Page 113 of The Humiliated Wife

It was a claiming, a confession, a promise.

She kissed him back like she was falling and didn’t know whether to grab hold or let it happen. Her hands were in his hair, her body flush against his, and for one moment—one perfect, reckless second—he let himself pretend she still belonged to him.

When they broke apart, his breathing was unsteady.

Dean stepped back first. Gave her space even though every molecule in his body screamed to pull her closer again.

"I'm going to show you that you can trust me,” he promised her again, the words coming from somewhere deep and certain in his chest. "I'm going to show you, over and over, no matter how long it takes—years, decades—that you can believe in me again. That you can love me again."

Her breath hitched. "Dean?—"

"I know you said this doesn't change anything," he continued, his thumbs stroking along her cheekbones. "But I can't give up on us, Fi. I won't."

"You can't just decide that," she whispered, but her hands were still gripping his shirt, still holding him close.

"I'm not deciding for you," he said firmly. "I'm deciding for me. I'm deciding to fight for the best thing that ever happened to me. And if it takes the rest of my life to prove I'm worthy of you, then that's what I'll do."

He kissed her again, softer this time, like a promise.

"I love you, Fiona. That's never going to change."

CHAPTER 49

Fiona

Fiona's handsgripped the steering wheel as she pulled away from the apartment—away from Dean standing under the streetlight, watching her go.

She pressed her fingers to her mouth, still able to taste him there.

What had she done?

The city lights blurred past her windows as she navigated toward the highway, sense memory guiding her through familiar streets while her mind reeled.

Years, decades.

The certainty in his voice when he'd said it made her chest tight. He meant it. He was going to fight for her, whether she wanted him to or not.

And suddenly, anger flared hot and bright in her chest.

How dare he.

How dare he touch her like that, make her feel beautiful and desired and precious, then act like it erased everything else. Like a handful of spectacular orgasms somehow balanced the scales of two years of public humiliation.

Her grip tightened on the steering wheel.

He'd had the audacity to kiss her in that parking lot and declare his intentions like she was some prize to be won back through sheer determination.

Like her forgiveness was inevitable if he just tried hard enough.

The highway stretched ahead of her, dark and endless. She'd driven this route so many times now, but tonight felt different.

The irony was almost laughable. He was promising transparency now, after years of documenting her private moments for strangers to mock. After letting twenty-three thousand people laugh at her while she trusted him completely.

But God, the way he'd touched her...

She’d wanted to have sex. Hot, emotionless sex wouldn’t have been a problem. But her body remembered him. Remembered being safe in his arms, being cherished, being loved. It didn't care about social media accounts or betrayal or the careful walls she'd built around her heart.

Her body just wanted him back.