Chapter 204
Gaston groaned and deepened the kiss, his hand cupping her cheek with a tenderness that contradicted the heat between them.
And yet, even as she melted against him, a single cold thought cut through the warmth in Jocelyn’s mind: He’s a good actor. A very, very good actor. This is to sell the story he just told the world. This is to protect the Collins name.
The doubt was a sliver of ice lodged in her heart — even as every other part of her surrendered to him completely.
Sunlight sliced through the sheer curtains of the master bedroom, hitting Jocelyn’s eyelids with the rudeness of an unwanted alarm clock. She groaned and rolled over, her hand seeking the cool side of the pillow. Instead, her fingers brushed against empty, rumpled sheets that smelled faintly of expensive soap and body heat.
Her eyes snapped open.
The memory of the previous night crashed into her mind like a freight train derailment. The press conference. The declaration. The kiss.
Oh god, the kiss.
She touched her lips. They felt swollen, tender. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs — a physical thud-thud-thud that made her chest ache. Did that really happen? Or did I dream it?
It had to be a dream. Or a performance. Yes, a performance. Gaston Collins was a man who understood optics. He had played the role of the devoted husband for the cameras, and he had played it so well that for one terrifying second, she had forgotten the script entirely. She could still hear his voice ringing in her ears, the words he had spoken to the world: The only person whose opinion I value is waiting for me at home. But that was just it — he had said it to the world, not to her. It was a line delivered for maximum impact, a shield to protect his company and his reputation.
The sound of running water cut through her internal panic. It was coming from the master bathroom.
𝖸𝗈𝘂𝗋 𝗱ai𝗅𝘺 𝖽o𝗌e 𝗈f 𝗇ov𝗲𝗅𝘴 оn 𝗀𝗮𝘭𝗻𝘰𝘷elѕ.с𝗼𝗺
Jocelyn sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest like a shield. The bathroom door unlatched with a soft click. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of expensive soap and damp earth.
Gaston walked out.
He wasn’t wearing a suit. He wasn’t wearing pajamas. He was wearing a towel, and it hung dangerously low on his hips, clinging to him by nothing but friction and a prayer.
Water droplets clung to the dark hair on his chest, tracing paths down the defined ridges of his abdomen before disappearing into the white terry cloth. He was broad, solid, and terrifyingly real.
Jocelyn froze. Her breath hitched in her throat. He is definitely not soft.
Gaston paused, a second towel in his hand as he dried his hair. He looked at her, and a slow, lazy smirk spread across his face.
“Good morning, wife.”
His voice was rough with sleep, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the air between them.
.
.