“Is there a way to make my bedroom hotter?” I ask as he walks me upstairs at the end of another night of socialising. This was a less formal event, a dinner party. Dom sat next to me, his arm around my shoulders, as I chatted with Jessa Lambeth about fairy smut. He didn’t talk much, just listening and toying with my hair. Dropping the occasional kiss to my cheek with measured affection.
Always the distant gentleman, my fake husband.
I’m going to try to break him.
Dom shoots me a dark look. “You’re cold?”
“A little.” I wonder how far I can take this? “I think I’d sleep better if it was warmer, and I wasn’t squashed under the blankets.”
“You’re finding it difficult to sleep?”
“Oh, no, I reassure him. I just wake up cold.” And alone. “I thought it would be nicer to be warm. Granny’s house is always warm. Probably too hot for most people.” I laugh and cross my fingers behind my back to dispel the lie. Surely Granny wouldn’t mind me slighting her excellent housekeeping if she knew it was such a good cause.
A horny cause, admittedly.
However perfectly he plays the loving husband in public, he never touches me when we’re alone and I’m awake. But last night’s brushes of his hands on my skin have kindled a burning need in me. I want him to lose control.
So I’m going to lure him. Tempt him. If he needs me to be asleep to reveal his desires?
Okay. Game on.
“I’m used to sleeping without any covers.” Absolute untruth. Is my nose growing? “So can I turn up the heating?”
It might be, judging by how Dom is looking at me.
“Yes,” he grits out. “There’s a thermostat. It’s—”
“Will you show me?” I want to get him in my room, like I’m a nineties pop song.
He nods with the sort of reluctance usually reserved for major operations and situations where someone could die.
“I looked around here for it.” I gesture at the bookshelves containing the special editions. I’ve been thinking about these a lot, especially since Dom added to the collection at the charity auction. “But I could only find these amazing books. I couldn’t believe you have this author in particular.” I tap the spines of the hockey romances that I was reading only last week. “I love them, and they’re indie published so not in the usual bookshops.”
My fake husband looks more uncomfortable than a penguin in a sauna, and swallows. “Mmm.”
“I wondered how you ended up with them?” I ask innocently.
“The thermostat is here.” He turns away, and moves to behind the door, where there’s a little panel.
Well. Of course it is. I knew that.
“Ooo, thank you.” I follow and deliberately slide in close.
He sucks in a breath as my arm brushes his. We do this in public all the time, but now we’re alone it has taken on a frisson of the forbidden.
“There…” He hesitates as I get closer under the pretence of looking at the temperature. “I’ve turned it up for you.”
“Maybe a bit more?” I suggest, leaning across him, seemingly to reach the dial.
He jumps back as the side of my breast touches his chest. Even through the layers of his formal clothes and my dress, contact between us is electric, as though in the short minutes since we were in public with a reason to be all performative affection, it’s built up a static charge.
I need more of him, and I have to know what the truth is here. My devoted husband when we’re on show, the carefully distanced man when we’re alone, or the gritty guilty, obsessed lover I saw last night.
“I’ll leave you to it. The room should warm up quickly, so hopefully you’ll sleep well.”
“I’m sure I will.” I’m looking forward to tonight.
He gives me a jerky nod, and strides to the door, then hesitates.
“You can lock this,” he reminds me.
“I know,” I say lightly. “But it’s safe, isn’t it?”
“You’re always protected in my house,” he replies roughly. “But I’d rather you felt secure, so you should lock your door.”
“I feel good.” When he touches me, I feel wanted and cherished. I had no idea there was so much power in being desired.
There’s something about the way that Dom said he needed me last that makes my spine tingle. Safe, yes. Because no one hurts someone they need.
I smile innocently.
He scowls.
“I’ll try to remember.”
“Good night, bambola,” he growls, and swings the door shut behind him.
“Good night!” I chirp back, then add under my breath, “For now.”
