Adele. That’s her name. Adele gives me a sour look before quickly composing herself. “I—um...” She fiddles with the paisley scarf at her neck as she blinks rapidly.

“What?”

“I know what it’s like not to have sex on your honeymoon,” she whispers confidentially, eyelids flaring.

That thought never seriously occurred to me. Given that Declan’s more likely to make love to a notary stamp than he is to me right now, though, the potential’s there.

“What happened?” I ask with sympathy. Hey, she’s talking to me. I’m getting more conversation out of her than I am from my new husband.

And she doesn’t give me the finger.

“He drank too much Champagne.”

“And he couldn’t...perform?”

“Not when you’re puking.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Keep Mr. McCormick away from the drink.” Her eyes cut over to him and she frowns.

“And the phone?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Patting my arm like we’re old friends, she makes her way on five-inch heels as if they’re an extension of her body.

As she slips into the cockpit, I realize that if the pen is mightier than the sword, the mouth is mightier than the finger.

And boy, does that apply to everything. In so many ways.

As I approach my husband, he holds up his index finger.

Standing on tiptoe, I slowly ease my warm, wet mouth over it, wrapping my flat tongue around the hard ridge of his knuckles, sucking hard. Using the tip of my tongue, I flick the spot between the end of the joint and the pad of his palm.

His eyes widen. His body stiffens. I use my hand to make sure something else stiffens, too.

His eyes plead with me. But he can’t say a word, so I don’t know if he’s telepathically saying Stop or You are a tongue goddess.

I go with the latter.

I let go of his finger with a little twirl of the tip at the end, then lean in and whisper, “Get off the phone. Now.”

“I can’t.”

“Then I’m going into that bedroom, stripping naked, and taking matters into my own hands.”

“Taking matters into...”

“What do you think Edward Cullen is for?” I know what you’re thinking, but that’s the name of my vibrator. Seriously. It’s a great name, because a vampire is the ultimate boyfriend. And, like a vibrator, he only comes out at night, he never dies, and I don’t have to feed him.

Declan’s eyes do that “ah-OO-gah” cartoon thing, popping out, rolling around like roly-poly bugs, and fitting back in his head. Considering Dec normally uses a grand total of three facial muscles in any given twenty-four-hour period (sexytimes excepted), it’s gratifying to see I have an effect on him.

“You brought your vibrator on our honeymoon?”

I could lie. I could. I’m believable. Hey, I was a professional mystery shopper. We’re paid to pretend and obfuscate, to act a part and use deception for a greater cause.

No one could blame me for doing that now.

Because what more noble cause is there than getting some with your new husband on your honeymoon?

“Come into the bedroom and find out.”

“I’m not sharing you with a battery-operated plastic wand named after a vampire.”

“No one has ever said anything that romantic to me before. Such a charmer.”

He frowns. “Why are you being so negative?”

That’s really it.

I rip his Bluetooth off his head and march into the bathroom. Flinging the wires into the toilet, I flush. Dec’s right behind me, gasping in my ear.

One problem.

I forgot to close the toilet seat.

Blue water and black wires shoot up in an impressive spray, reminding me of the fountains at the Bellagio, except no one’s playing The Three Tenors soundtrack right now. Dyed toilet water splatters all over me. If some wet substance is going to shoot up and cover me, I’d prefer it come from my new husband, damn it.

I start to choke, reaching to slam down the lid, Declan’s earpiece falling back into the toilet and disappearing into the jet’s holding tank.

“That was quite a show.”

I turn around and glare.

He snickers, anger long gone.

“You’ve taken the whole ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ thing a little too far, Shannon.” His eyes travel to the toilet, brow wrinkling with worry.

“Don’t laugh.” I resist the urge to lick the drops sliding down my nose, over my top lip.

He bites his lips, eyebrows up suddenly, mirth evident in those green eyes the color of Irish hillsides.

“You look like a Smurf.”

“This is all your fault,” I say through gritted teeth, reaching for his arm. I use his cuff to wipe my mouth.

“My fault?”

“You’re ignoring me! We’re supposed to be focused on each other and having Mile High Club married sex, and your phone’s Bluetooth mic is getting more of your mouth action than I am.”

His eyes are clouded with work. There’s this look Declan gets when he’s in the business zone, flow and optimization top in his mind. He simultaneously becomes more him and less present. The combination is a tricky one.

Snapping him out of it is even trickier. The delicate balance between respecting his effort and achievement and getting him to find time for me isn’t easy.

I rub up against him and press my lips against his.

He pulls back. “I have no desire to be a Smurf, too.”

I stroke him over his wool pants. “Bet there’s something on you that’s blue, too.”

He groans.

And we’re off.

Chapter 2

The jet’s bathroom has a tiny shower. For someone who’s just spent over an hour on the phone, completely engrossed in the finer details of buying an eight-figure company, Declan undresses with remarkable speed.

Not so much grace, though.

Turbulence makes him falter as he’s sliding one leg out of his boxer briefs, tipping into me as I’m down to bra and panties, the shower on, steam filling the tiny room.

As Declan crashes into me, all limbs, my arm slips between the toilet seat and the bowl, my hand immersed again in blue toilet water.

I’m stuck for a few seconds, until the plane levels out.