Page 82 of The Perfect Wrong

I look away sharply, fighting back a smile.

Something makes me lunge forward and grab her then. I spin her around gently, digging my fingers into her hip till she breaks and can’t stop laughing with me.

For a second, we stop fretting over the tension, the litany of questions about what sharing a bed means, if it means anything at all.

Then reality hits me in the face. Literally.

Her palm smacks my cheek and I drop her.

Damn, do I love that sting.

It feels the same way aged bourbon tastes.

“There you are, princess. Feisty as ever. You had me worried,” I say, staring until she snaps her face away from me.

“Just don’t do anything stupid, Chris. I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret it,” she says softly, a serious weight in her big brown eyes. “We can’t mess around again. Not here. Not ever.”

Not true,a dark, buried voice inside me roars.

She doesn’t need to know I’m in a war with that voice right now.

So I smile, push my hand into hers, and force my eyes to the breathtaking scenery below.

“Whatever you say, babe. As soon as you’ve had your fill feeding your muse for your next pretty painting, let’s go have some fun.”

9

Tart Red Disaster (Delia)

One bed.

One big, tiny, pillowy puff of ten thousand stitch silk that feels like it’s made of a billion needles.

I regret not going out exploring earlier. But the sheer exhaustion and shock of this surprise meant never leaving the hotel, even if I agreed to let Chris lead me around this luxurious palace to a dinner fit for a—princess.

I know, I know.

But I’m glad I did.

Besides taking the edge off the awkwardness of theone bed problem,the delicious four course meal gave me a chance to stuff myself with savory meats and rich desserts I thought might summon the Sandman.

...except, so far, he’s nowhere to be found.

My belly actually rumbles from nerves when I roll over to face him again.

If Chris feels my torture, he doesn’t show it.

He’s sprawled out like a lion after a long day’s hunt, his magnificent, powerful body stretched in a peaceful slumber. A soft snore ripples out of him every few breaths—nothing like the deafening logs Dad saws in his sleep—and it makes me smile.

He’s yanked the thin sheet halfway down in his sleep, exposing a shamelessly bare chest.

I can just make out the trident inked across his muscle in the dreamy blue low night light of our room.

I’m also able to see about a mile of rock-solid man.

But for a body made for so much punishment, he’s a gentle giant tonight, sleeping so deeply and beautifully it makes me a little jealous.

And that jealousy makes me the lightest sleeper ever.