Phoebe's POV
I kept my head lowered in the passenger seat, absently fixing my disheveled collar. Despite my casual movements, heat burned across my entire face.
My lips were puffy, and bold red marks dotted my neck and collarbone—evidence impossible to miss.
The signs of our heated encounter were written all over me.
Meanwhile, Harold drove with his usual composed grace, only his rolled sleeves showing a few extra creases.
No one would guess that ten minutes earlier, he'd transformed into a hungry predator, trapping me beneath him and taking whatever he wanted.
I clenched my teeth. If murdering my husband right after our wedding wasn't so heartless, I'd seriously consider beating him senseless.
Harold caught me adjusting my clothes from his peripheral vision and cleared his throat. "Honey, we'll catch up with Malcolm in about six miles. Where's he at? Should we swing by and get him?"
