Chapter 473
Chapter 473:
“Engaged couples are supposed to have sex p>
“Not as much as we just did p>
“We had to make up for lost time p>
He carried me to the wardrobe.
If I had had the energy, I would have rolled my eyes.
He dressed me—because apparently, I’d temporarily lost the use of my limbs—then whisked me off to the shower, his hands not exactly staying where they should.
“Seriously,” I moaned, somewhere between exhausted and exasperated. “You need to get a grip. Maybe see a doctor, check if you’re a sex addict or something p>
Ashton kissed the nape of my neck, only pulling away to pump soap into his hand and start washing my back.
He was hyper-buzzing with an energy I’d never seen before.
Ashton was always switched on: you had to be to run a multinational company. But this was next level, the sort of excitement you’d get from a kid on a sugar rush, doused in Fanta, and promised a trip to Disneyland.
Eventually, he dressed me again, then kissed my cheek.
“I love you,” he murmured.
My lips parted.
My throat worked.
The words just wouldn’t come.
I saw the hope flicker in his eyes, knowing exactly what he wanted.
But nothing came out.
I kissed him instead.
He straightened, putting on his CEO face. “Let’s go down for lunch.” To anyone watching, he didn’t look wounded.
F𝖎rst 𝒂pp𝓮ared 𝒊n gⲁ𝅘𝓁𝗇𝑜ν𝖊𝗅⩼𝒸𝗈𝗺
But I felt guilty all the same, like I had let him down somehow.
Which was probably why I didn’t argue when he wanted to set the wedding for the sixth of June—barely three months away.
Before all that, though, was France.
Fabrizio’s invitation was too tempting to turn down.
Ashton said he supported me, and technically, he did, at least out loud. But he watched me like I was about to sprout wings, terrified I’d fly out of reach and he’d have no way to pull me back.
If it wasn’t for the endless to-do list the wedding threw at us, he’d have probably dragged me to the registry office before dinner.
Three days later, I left for France.
Ashton was supposed to come too, but work buried him alive.
He promised to join me as soon as he dug himself out, whenever that might be. On the morning of my flight, he insisted on driving me to the airport.
We pulled up at the curb and I reached for the door, but he caught my wrist.
“What’s the rush? You’ve got time p>
He was stalling. Plain as day.
If Ashton had his way, I would have missed the flight, spent another two days lost between his sheets, and he’d have feigned surprise at my ‘accidentally’ extended stay.