“Clay,” she whispered, her voice rising in a question, as she pushed herself up on her elbows.
“Yes?”
He rose up on his arms to look at her.
“You called me your fiancée when you came into that room,” she said, and it wasn’t a question now. It was a statement of pure and utter truth. He hadn’t put the ring on her, but she was, for all intents and purposes, his.
“I did, didn’t I,” he said, pulling her up and shifting their bodies into a new position, so they were both sitting up, and her legs were wrapped around him. He rocked into her, running a hand along her back. “Did you like it when I called you my fiancée?”
“I did. I liked it a lot.”
“I feel that way about you,” he said, threading his fingers softly through her lush red hair. He wasn’t nervous telling her this. Not one bit.
“I feel that way about you,” she answered.
“I’m glad,” he said, his eyes locked on her gaze as he moved in her. “I want you to be my fiancée, Julia.”
“I want that so much,” she answered immediately, no hesitation.
Her swiftness emboldened him. He was fearless in their love, certain in how he felt, not just in the moment as he made love to her, but in his heart for all time. “I want you to be my wife.”
“I feel like your wife,” she said, closing her eyes as he moved in her.
“I feel like I’m making love to you right now as my wife,” he said, the words coming out in a heady rush.
“You are. I’m your wife in bed for you.”
“I’m going to make love to you like this now, and a year from now, and in ten years, and twenty,” he said, raking his fingers through her hair, holding her tight in his hands. Their chests touched, their bodies melded, their thrusts matched as he bared his heart and soul. “I only want you, I always want you; I want you to be my wife, Julia. God, how I want you to be my wife.”
“I want you to be my husband,” she said, gasping the last word as her body clenched around him.
“I’m your husband, and I’m with you right now as your husband.”
“I can feel it, Clay,” she cried out as he pulled her closer, never ever able to get enough of this woman. “I can feel you making love to me as my husband,” she said in broken breaths.
He felt the build in the base of his spine, his climax starting to annihilate him, to smother his brain in never-ending bliss. “Julia,” he rasped out, as pleasure pulsed through him, taking over his mind, his mouth, his words. “Marry me.”
“Yes,” she cried.
“Marry me,” he said again, grasping her tighter in his arms, feeling her heat rush over him.
“Yes.”
“Marry me,” he said, unable to stop asking as he chased her over the brink, her one word response echoing like music to his ears. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
* * *
What the hell? Was he such a horny ass that he’d proposed to her in the sack? What the fuck had come over him? He wanted to propose to her properly, like a man who had control, who knew how to plan, who knew how to romance a woman, not like a sex-crazed teenager saying whatever the hell he wanted to in the bedroom.
Jesus. He smacked his forehead in the bathroom as he brushed his teeth. He spat out the toothpaste, rinsed his mouth and then gave himself the finger. “You’re an ass,” he said to his reflection under his breath. He buttoned his shirt and smoothed out his pants, thoroughly disgusted with himself as he ran his hands through his hair to comb it before they went out to dinner.
Great. Dinner. He’d already ruined the surprise factor by not just blurting it out, but telling her over and over. Well, at least the ring itself would be a surprise. He’d tucked it into his computer bag when they switched hotels, and he’d slipped it into his pocket when he’d gotten dressed a few minutes ago. A few minutes after . . . proposing? In bed. Inside her. He needed to think with his brain, not his dick.
Time for a redo. He was going to have to start this one over. He needed to fix this mess he’d made, and fix it fast.
He opened the door to the bathroom to rejoin her in the suite. He nearly stopped in his tracks when he saw her staring out the window, her back to him, enticingly on display in the black dress he’d bought for her that she’d worn briefly on the plane. He should be used to it by now, the sight of her. But he wasn’t and he didn’t ever want to grow accustomed to her beauty. He wanted to be blindsided always, like he was now.
She wore black heels and her legs were bare. The silk of the dress hugged her curves, hinting at what lay beneath. She turned around, noticing him.