Page 88 of The Wrong Husband

I have no doubt; he’ll be as ruthless. As single-minded. So focused, it’ll seem like he’s putting his entire body behind each plunge, each drive into my body. He’d wring pleasure from my pussy, my skin, and from deep within my cells.

When he tears his mouth from mine, my breath comes in pants. My face feels hot, my breasts swollen, and sweat beads my forehead. The heat of his body crowds me, making me feel like I’ve plunged into a dry sauna. My entire body feels boneless, and I’m holding onto his arms for support.

"Wow." I swallow. "That was…something."

His lips curl in a pleased smirk, then he steps back, hands the dress over to me, before sweeping me up into his arms.

"Whoa, what—" Before I can say anything more, the doors to the elevator slide open.

He steps out directly into his apartment and sets my feet on the floor. I look around and gasp in delight.

Under my feet is what seems to be original wood flooring, faded with age and dripping with character. A few steps take us directly into the heart of the loft, a seamless transition from steel-and-glass precision to carefully curated opulence.

He takes the dress from me and hangs it on the coat rack by the door as I take in my surroundings.

Everything about the place is deliberate. The air is crisp and carries that underlying dark, smoky scent that instantly evokes him. And beneath that are familiar notes of secondhand books. I sniff, try to place it—then suddenly, it clicks. “India Ink.”

“You recognize it?” He angles his head.

“I wanted to buy it at the candle stall at Primrose Hill Farmer’s Market… Oh—” I make the connection. “You followed me into the Farmer’s Market that day?”

He nods. “Couldn’t resist getting it. I lit it every time I was home—” He points to the jar of half burned candlewax on the coffee table. “It made me feel closer to you.”

“Oh.” A tremor sparks low in my belly and ripples outward, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

The thought of him watching me with that kind of single-minded focus—then going out of his way to buy something I liked—should send alarm bells blaring. But it doesn’t. It coils heat through my veins, leaves me flushed, tingly, and dizzy with the rush of it.

I feel seen. Chosen. Like, in that moment, the world narrowed to just him and me—drawn together by something deeper than logic, something that shimmered with purpose before I ever laid eyes on him. It feels like fate.

He continues forward, and I follow him.

To the left, a vast living space stretches beneath double-height ceilings, framed by black steel beams and a wall of Crittall-style windows overlooking the city. A low, brutalist, concrete fireplace anchors one wall—unlit, but commanding.Overhead, a cluster of matte black pendant lights hang like a constellation, casting soft shadows over the sleek, modular sofa—a deep gray monolith flanked by built-in shelves stacked with tech journals, notebooks, and the occasional dog-eared paperback.

He continues inside. The kitchen, to the right—all graphite cabinetry, quartzite counters, and industrial brass fixtures—is surgical in its cleanliness. No clutter. No mess. Not even a water glass left behind. I could use the space as an operating theatre. The espresso machine gleams on the counter and a half-full bottle of Lagavulin 16 sits on the floating shelf above it, as if waiting for him to pour himself a tumbler.

A blackened-steel, spiral staircase rises to the mezzanine above, where I assume the bedrooms must be.

It feels like I’m stepping into a fortress—hisfortress—one disguised as art. All calculated surfaces, all edges and power, yet pulsing with something visceral underneath. Masculine. Monastic. Dangerous. Just like the man watching my reaction.

"Well?" The word is casual, the tone is drawled, but behind his eyes, I sense a question. A nervousness?

Will he let me sully his space with my mishmash of belongings? My colorful cushions on his black leather chaise? My romance novel next to his book that talks about the inner workings of a Beretta? My silk eyepatch and phone on the nightstand next to my side of the bed? My yoga pants, T-shirts, and scrubs next to his jeans, leather jackets, and tailor-made suits?

My sneakers and arch-supported shoes next to his Italian loafers and heavy boots?

This space feels sohim. Every detail—subtle, intentionally unintentional—says more about who he is than anything he’s ever told me. The clean lines, the order, the intensity humming beneath it all. It’s a smorgasbord of power and restraint.Unapologetically male. Quietly revealing. Every millimeter touched by his commanding presence.

Could I be happy here, surrounded by his brutal elegance, his hard-earned calm?

The answer rings through me, clear and certain.

Yes.

This dominant, self-contained man would flip this place upside down if it meant making room for me. Forus. I know it. My gut confirms it so completely, I’m almost startled by the force of it. No numbness. No hesitation. None of that distant unease I felt when Drew moved in with me. Just warmth. Rightness. That click from deep inside of my instinct, confirming what I already sense.

It blindsides me, the way my eyes suddenly sting.

I don’t want him to see how much it moves me. So, I keep it casual. Raise a shoulder.