Trust Fund Fiance - Naima Simone Page 0,39

expense for the place they would spend their honeymoon.

Honeymoon. She wrestled with the emotions twisting and tumbling inside her. Jesus. This was unreal. As unreal as the whirlwind trip to Las Vegas after leaving his office twenty-four hours ago. As unreal as the unexpectedly lovely and private ceremony under a candlelit and crystal-encrusted gazebo in the back of a chapel made of glass. As unreal as this elegant and richly appointed penthouse with its Italian marble foyer, sunken living room and lavish master bedroom.

Was it how she’d imagined her wedding and honeymoon to be?

No.

It was better because it was all her choice.

Somehow, it didn’t seem possible that just yesterday she’d rushed into Ezekiel’s office and demanded he marry her. She winced, her fingers tightening around the stem of her wineglass. Thinking back on her uncharacteristically rash act, she still couldn’t believe she’d done it.

Or that she’d kissed him.

Her belly executed a perfect swan dive as she lifted trembling fingers to her lips. A day later, and the imprint of his mouth was still on hers. He’d branded her. Years from now, she would no doubt still feel the pressure, the slight sting, the hungry possession of that kiss. What a sad commentary on her love life that it’d been better than the best sex she’d ever had. Ezekiel Holloway could own a woman’s soul with his mouth. No wonder he’d never lacked for company. No wonder women vied for a chance to spend just hours in his bed. Or out of it, for that matter.

She needed to stop thinking about him and other women.

Or that before this evening ended, she and Ezekiel would be swept up in the throes of passion.

Whispers of nerves and curls of heat tangled together inside her belly, and she exhaled, trying to calm both. If that kiss was any indication, Ezekiel was well versed in sex. She, on the other hand, not so much. There had only been a couple of men she’d been with in the last ten years. And while the experiences had been nice—God, how anemic nice sounded—the encounters hadn’t melted her bones or numbed her brain as just a mating of mouths with Ezekiel had. What would actual sex be like between them? Would he find her lacking? What if she—

“Stop it.”

She whipped around at the softly uttered command, a bit of the wine in her glass sloshing over the rim to dot the back of her hand. Silently cursing herself for her jumpiness, she lifted her hand to her mouth and sucked the alcohol from her skin.

Her heart thumped against her rib cage as Ezekiel’s gaze dipped to her lips and hand. That green, hooded gaze damn near smoldered, and it seized the breath from her lungs.

Clearing her throat, she snatched her attention from him and returned it to the almost overwhelming sight of Vegas. Not that the view could abolish him from her mind’s eye.

He’d ditched the black suit jacket he’d worn to their wedding, and the white shirt stretched over his wide shoulders, emphasizing their breadth. The sky blue tie had also been removed and the first few buttons undone, granting her a glimpse of the smooth brown skin at his throat and over his collarbone. The shirt clung to his hard, deep chest and flat, tapered waist. The black slacks embraced his muscled, long legs and couldn’t hide their strength.

She would know that strength tonight. Intimately.

Her lashes lowered, and she blindly lifted the glass to her lips again as her fingertips rose to her own collarbone and found the small scar there, rubbing over the raised flesh.

“Stop what?” she belatedly replied, her voice no louder than a whisper.

He didn’t immediately answer, but a stir of the air telegraphed his movement. A moment later, another touch from a larger, rougher finger replaced hers. She opened her eyes to meet his, even as he lightly caressed the mark marring her skin. She gasped, unable to hold it in.

Heat blasted from that one spot, spiraling through her like a blowtorch to her insides. It battled with the ice that tried to encase her. The ice of memories. Of pain beyond imagining.

His gaze lifted from just below her neck to meet her eyes, the intensity there so piercing, she wondered if patients going under the knife encountered the same trepidation. The same sense of overwhelming exposure and vulnerability.

“I’ve noticed you touch this place here...” He stroked the scar, and she couldn’t prevent the small shiver from working its way through her