In an effort to keep my mind off the desire breaking over me in powerful waves, I read the words again, trace my fingers over the flirty loops and lines that are as much Chloe as her wild curls and cool intellect are. I close my eyes, let O’Keeffe’s passion swamp me, pull me under, as I half-compose a letter of my own to the woman that I love. I don’t get very far, just a few words—I’m a scientist, not a poet—before the bathroom door opens.

  I turn to her, expecting—I don’t know what. Something sexy. Maybe even something crazy and risqué—Tori did pick it out, after all. What greets me instead is a Chloe right out of my deepest, darkest fantasies. Instead of a sexy teddy like I was expecting, she’s wearing a long white nightgown. The neckline is cut in a deep V that shows her beautiful breasts, but the rest of the gown covers her pretty well. At least until she turns a little and I see the long, sheer panels that run the length of her body on both sides of the gown, giving me tantalizing glimpses of the curve of her breast, the shadow of her waist, the roundness of her hip.

  She looks stunning. Gorgeous. And so unbelievably sensual that it takes every ounce of concentration I have not to drool. Or swallow my own tongue.


  I’m not sure if she recognizes my dilemma or if she just wants to fuck with me. Either way, she starts walking toward the bed, a huge grin on her face. “So, did you pick out a smoothie to make when we get home?”

  A smoothie? Every ounce of blood in my body just rushed straight to my dick and she wants me to think about a smoothie recipe? She’s expecting an awful lot out of me. Still, I take a deep breath. Force myself to rally. Do my best not to leap on her like a starving hyena with a gazelle. It’s not easy when my fingers are literally itching to touch her.

  “I—” My voice is low, rusty. I stop, clear my throat. Try again. And this time I don’t let myself think about licking my way from the top to the bottom of one of the translucent panels. “I was thinking the blueberry-almond recipe sounded pretty good.”

  She bursts out laughing, exactly as I intend her to. Then she’s moving into my arms, cuddling against my chest even as she threatens, “Try it and you’ll be wearing the drink this time.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.” I press kisses to her collarbone, to her neck, to the top of her breasts. “As long as you lick it off me.”

  “You wish. It’s more likely that I’ll drown you in it.”

  “So you keep saying.” I sit down on the bed, pull her between my knees as I slide the thin silk straps off her shoulders, following their journey with my tongue.

  “Yeah, well, one of these days I’m actually going to do it.” She’s a little breathless now, a little restless. Exactly how I like her.

  “Of course you are.” I cup her ass in my hands, pull her into my body, until her sex is nestled right up against my cock. “But if you drown me, who’s going to get you off?” I run my thumb lightly over her clit as I whisper the words against her skin.

  Chloe shudders, presses her hips forward into my touch even as she says, “I can get myself off, thank you very much.”

  The image goes through me like lightning. “Now that, Mrs. Frost, is something I would very much like to see.”

  She laughs, rolls her eyes. But her cheeks are pink, her skin hot to the touch.

  “You look gorgeous,” I tell her, before pulling her into my lap and rolling so that she’s beneath me. Then I guide her hand to her sex. “Show me.”

  Her eyes grow wide. “Show you…”

  She knows what I’m asking, but I can tell it embarrasses her almost as much as it intrigues her. It’s a reminder that, for all intents and purposes, my wife was a virgin before she met me, so traumatized by what happened with Brandon that she could never bring herself to trust another man. That she chose me, that she trusts me even now when I’m introducing her to something that obviously makes her a little uncomfortable…the knowledge is humbling.

  Threading my fingers through hers, I keep my eyes on her face to make sure she’s okay with what I’m doing. She meets my gaze steadily, takes a deep breath. I’m not sure if it’s nerves or excitement or both, but I’m about to ease away, to try something else that won’t freak my wife out quite so much, when she spreads her legs, opening herself to whatever I want to do to her.

  The knowledge sends a shock of need straight through me, but I tamp it down. Focus on Chloe. On giving her what she needs. On making sure she’s okay.

  Slowly, so slowly that I can feel sweat rolling down my spine with the effort it takes not to just thrust inside of her and fuck her until she screams my name, I press the tip of her index finger to her sex. She gasps, her hand jerking a little beneath mine.

  I keep my grip gentle but firm as I hold her there.

  As I kiss her lush, swollen lips.

  As I whisper words of encouragement, of love, against her mouth.

  She whimpers deep in her throat, and there’s enough distress in the sound that I immediately back off, releasing her hand and lifting my body away from hers. The last thing I want her to think is that I’m pushing her into something she doesn’t want to do.

  She whimpers again, but with my new vantage point I can tell that it’s not distress at the situation that she’s feeling. No, if the look on her face is anything to go by, she’s not upset with what’s happening right now. She’s aroused by it.

  “Show me,” I tell her again. “I want to see.”

  She bites her bottom lip, but she nods despite the uncertainty in her face. And then—slowly, slowly, slowly—she strokes her finger across her clit.

