Shopping for a CEO's Wife (Shopping for a Billionaire Book 12)
Page 25
We’re high in the sky, time suspended, kissing in a room where we’re building everything.
Together, we can do anything.
And based on the way Andrew moves against me, we’re about to do everything, too. A part of me that has been holding on to an idealistic hope, the kind that people mock in our edgy, sarcastic world, can’t stop grinning inside. Happiness like this, the kind that makes your skin buzz as a lover touches you, the kind that makes you more whole when you stroke your husband, the kind that fuels years of holding on until you prove your dreams were real and your fears were false, should be a right.
Not a privilege.
But I’m not the master of the universe, even if Andrew’s kiss makes me feel like a goddess, the press of his tongue against mine all fire, making my heart speed up and my body melt into him. I touch him the way I want to touch every part of the house. To possess it. Integrate it.
Own it.
And for him to touch me back the same way. A thousand images of a future I haven’t lived yet pour through me as Andrew walks me backward to the couch, the backs of my calves hitting the edge, our bodies falling into the soft cushions in a rush of fingers and buttons, hooks and belts, undoing and unraveling. We have to open ourselves before we can join together and close off from the world.
Forbidden excitement tinged with awe fills me as his familiar taste captivates my mouth, the scent of his hair against my nose all soap and skin. My nipples brush against his thin cotton shirt, then blissful warmth greets me as we’re half naked, fully ready, and Andrew stops to say, “We can move to a bed, you know. It’s our place. We can do whatever we want.”
“I want you,” I reply, the brush of belly against belly impossible to bear any longer without being connected fully, completely. He’s invited me into his memory – not just shared it with me through words, but included me in the ongoing evolution of integrating his past self with our present intimacy.
And we’re forging a future based on love -- breath by breath, kiss by kiss, stroke by stroke.
“You’ve got me.” Lush kisses keep us together as Andrew guides himself into me, my hair spilling down my chest, tickling the edges of my bare breasts. The light in the room is exquisite, like a confidante whispering permission for you to tell secrets no one else has ever heard, to speak with your body.
My body.
My fingers tell Andrew how much I love him with a nimble grace my mouth cannot master. My legs part for him, finding a path that gives him entry to my sacred self. My hair tickles his jaw as his kisses become deeper, hotter, more tantalizing, our rhythms joining. My hips move with his in a dance more primal and dear than any we dare show before others, but one we preserve for each other, an audience of one, with an explosive encore that we know is pending.
I’m lost, completely adrift in him body and soul, the urge inside me welling up as if impulse upon impulse have fused together to form a second bloodstream within, one pulsing through me by the energy of passion and love. I can’t take it, tears filling the corners of my eyes as he looks down at me, slowing and going gentle.
No words. His fingertips brush stray hair off my eyelashes, smiling as he does it, eyes telling me as our bodies cling to one another that he knows we have secrets to share and he’s telling me his stories one caress, one thrust, at a time. Tales become legends not because many people tell the story, but because the power of the message is too strong not to share. Andrew’s love shines in his eyes, and as I breathe in the unique scent of the house, a mix of dried wood, stone, thick wool, and Andrew, I know that until the day I die, that scent will evoke this pure fusion of love we’re feeling as each second ticks by.
I don’t say it. He doesn’t say it. Andrew reaches for my hand and threads our fingers together, then joins my other hand in his and we rock our way to oblivion, not caring who hears us, our lovemaking a profound act of protest while it meets the very definition of conformity. The wedding night ritual is as old as time, but tonight we merge as one flesh in a new partnership, one that time has never seen before.
And never will again.
As we breathe hard, hearts exploded and put back together, skin chilling in the cool living room where our need to consummate overtook our need for basic warmth, we both let out silent, raspy laughs, satisfied and whole.
He squeezes my hand, our fingers still twisted together. Then he rolls over, stands, and walks across the room in full, nude glory.
“Where are you going?”
“You’ll see. Hope you’re hungry.”
“Hungry?” My stomach growls. A deep, content chuckle echoes from the hallway as he reappears.
“What’s that?”
Nestling next to me, he hands me two forks, then reaches for the bakery box on the coffee table. Andrew pries the box open.
It’s a wedding cake. Two little LEGO figurines are on top of an orange cake with little Cheetos-Marshmallow treats strategically placed. Andrew removes one of the forks from my hand, holding his aloft.
“To us. To my lovely wife, Amanda, who has brought more joy into my life than I deserve.”
Clink. We toast with forks. He digs in. A mad case of the giggles overtakes me as I watch him take a bite.
“What’s so funny?” He says around a mouthful of cake.
“No plates? Just digging in? The only time I eat cake like this is — ” I cut off my own words, because I was about to say —
“During an Asshole Boyfriend Summit. I know.”
My eyes go wide. “You know?”
