Page 105 of The Humiliated Wife

He sat on the edge of the bed—their bed—perfectly made with the sheets she'd chosen. Soft cotton that felt like a cloud against bare skin. He could still smell her on the pillows, that faint floral scent from her shampoo mixed with something essentially Fiona.

God, he missed touching her.

Dean fell back against the mattress, closing his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. Sunday mornings when she'd wake up with her hair a disaster and her face soft with sleep, reaching for him before she was even fully awake. The way she'd curl into his side during thunderstorms, her breath warm against his neck. How she'd laugh when he'd kiss the sensitive spot behind her ear, the way her body would arch toward his touch like she couldn't help herself.

He could picture her so clearly—the way she'd looked at him, shy and trusting and so beautiful it had stopped his heart. The way she'd whispered his name in the dark, her hands in his hair, her body moving beneath his like they were made to fit together.

The way she'd loved him with everything she had.

Dean pressed his face into her pillow, breathing her in, his chest tight with longing. His body responded to the memories, to her scent, to the phantom touch of her hands. He was already half-hard just from thinking about her, from lying in the bed where they'd made love countless times.

He shouldn't. This was pathetic, getting aroused by memories in the bed she'd be sleeping in without him. But God, he missed her so much it was killing him.

His hand moved without conscious thought, slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. He closed his eyes tighter, remembering the way she used to touch him, the way she'd look at him with such trust, such want. The soft sounds she'd make when he?—

The front door clicked open.

Dean's eyes snapped open, his hand freezing. Footsteps in the hallway, getting closer.

Shit. Shit.

He scrambled to sit up, to look normal, but he was still hard, still obvious, and there was no time to?—

"Dean?"

Fiona appeared in the doorway, keys in one hand, work bag slung over her shoulder. Her eyes went wide as she took in the scene—Dean on their bed, flushed, guilty, his hand still halfway to decent.

They stared at each other in mortified silence.

CHAPTER 45

Fiona

Fiona froze.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed—theirbed—flushed, guilty, his hand in front of himself.

The air between them pulsed, thick and charged. Her mouth went dry. Her brain did the math fast and wrong.

Was there a woman here?

The thought hit like a slap. The bed was mussed. His hair was a mess, and his shirt was wrinkled, and—oh God.

Her stomach flipped.

Of course.He was attractive, still technically married but practically not. Tall, successful, cleaned-up in that devastatingly casual way. Women probably lined up for scraps of his attention. Beautiful, sophisticated women who didn’t cry in public or get mocked on the internet.

Was he seriously taking the afternoon off work to have sex with someone? Here? In this bed?

It was none of her business. She had no right to feel anything. And yet?—

"Sorry," she said stiffly, stepping back like the doorway was on fire. "I didn’t mean to interrupt your… date."

Dean’s head snapped up. “What?”

She shook her head, the heat rising fast in her cheeks, shame cresting like a wave. “It’s fine. You don’t owe me an explanation. I just need my certification form. I’ll grab it and go.”

She tried to move past him, eyes fixed on the floor, praying for the earth to swallow her whole.