“We belong to each other,” I say, marveling in the words even as I say them.

  He leans away from me and his eyes widen for a second before he blinks, then forces a weak smile.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask him.

  “It’s wild, isn’t it? What we just did?”

  I step out of his arms because if I don’t take these shoes off, I think I might lose feeling in my feet. I sit down in a puffy floral chair in the corner of the room.

  “Yes,” I say, looking up at him. “It could have been anyone, but it was you.”

  I lean forward to remove my shoes, wincing with pain, and suddenly Josh is kneeling before me.

  “Your feet hurt?” he asks me, his eyebrows furrowing, his lips turning down.

  “Mm-hm. My shoes are too tight.”

  He picks up my right foot and takes off the shoe, then does the same with my left. I lean back in the chair and sigh with relief as his hands cup my foot and start to gently massage it. He doesn’t look up at me but concentrates on his work, his thumbs working in a circular motion to ease the tension in my muscles.

  “Oh, my God,” I half-sigh, half-moan, “that feels so good.”

  The bedroom is dimly lit, with the only light coming through the door from the sitting room, but it catches the copper highlights in his dark-brown hair.

  “When you were little,” I ask, “were you a redhead?”

  He looks up at me and grins. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Your hair has flecks of red in it.”

  “So does yours,” he says, switching feet and eliciting another low moan from me. “Jesus, Court.”

  “What?”

  “You’re moaning.”

  “It feels amazing.”

  He pauses for a second, then takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly as he continues massaging. “Do you know what it does to a man? To make a woman moan like that?”

  I grin at him. “Do you know what it does to a woman? To rub her feet like this?”

  “My wife likes having her feet rubbed,” he says softly, as though making a mental note.

  But it’s his use of the word wife that makes my heart swell to bursting. This beautiful man kneeling at my feet is my husband. My husband. I gulp with the magnitude of it, the goodness of it.

  Reaching forward, I run my fingers through his hair, watching as the dark tendrils thread through my pale fingers.

  “Thank you for my ring,” I say. “That was a surprise.”

  He looks up at me and grins. “When I got your text last night, I thought about how it would’ve felt to get that text back in New York. How terrible it would have felt. When I got off the train, I stopped by a little shop in town and bought it for you.”

  “Off the…?”

  “Train.”

  “You lost your passport!” I say.

  “Yeah!” he says, his face bemused. “How’d you…oh, my God! Were you on the same train?”

  Laughing, I nod at him. “I heard your name. ‘Passenger Dalton.’ I suddenly missed you so much, I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

  “So you texted me that you were getting married.”

  “Yes.” I reach for his cheeks and cradle his face between my palms. His hands have stopped moving on my feet as he gazes up at me. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Thank you for coming. Thank you for being here.”

  His eyes search mine for a long moment before he slides his hands up my arms to hold my wrists. “I care about you.”

  “I know.”

  “I should have told you. I should have said it. That night, I made you say it, but I didn’t—”

  “Shhh,” I hush him, nuzzling his nose with mine, his warm breath fanning my face. “You’re here.”

  “I’m here,” he says, touching his lips to mine.

  He lets go of my wrists and cups my face, kissing me tenderly, his lips soft but insistent as he rises to his knees to get closer. His tongue touches mine, and I slide forward to the edge of the chair to get closer to him. We don’t stop kissing as I slip my hands into his suit jacket and smooth it over his shoulders. His hands slide down my neck to the zipper of my gown.

  He stands up and looks down at me with a slight smile on his slick lips, holding out his hand. I take it, letting him pull me up. Standing on tiptoes, I flatten my hands on his chest and kiss him as he draws the zipper the rest of the way down my back.

  My fingers land on the buttons of his white shirt as his tongue sweeps into my mouth again. I meet it with mine, sighing as my fingers work quickly to open his shirt, my knuckles skimming the warm expanse of his chest with each button I open.