“Sure I do. And no more of those for you.” He swipes some frosting from the cake and dabs it on the end of my nose. “From now on, only Wonderful Husband Summits.”
“What’s a Wonderful Husband Summit look like?” I pretend to be skeptical.
He shrugs. “Like this. Sex. Nudity. Cake.”
“Mmmm, I like that. Way better than Asshole Boyfriend Summits, which generally involve bitterness, recrimination, self-doubt and deep discussions about castration techniques using an iPhone and a bobby pin.”
He waves his fork between us. “You have a vested interest in avoiding castration, you know. Can’t make babies without the boys.”
I stare at “the boys” and smile. “C5.” I move closer and blow lightly. “Ah! C4.”
“You keep that up, all you’ll ‘c’ is my naked body all weekend.”
“It’s our honeymoon. Isn’t that how this works?”
He grins, a spot of frosting next to his mouth. I kiss it away, the movement turning into a deep, sugary kiss.
“Speaking of which,” he adds as we break away, “we need to think about where we want to go. The wedding was a wee bit unorthodox.”
“You think?”
“And we’re not exactly rushing off to a resort.”
I look around the big living room and take another bite of cake, slowly rolling onto my back to look up at the post-and-beam ceiling. “I could hide here for a week with you and be happy.”
He stabs another bite of cake, then joins me, our bodies pressed against each other as we rest on the carpet, looking up. “Our children will be conceived here,” he says, Andrew’s baritone voice rushing through my blood, spreading the word to every part of me.
“That’s your first post-sex thought?”
“Yes.”
I look up at him, his smile infectious, his bare skin warming me, muscled thigh pressing into my hip in a way that makes me a captive audience. “It’s not like it’s a competition,” I counter, stroking his jaw. “We’re not in some kind of rush to produce the first grandchild.”
He looks at me without blinking.
And then his eyes narrow.
Oh, no.
:)
Move on to the next book in the New York Times bestselling Shopping series, Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby. That’s right! Shannon and Declan are going for it...with hilarious results!
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby
You know what’s even better than m
arrying a billionaire? Having his baby.
We’re ready. We’ve studied and planned, read all the birth and labor books, researched parenting classes, consulted our schedules, and it’s time.
And by “we,” I mean me.
Declan’s just ready for the ‘have lots of sex’ part. More than ready.
But there’s just one problem: my husband and his brother have this little obsession with competition.
And by ‘little,’ I mean stupid.
That’s right.
We’re not just about to try to bring a new human being into the world.
We have to do it better, faster, stronger.
Harder.
McCormick men don’t just have babies.
They engage in competitive billionaire Babythons.
I thought the hardest part about getting pregnant would be dealing with my grandchild-crazed mother, who will go nuts shopping for a billionaire’s baby.
Wrong.
Between conception problems, my mother’s desire to talk to the baby through a vaginacam, a childbirth class led by a drill sergeant, and a father-in-law determined to sign the kid up for prep school before Declan even pulls out, my pregnancy has turned out to be one ordeal after another.
But it’s nothing — nothing — compared to the actual birth.
Be sure to Like me on Facebook, join my reader group, and/or sign up for my newsletter to learn more about release dates for Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby on Amazon/Kindle.
Thank you so much for reading!
A note to readers
I had planned to write Shopping for a Highlander next, and have written part of it, but for various reasons, I realized I need to write Shopping for a CEO’s Wife and Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby first. Please know that Amy and Hamish’s book is coming eventually – but there are quite a few stories that are crying out for attention more than theirs.
Other Books By Julia Kent
Shopping for a Billionaire: The Collection (Parts 1-5 in one bundle, 500 pages!)
Shopping for a Billionaire 1
Shopping for a Billionaire 2
Shopping for a Billionaire 3
Shopping for a Billionaire 4
Christmas Shopping for a Billionaire
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancée
Shopping for a CEO
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Wife
Shopping for a CEO’s Fiancée
Shopping for an Heir
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Honeymoon
Shopping for a CEO’s Wife
Her Billionaires
It’s Complicated
Completely Complicated
It’s Always Complicated
Random Acts of Crazy
Random Acts of Trust
Random Acts of Fantasy
Random Acts of Hope
Randomly Ever After: Sam and Amy
Random Acts of Love
Random on Tour: Los Angeles
Merry Random Christmas
Maliciously Obedient
Suspiciously Obedient
Deliciously Obedient
Our Options Have Changed (with Elisa Reed)
Thank You For Holding (with Elisa Reed)
About the Author
Text JKentBooks to 77948 and get a text message on release dates!
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent turned to writing contemporary romance after deciding that life is too short not to have fun. She writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken.
She loves to hear from her readers by email at jkentauthor@gmail.com , on Twitter @jkentauthor, and on Facebook at facebook.com/jkentauthor
Visit her website at http://jkentauthor.com