My husband.
The words feel foreign and ridiculous, like they belong in someone else’s life. Yet here I am, standing in the middle of this man’s ridiculously fancy kitchen.
I thought I must have imagined how good looking he was in my head, but in the light of day, that sparkling blue gaze of his nearly knocks the wind out of me.
And, God... he’s in sweatpants. Only sweatpants.
Benedict Worthington—mysterious billionaire and my new husband—is standing there shirtless, wearing only a pair of very thin, cotton sweatpants.
He’s so fucking hot. His broad chest and ripped abs are on full display, and my eyes can’t help but travel down, down…to where those sweats sit way too low on his hips.
I know what’s beneath those sweatpants.
The memory of our night together heats my cheeks. And images flash unbidden through my mind—the way his hands gripped my waist, his lips trailing fire down my neck, the quiet groan he let out when I whispered his name. My entire body remembers every little detail, and the ache it stirs is intense. .