  He pushes my dress over my shoulders, and it falls around my feet in a swoosh of fabric. Standing in my white bra and matching panties, my nipples harden into stiff points, straining for release, as my fingers land on the button of his pants. I unsnap it and tug at the zipper before backing up to the bed and lying down.

  A moment later, the warm weight of his body covers mine as he kisses a trail from the base of my throat to my lips, then rests there, stealing my breath and sharing his. We kiss until our lips ache and his erection, stiff as stone, pushes against me through the thin barrier of our underwear.

  He rolls me slightly toward him to unlatch my strapless bra, and I run my fingers down his back to the waistband of his boxers, pushing them over his hips. He stands up to get rid of them, then reaches for my panties and slides them down my legs so we’re both naked.

  Kneeling between my legs with his hands braced on either side of my waist, he looks down at me with almost-black eyes outlined with thin bands of cerulean.

  “We’re moving fast,” he says, a slight pant making his words breathless. “Are you okay?”

  I reach for his neck and draw his face closer to mine. “I’m fine.”

  His lips claim mine in a passionate kiss before skimming down the column of my throat to my chest. Sucking one of my nipples into his mouth, he laves it with his tongue, licking and tasting until I moan loudly, writhing beneath him. My hands plunge into his hair as he moves to the other side, licking a slow circle around the nipple before teasing it with his lips and tongue.

  Arching back against the mattress, I bury my head in the pillow and close my eyes as his lips scorch a trail from my breasts to the throbbing spot at the apex of my thighs. His nose separates my nether lips and his tongue follows, stroking hot and wet over my aching clit, which makes me cry out. I throw an arm over my head, and my fingers dig into the sheets as he continues to love the pulsing nub of my flesh, sucking it between his lips before gentling the sharp sensation with a long stroke of his tongue. I can barely catch my breath and my hips have risen off the bed when an orgasm tears through me, making stars explode behind my eyelids and tears slide from the corners of my eyes.

  He shifts back up and over me, bracing his elbows on either side of my head. I am panting and breathless when I finally open my eyes and look into his.

  “Fuck, that was beautiful,” he whispers, licking my lips before kissing them.

  I can taste myself on his tongue, which makes the tremors in my clit intensify for an extra moment of aftershocks. I am soaked and ready for him when I whisper, “I need you, Josh. Please.”

  “Are you on the pill?” he asks.

  I swallow and nod, though somewhere, in the back of my mind, it occurs to me that this isn’t like having sex with some guy I’ve dated a few times. This is Josh. This is my husband.

  “You married me,” I say, reaching up to cup his beautiful face. “Why did you do that?”

  “I was matched to you,” he answers, his lips tilting up a touch as his lips brush against mine.

  “I don’t want you to regret it.”

  “I made my own choice, baby. You let me go, remember?” He reaches up to caress my cheek and gives me a look. “You told me to have the best life ever.”

  Remembering that night is sweet and bitter at the same time. It stings, but it’s also a part of Josh’s and my complicated history, an intrinsic part of us.

  “Well,” he says, moving his body over mine, his erection sliding easily between the slick, hot folds of still-pulsating flesh between my thighs, “that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  A sound of pure need escapes from the back of my throat, half-moan and half-whimper, as my hips rise to meet his.

  “Please,” I murmur, burying my head in the pillow.

  “Please what?” he teases, lining up the tip of his sex at the opening of mine.

  “I want you inside me,” I say, the lips of my sex contracting, trying to pull him in.

  “My wife,” he says softly.

  “Forever,” I gasp as he slides forward, filling me completely.

  My hands slide to his buttocks, holding them tightly, forcing him to stay buried deep inside of me. He’s thick and throbbing, stretching me, owning me, buried inside of me. Now that he’s mine, I never, ever want to let him go.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, resting his sweaty forehead on mine. “Court, you’re…perfect.”

  The walls of my cunt squeeze him so tightly that I can feel two heartbeats—his and mine.

  “More,” I sigh, digging my nails into his skin and drawing them from his ass to his back.

