A Wife for One Year

He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom, breathing in the heady scent of freshly brewed coffee. Okay, that was a change, but having someone else start the coffee in the morning was an adjustment he didn’t mind making. And if she wanted to cook breakfast, he wouldn’t object to that, either.

Maybe it was because his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of bacon and eggs, or maybe it was because he hadn’t yet had his morning hit of caffeine, but whatever the reason, he forgot that living with his wife had required making space for her things until he reached into the top drawer of his dresser for a pair of boxers and found his hand enveloped in soft, frothy lace.

His eyes opened wide to stare at the tiny scrap of pale shimmery blue fabric—and he felt a subtle but distinctive stirring of interest low in his belly.

The rational part of his brain wanted him to drop the garment back into the drawer and pretend he’d never seen it. The depraved part was suddenly trying to paint a picture of Kenna wearing nothing more than the panties in his hand—a mental image that was both incredibly arousing and distinctly unnerving.

Kenna’s status as his wife was temporary and in name only. Much more important was the fact that she was his friend, which meant that he definitely should not be thinking about her in her underwear.

They weren’t sharing a bed—they weren’t even sharing a bedroom. But in order to maintain the illusion that theirs was a normal marriage, they’d decided that Kenna’s clothes would hang beside his in the closet and he’d empty out a couple of drawers in his bureau for her use. For a brief moment this morning, he’d forgotten that.

He pulled the drawer open farther to return the undergarment to its proper place, and discovered a riot of color and texture. There were pastels and brights, smooth satins and delicate laces, polka dots and animal prints, many of them decorated with little bows or sparkly beads.

He’d never given much thought to what Kenna wore beneath her clothes. Her status as his best friend forced him to steer away from thoughts in that direction. He couldn’t deny there’d been some curiosity—because yeah, he was a guy and it was unnatural not to wonder—but he’d never let his mind wander too far down that forbidden path. His mind was definitely wandering now...and that subtle stirring wasn’t so subtle anymore.

He had a close and intimate acquaintance with women’s lingerie. He could unfasten a front clasp as easily as he could back hooks; he knew the difference between a G-string and a thong; he appreciated that push-up bras enhanced a woman’s attributes and despised padded bras for false advertising.

He found himself examining a bra of purple satin overlaid with black lace, thinking that the deep color would provide a stark contrast to her pale skin, and the scallop-edged cups would entice a man to discover what was inside. He definitely wouldn’t mind seeing what she looked like in it...and then out of it.

“There’s French toast in the...” Kenna’s words trailed off when she spotted the bra in his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Trying not to think about how you’d look in this,” he admitted.

Color stained her cheeks as she snatched the bra out of his hand, stuffed it back in the drawer and pushed it firmly shut. “Stay out of my underwear.”

He grinned. “I never gave much thought to getting into them...until about three minutes ago.”

“Well, stop thinking about it,” she advised. “Just because I’m your wife doesn’t mean I’m going to get naked with you.”

“A crazy idea,” he agreed.

Her lips twitched in response to his dry tone. “Almost as crazy as the two of us getting married.”

“But we did that anyway,” he pointed out.

“You set out the terms,” she reminded him. “A one-year marriage on paper only.”

He had set out the terms—desperately and impulsively. And he would have offered her anything, agreed to anything, because getting her to that chapel in Vegas had been a prerequisite to the release of his trust fund. But agreeing to twelve months of marriage on paper only when he’d already been celibate for more than six had not been a well-thought-out plan.

Especially now that he’d seen his wife’s underwear.

“What if I want to renegotiate?” he asked.

Kenna shook her head. “Not going to happen.”

He took a step closer, deliberately invading her personal space. “You know me well enough to know that I can’t resist a challenge.”

She held up a hand, no doubt to push him away, but her palm hovered in the air, as if reluctant to touch his bare skin. Her gaze dropped to the towel slung around his waist, and her breath hitched.

Clearly his wife wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted him to believe. He caught her wrist and pressed her palm against his chest, so she could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, drawing his attention to the tempting curve of her mouth. And he was tempted. Since the brief kiss they’d shared in that Las Vegas chapel, he’d spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about the lushness of her mouth, wanting to sink into the softness, savor her sweet flavor.

One simple kiss had blown the boundaries of his relationship with Kenna to smithereens, and he didn’t know how to reestablish them. Or even if he wanted to.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about how it might be between us?”

“No,” she said, though her inability to meet his gaze made him suspect it was a lie. “I’d prefer to maintain my unique status as one of only a handful of women in Charisma who haven’t slept with you.”