  She gasps at the sensation, then does it again and again and again before sliding her finger lower to stroke the dark pink lips of her sex. As she does, her other hand creeps up to toy with her left breast. I nearly swallow my tongue as she pinches her nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Ethan.” She calls my name softly as her eyes slide closed. And then she’s moaning low in her throat, her finger moving around her clit in slow, precise circles that have my heart pounding and my breath stuttering in my chest.

  I’m transfixed as I watch her, gaze glued to her trembling hand, her arching hips, her desire-slicked sex. She’s totally open to me, totally exposed, and she’s never been more beautiful.

  Her movements are still a little shy, a little nervous, and somehow that only turns me on more. Well, that and the knowledge that no other man has seen her like this. And that no other man will ever see her like this, now.

  I’m a little shocked at the primitiveness of my response, of the jealousy that rips through me at just the thought of another man seeing what I am. I’ve never felt like this for a woman, never cared enough to wonder about who came before me…or who would come after me.

  But from the very beginning, things were different with Chloe. She’s like water, so fluid that even before I knew about our twisted pasts, it felt like she would slip through my fingers the first chance she got. Maybe that’s why I feel the need to brand her, to mark her as mine. The belly chain, the bracelet, the love bites, the wedding ring with a diamond big enough to warn off any other man who might think about looking at her.

  “Ethan.” She calls my name again, this time as her eyes flutter open.

  “I’m here, love.” I cup her cheek in my palm, stroke my thumb softly across her lips.

  I mean the touch to be reassuring, thankful, worshipping, but then she does something unexpected, as only Chloe can. She opens her mouth and bites at my thumb, hard. Then sucks it into her mouth, laving the small hurt with the tip of her tongue.

  I’ve been hanging on to rational thought by a thread, here, and the feel of her mouth around me—warm and wet and willing—is enough to snap the last tenuous tether.

  I all but throw myself over her, pulling my thumb out of her mouth and crushing my lips down on hers in one smooth movement.

  And then my tongue is in her mouth, my dick is in her body and she’s wrapped around me—arms and legs and hair holding me to her with the same kind of desperation that I’m feeling. The same kind of desperation that drives me to take her over and over and over again. To claim her. To make her mine. To make sure everyone knows that she’s mine and will always be mine.

  Suddenly, she rips her mouth from mine. “I love you,” she gasps. “I love you so much.”

  That’s all it takes to send me up and over. Orgasm hits me hard, turning my blood to molten lava and raking claws of unspeakable ecstasy down my spine. Desperate to take Chloe with me, I slide a hand between us. Stroke her clit, once, twice. Then she’s coming, too, crying out as her body clenches around mine.

  I’m dazed, overwhelmed, in absolute awe of this woman who I now get to call mine. I tighten my arms around her, pulling her closer, until the sweat on her skin mixes with the sweat on mine. Closer, until her breath mingles with mine. Impossibly closer still, until her heart and my heart beat in perfect time.

  She relaxes against me, her lips brushing my neck. Her cheek resting against my shoulder.

  It’s almost enough to keep the rest of the world at bay.

  Almost.

  Chapter 10

  He doesn’t know I’m awake and I don’t do anything to change that fact
. For a moment, I think about rolling over or sitting up or even calling his name. But if I do, he’ll hang up. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. And while I very much want him to crawl back in beside me, to pull my back against his front so that I can feel every part of him against every part of me, that won’t tell me what I want to know.

  The thing is, if you’d asked me an hour ago, I would have told you there wasn’t anything for me to know. After all, we’ve been here four days and I’ve been with Ethan pretty much every second of every day. Except for a couple trips to the spa or the shops with Tori while Ethan hung with Sebastian, we’ve had an amazing honeymoon. We spent the entire day after our wedding holed up in this suite, making love, eating the most decadent treats room service had to offer, talking about nothing—and everything. It was wonderful, the longest Ethan and I have ever gone without our pasts intruding in any way. It was better than wonderful. It was glorious.

  After the first day, Ethan insisted we actually take advantage of some of the things Vegas is known for. We gambled at the high-roller tables at the Atlantis, saw the fountains at the Bellagio, dined at some of the finest restaurants the city has to offer, got great seats at an Imagine Dragons concert one night and the Atlantis’s Cirque show the other night—and this time we actually went. We lazed by the private, high-roller pool, even made love in the hot tub late last night when no one else was around.

  Ethan insisted on taking me shopping, then pouted when all I’d let him buy me was a Las Vegas T-shirt and some new underwear to replace the ones he’s been ripping at an alarming rate. But that’s because he still doesn’t understand. I’ve got him. I don’t want anything else. At least nothing that his money can buy me. And what I do want—respect, a career I can be proud of, a chance to use my law degree to help people—won’t mean anything if he hands them to me. Even on our honeymoon. Especially on our honeymoon.

  Of course, Ethan insists that this isn’t our real honeymoon. For that, he wants to take me to Paris or Greece or a small island near Bali that he just happens to own. But I don’t need fancy trips, any more than I need the fancy ring he bought me. I just need him and a few days for us to be together without the pressure of the outside world creeping in.