  He gasps, withdrawing almost completely before surging into me again.

  “More.”

  “Courtney, Courtney, Courtney,” he murmurs near my ear before skimming his lips back to mine.

  As he kisses me, his hips begin to move in a steady motion, faster and faster, pistoning in and out of my body, our panting breath swallowed by each other as he growls into my mouth and his tongue tangles with mine. He grabs my hands and laces our fingers together over my head as his movements quicken. The friction of his hot, rigid flesh dragging against my trembling walls makes another orgasm gather inside of me until I can’t hold it back. It explodes like a bomb within me, with rings of tremors fanning out in short, fast bursts to clasp him in undulating waves, wringing his own pleasure from mine. He throws back his head, calls out my name, and erupts, convulsing in rapid quakes and coming in hot, thick streams inside of me.

  Time becomes relative as we hold each other close, as our breathing slowly returns to normal. At some point, he withdraws from me and pulls me tenderly against him, my back to his chest. My body is sated, and my eyes are so heavy, I can’t open them.

  Josh adjusts his arm around me, flattening his hand under my breasts as he exhales warm breath against the back of my neck. There is so much to say, so much to talk about, but all of it can wait.

  We are married.

  Nestled in the sanctuary of my husband’s arms, I sleep.

  ***

  During the night, Josh reaches for me again, primally and half-asleep. His fingers stroke my nipples into hard points and his erection pushes against my naked bottom. I scissor my legs, spreading them for him, and he enters me easily, my cunt still hot and wet from before.

  Our lovemaking is calmer this time, more tender, less hurried. He pulls my face to his and kisses me tenderly over my shoulder as he slides in and out of my body, his palm flat over my breast, which he grasps and squeezes as he comes inside of me.

  I don’t orgasm this time, but I don’t need to. I’m still sated from before, and he gathers me back into his arms, still buried deep within me, as we fall back to sleep.

  When I wake up in the morning, I am alone, with the comforter pulled up to my shoulders. I can hear the shower running, and though I have half a thought to join him, half of me is shy too, despite everything we did last night. I don’t know if he likes showering with someone. That’s something I’ll need to find out.

  Instead, I dial zero for room service and order coffee, tea, juice, and a basket of baked goods.

  “How do you take your coffee?” asks the receptionist.

  “With cream and sugar.”

  “No need for milk then?”

  Hmm. Does Josh drink coffee? If so, what does he like in it?

  Because I have no idea, I also order milk, cream, sugar, sweetener, and honey.

  She tells me our breakfast will be up in about an hour.

  When I hang up the phone, I consider for a moment that I am married to someone about whom I know so little. I have no idea if he likes company in the shower or if he drinks coffee, and if he does, what he likes in it. We’re not strangers, of course. Technically, I’ve known Josh for over a year. But the Josh who makes me gimlets and was my friend in New York City is different from the Josh who’s showering in the next room. And frankly, there’s a shit-ton I don’t know about my husband. There are massive gaps in my knowledge of him, and that learning curve feels a little overwhelming.

  “Good morning.”

  I look up as Josh opens the bathroom door and steps into our room wearing a towel around his waist and another hanging from his neck. His hair is glistening with beads of water and his chest is slick. Last night, it was too dark to see much of him, but this morning, I can gawk—er, um, admire him—all I want.

  His body is lean but chiseled, like he takes good care of it, and suddenly I flash back to the times he jumped over the bar at Tidewaters. Women were always flirting with him there, and I wonder, fleetingly, how many have had the opportunity to see him like this.

  I lean up on one elbow. “Good morning.”

  He scrubs at his ears with the towel. “How do you feel?”

  “Awesome,” I say. “I ordered coffee and breakfast. Do you drink coffee?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes.”

  “How can you drink coffee sometimes?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t always feel like it.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. You have it every morning or never.”

  “No. You have it every morning or never. I have it sometimes.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm.”

