We’ve been back from the event for hours, and the first thing Fitz did was change out of his suit and into a pair of joggers and a sweatshirt. Clearly, I was too busy pacing to care. The end of my dress sways in the warm breeze as I lead him onto the grass, letting go of his hand when we make it to the pool.

“For a swim.” I bring my hands to the bottom of my dress to lift it and Fitz quickly spins me around.

“That’s called skinny dipping.” When he pulls the fabric from my hands, his fingers graze my thigh, and I jolt. “Not swimming.”

I knit my brow together. “I was planning to keep my underwear on.”

It’s still dim, but Fitz’s face is highlighted just enough.

“Does that disappoint you?” I ask, tipping my head to the side.

His chest rises and falls slowly three times before he speaks, “Parker⁠—”

I step out of reach, lifting my dress over my head again. “I should be a good wife and make you happy.”

Before the fabric clears my body, I realize I didn’t entirely think this through. I was imagining a more stripping off our clothes as we ran and jumped into the pool scenario. Not this. Not Fitz’s eyes darkening as he scans up and down my body, leaving a trail of goosebumps on my exposed skin, lingering on the delicate areas still covered by my taupe-colored bra and thong. It’s a look just as powerful as the one he gave me outside during the engagement party.

I ran from that look.

But this one? It touches a different part of me and doesn’t let go. I’m held in place by the desire in Fitz’s eyes, the want, the need, like they’re thick vines of English Ivy.

“There are probably ten cameras down here,” Fitz hisses when I toss my dress onto a chair, baring more of my body to him.

I slide down the straps of my bra. “Let them look,” I say. “Your eyes are the ones that matter.”

My words are true, as true, if I’m being honest, as my kisses were yesterday, despite denying it.

I toss my bra to the chair behind Fitz. With his sweatshirt sleeves pushed up, the clip of it skims his forearm.

“Do you always do that?”

I’m confused by his question for a million reasons—his intense stare, the tight pull of my nipples in the cold air, the gruffness of his voice. “Do what?”

“Match them.”

My hands find the lace band of my underwear. “Do you like that?”