Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Our lips meet gently at first. A performance for the cameras. For my teammates watching from their tables. For the story we're selling to everyone who doubts us. Just enough pressure to be convincing.
Then she makes this tiny sound in the back of her throat—half sigh, half whimper—and I lose it, my self-control snapping in half like a composite stick under too much pressure.
My arm slides around her waist, pulling her against me until there's nothing between us. Her hands grip my lapels, fingers digging into the fabric as the kiss deepens. Her body melts into mine, and in turn, it melts my brain into soup.
This isn't pretend. Not for me. Not for her either, from the way she's kissing me back, like she's forgotten about our deal, about the money, about everything except us.
"Save it for later! Some of us are single!" Jonesy yells from the team table, followed by whistles and laughter that ripple through our small gathering. I can hear my teammates banging on the tables like we're at center ice.
We break apart slowly, reluctantly. Mad blinks up at me, dazed, lips swollen and slightly parted. A flush spreads across her cheeks, down her neck. I've never seen anything more beautiful than Mad in this moment, breathless from my kiss, wearing my ring, carrying my name.
We turn to face our guests, her hand finding mine again, but no trembling this time. The photographer captures our first moments as husband and wife, grinning behind his camera.
"Day one starts today," I say, leading her into the reception.
A few seconds of being married, and I just lied to my wife. Because there's no way I'm letting her go after the way she kissed me back.
Maddison is mine … until the day I die.
2
MADDISON
Ican't breathe. I can't think. I'm vaguely aware that people are clapping, but all I can focus on is the lingering pressure of Sebastian's lips against mine, the heat of his body imprinted on my skin.
That kiss rearranged my brain, and a magnetic current slithered through my system.
Now I can't get it out of my head.
My lips tingle as he leads me away from the altar, his hand steady around mine. I'm on autopilot, smiling at faces that blur together, accepting congratulations from people whose names I should remember but can't because my brain is short-circuiting.
It's like I blinked and slid into a different version of me.
Sebastian Clay just kissed me senseless. Sebastian freaking Clay. The man I've secretly watched while pretending not to notice how his thighs flex when he walks or how his eyes crinkle when he laughs. The man whose acai bowl order I know by heart along with every other detail of his professional life.
And now I'm married to him. For money. For PR. For...
He leans close, his breath hot against my ear. "You okay, baby?"
That word. That deep, rumbling voice. It's not fair what it does to me.
"Fine," I say, but my voice comes out all wrong—husky, breathless. "Just trying to wrap my head around what just happened. I was single just a few minutes ago. Now I have a husband."
"Take your time. We have all night."
The promise in those words makes me shiver. I know it's just for show—the photographers are still clicking away, and everyone's been flooding social media (hashtag MadforMaddison, which was Sebastian's brilliant idea)—but my body doesn't seem to understand that.
I risk a glance at him, and it's a mistake. He's devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, the crisp white shirt contrasting with his tanned skin. His raven black shoulder-length hair is pulled back into a neat bun, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw. Those blue eyes watch me with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly.
This is going to be a very long night.
"Dance with me." Sebastian extends his hand as the band plays something slow and jazzy. The rooftop venue glitters with string lights, the skyline creating a backdrop that even the most expensive wedding planner couldn't improve upon.
I take his hand, letting him lead me to the small dance floor where a few other couples sway. His hand slides to my lower back, large and warm through the thin material of my dress.
"Everyone's watching us," I say, hyperaware of the photographers, and it makes me self-conscious.
"Let them." He pulls me closer, the side of his mouth lifting. "You look beautiful, by the way. I didn't get to tell you earlier."
I flush at the compliment. "Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself."
"Only pretty well?" His mock offense makes me laugh. "You need to practice complimenting your husband."
I almost choke when he says that. "I've seen you sweaty and disgusting after games. Don't forget I also know what your laundry bin looks like. It ruins the mystique."
He spins me unexpectedly, then brings me back against his chest. "And here I thought you found me irresistible."