Chapter 48

48

Mira

"It’s… I’m not crying. Not really. It was the music. It was haunting and sad and hopeful, all at the same time."

"The dance before when someone you love becomes a memory," he murmurs.

I widen my gaze, but before I can say anything, he places a finger on my lips. "That was my past. Mired in darkness, filled with a yearning I thought was for my past, when it was me anticipating my future. Anticipating a curvy woman who would sweep into my life and turn my plans upside down. A future which is here. A future I want to see with you. A future which is you."

"Eddie." I move in closer.

He releases my hand only to wrap his arms about my waist. "Forgive me for everything I did to get you here."

"There’s nothing to forgive."

He smiles a little. There’s something sad in the turn of his lips, something that squeezes my heart. "What is it? Please, tell me."

He hesitates, when the next song comes over the speakers. The familiar notes fill the space, and "Ceilings" by Lizzy McAlpine, starts to play. I was not expecting that. Especially after that classical music piece that almost torn my heart out. Not that "Ceilings" isn’t sad, but there's something about that first piece that was timeless. Something that forced my emotions to the surface. Something that made me feel I’d been afforded another peek into his soul.

"That’s an eclectic play list," I murmur.

"I’m an eclectic man."

"You don’t say." I loop my arms about his neck. "It suits you. You’re not what I expected you to be, Mr. Chase."

"Neither are you, Mrs. Chase."

My heart stutters. My fingers tremble. I'm not used to being referred to as Mrs. Chase. At the office, no one dares call me that. I'm still his assistant, and no one has even alluded to our marriage. Either they haven’t heard about it—which can’t possibly be true, considering I’ve seen the women eyeing my ring—or he told them not to ask me about it. I frown. "Did you tell the people at the office not to ask me about our marriage?"

His features turn into that mask I’m beginning to recognize as his refuge when he doesn’t want to speak.

"You did, didn’t you?"

"I might have sent a company-wide email, one which you were not copied on." He continues to lead me in a slow dance, one in which his thighs press against mine, his hips cradle mine, his chest is like steel against mine, and his hands… His big palms are like a brand on the curve of my hips. He slides them down to cup my butt-cheeks and I shiver.

"You’re d-distracting me," I stutter.

"Am I succeeding?"

"Almost." I look between his eyes. "Why did you do that?"

"I knew you wanted to work and be independent. You want a life outside the house. You want to find out who you really are and what your likes and dislikes are. You want to get to know yourself better, and I didn’t want to stand in the way. And I wanted you to have it, without being embarrassed that you're my wife. I don’t want you to work anywhere else, either. I want you with me, but also I want you to feel comfortable coming into work."

"You knew this, even though I never mentioned a word to you?" My steps slow. "And you were looking out for me in ways that never would have occurred to me." When was the last time someone was so considerate toward me? So thoughtful, so attentive? He might come across as cold and insensitive, but really, the opposite is true.

"Don’t make me out to be something I’m not," he warns.

"I’m not. I’m drawing my conclusion based on facts."

We slow to a stop. The song over the speakers changes to The Weeknd’s cover of "Jealous Guy." While Lennon was supreme, The Weeknd brings something darker, deeper, almost twisted to the lyrics, while losing none of the pain of the original. If any song embodies my hot priest, this is it.

"Don’t believe everything you see. It may be different from what you interpret it to be."

"Not possible." I slide my palm down to place it over his heart. Bam-bam-bam. The thunder of the beats mirrors mine. "Your heart doesn’t lie."

"Neither does my cock."

I slide my hands down to cup the bulge between his legs. I squeeze, and his shoulders seem to swell. The expression on his face doesn’t change, though.

"Or my mouth." He bends and places his lips on mine. His mouth is hard, but his kiss is so sweet, he simply shares my breath and continues to brush his lips over mine, slowly, so slowly. I melt into him. He drags me up on tiptoe, and that bulge at his crotch feels like a boulder, only hotter, and alive, and throbbing with unspent desire. I moan into his mouth, and his grip tightens, but his lips stay barely touching mine. Fireflies seem to have taken flight in my belly. I seem to be lit up from inside, the need for him burning bright. "Eddie," I whine.

He cups my cheek and looks into my eyes. "Remember this moment, baby. Remember how much I want you. Remember how every part of me needs you. How every breath I take is for you. Only you. Remember."

There’s something fervent in his gaze. Something vehement and fiery, and yet also, guarded. Something he wants me to recognize without coming out and telling me. Is it about himself? About me? About?—

He looks over my head, then turns me around to face the glass window. "Look."