Buying the BrideBy: Penny Wylder
“We do, but it’s not finished.”
I reach up and cup his face in my hands, bringing him down to my level. I’m insane. I’ve completely lost my mind. I shouldn’t be doing this. But the more I think about it, the more I want it, and I know if I don’t kiss him right now, I’ll regret it.
His hands grip my waist, pulling me against him. The anticipation makes me light headed as his eyes flicker toward my lips. I lift my chin. The tip of his tongue brushes against his bottom lip, wetting it. The thought of tasting those perfect lips makes my stomach flutter.
Our lips gently come together, soft and slow, tasting, testing each other out. He opens his mouth slightly and I open mine. Just the tips of our tongues touch in a shy greeting, but it doesn’t take long for the heat between us to catch fire and suddenly we’re engulfed.
I breathe him in, that expensive scent I will always associate with him from now on. I remember the softness of his tongue, the taste of his lips. I try to memorize every little thing about this perfect moment to keep with me forever. Put it in my pocket and pull it out whenever I need to feel beautiful and wanted. That’s how I feel when he kisses me. I know this whole marriage is a sham, but this kiss isn’t. No one can fake a kiss like this.
Heath’s fingers dig into the skin of my lower back, our hips pressed so tightly together that one of us is either going to turn into a diamond or our bodies are going to merge into one.
His tongue is soft, but eager. I pull my hands through his hair, and there’s something entirely fulfilling about messing it up. He doesn’t seem to mind getting messy with me. Like he said, messy is good. He’s hard for me. I can feel him pressed against my stomach, and it’s delightfully painful. I’m wet for him, but he can’t feel that. By the way I devour his mouth, I’m sure he knows.
We finally pull away when we hear voices nearby. A couple of older women walk past us, giggling to each other. Heath doesn’t seem bothered by getting caught. His eyes still have that hungry look in them, but it’s obvious that he’s restraining himself. He reaches up to tame his hair. Even after he manages to press it back into a similar shape that it was before I destroyed it, there’s still something tousled about it. That perfect coif won’t stand a chance when all of our clothes are off.
The thought startles me a moment, and I have to remember this isn’t an actual date. I’m not here to sleep with him. This is a job I’m being paid to do, and I am NOT a prostitute.
Heath lets out a slow, shaky breath and smooths down his wrinkled suit jacket. “Now we’re love?”
I nod. “Yep, that’s when we fell in love.”
His smile cuts me off at the knees. I want nothing more than to fly back into his arms and kiss him again. “Good. Now I have the details straight. This was an acceptable first meeting,” he says.
“Perfectly acceptable,” I say, that feeling in my core still raging. By the large mound tenting his suit pants, I’d say he’s still feeling it too.
I’m definitely going to need a cold shower and dry panties after this encounter.
The part of me that planned to keep Sylph at a distance has started to crumble. I wasn’t supposed to like her, let alone want to kiss her, and especially nothing more than that. She wasn’t at all what I was expecting.
When I think of a fake bride putting themselves out there for sale, I think of someone more expensive-looking—not more beautiful, of course. I don’t think there is anyone on this earth who is more naturally beautiful than Sylph. The type of expensive I’m talking about involves a lot of faux parts: sexy designer clothes, someone who indulges in surgery and too much makeup to keep themselves looking high-end, someone who flaunts her body and gives a man hungry eyes to get what she wants. Those sorts of tactics may work on some rich men, but not me. Most of those men don’t care. They know that if they didn’t have the appeal of money on their side, a woman who looked like that wouldn’t give them the time of day. And yet they don’t care. I’ve had women like that approach me many times in restaurants and bars. I know the type—that kind of girl just doesn’t happen to be my type.