  He grins at me, throwing the towel around his neck on the floor as he approaches the bed, but I miss his rippling abs on full display, because I’m staring at the damp towel lying in a heap on the rug.

  When he gets to the bed, he squats down, leveling his eyes with mine.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Stop looking at the towel I just threw on the floor. The maids will get it.”

  That makes me smile, and my smile turns into a giggle when he climbs on top of me and kisses me. The comforter separates his clean body from my dirty one, and I can’t deny it: even after having sex twice last night, I feel deprived. I want more.

  But even more than sex? I want a shower.

  “I’m filthy,” I say.

  “Fuck yes, you are.”

  He kisses me again, and I wind my arms around his neck. “You’re clean and you smell nice.”

  “My wife likes a clean-smelling man.”

  “Hey.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You did that last night too.”

  “What?”

  “You were taking notes about me liking my feet rubbed.”

  “I’m keeping track.” He nuzzles my nose with his. “I want to make you happy. I promised, remember?”

  “No. When? In New York?”

  His eyes widen. “No. In my e-mail. I said I’d do everything I can to make you happy.”

  Ohhhh. Yeah. Of course.

  “I think there’s a disconnect in my head between you and C,” I say.

  “I am C.”

  “I know. But for two weeks, C was just…C. An unknown. A stranger.” His eyes are so blue, staring into mine, they make my heart race with attraction and affection—and something altogether deeper and more complicated than either of those feelings. “What did you mean in your e-mail when you said that maybe we had different reasons for doing this?”

  “You did it to get married to someone.” He takes a deep breath and sighs. “I did it to marry you.”

  “How’d you know you’d get me? They could’ve matched you with anyone.”

  He shakes his head. “Because I described you as perfectly as I could.”

  “You loaded your answers to raise your odds.”

  “That makes it sound like I cheated, but I didn’t.” His jaw tightens. “I was honest.”

  I look away from him, feeling unsettled.

  “Hey. What’s going on in your head?” he asks.

  “If I’d been arranged with someone totally anonymous, I’d know that he approached Arrange Me Too with the same intentions as me, with the same level of expectation,” I say. “I guess…I just hope that you never blame me for this.”

  “Blame you?”

  “Yeah. Like, maybe you thought you were saving me or something. But I didn’t ask to be saved. I didn’t want to be saved.”

  He huffs softly as he rolls onto his back beside me. We’re quiet for a moment, and it’s a tense silence I wish he would break by saying something sweet and reassuring that will make it all better, but he doesn’t. When he does speak, his voice is low and dull, like he’s annoyed with me.

  “I already told you that you didn’t force me. I wanted to be with you, Courtney. I was clear about that.”

  “But you didn’t want to marry me.”

  “I changed my mind,” he snaps. “Is that okay with you?”

  His tone surprises me and clues me into the fact that I’m pushing him a little too much too quick. Whatever his reasons were, the deed is done. We’re married. Maybe I shouldn’t keep rehashing his reasons why, but I can’t help feeling like whatever they are, they’re going to bite me in the ass later.

  “Yeah,” I say softly. “It’s okay. I’m happy it was you.”

  “Then let that be enough for now,” he says, his voice gentler than before as he props himself up on an elbow to look at me. “Hey, where are we going today? Did I hear something about a helicopter ride?”

  “Mm-hm,” I say, grinning at him. “We’re going north to Inverness. I have no idea where we’re staying or what we’re doing once we get there, but…”

  In one smooth move, he lifts the comforter and joins me under the covers. He reaches for me, pulling me into his arms. “More of this. That’s what we’re doing.”

  As he nuzzles my neck with his clean-shaven face, I sigh, because he’s warm and smooth and smells like heaven. “I’m filthy, remember?”

  His hand slides down my stomach and into the valley of trimmed curls that hide my clit. He circles the pulsing bud with his finger while I reach for him and untuck the towel around his waist. I arch my back against the bed and moan softly as he inserts two fingers inside of me, still massaging my clit with gentle, insistent thumb strokes.