Page 39 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

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— his fortress—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 so him . 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.

For us . 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.

“It’ll do, I suppose.”

His gaze widens, then he smirks. "Sassy, hmm? I’ll have to punish you for that."

My pussy clenches. I’m suddenly inexorably so very wet. It feels like there’s a gaping hole in my center which has dug its claws in and will not go away until he fills it. I squeeze my thighs together.

He raises a knowing eyebrow. "Does that turn you on, Fever?"

I jerk my chin, unable to lie to him. Not when he’s watching me so closely, like I’m an insect, and he’s the spider who’s luring me into his web.

The silver in his eyes glows until it seems almost gold in color. He pulls me into his arms. "You flay me, Phe. Knowing I lit that hunger in your eyes? It’s a feeling a man could lose himself in."

And just like that, he hands me the power.

He could tell me to drop to my knees and I’d do it—gladly. Out there, I’m a trauma specialist. Calm under pressure. In control. But with him? One command, and something deep inside me surrenders.

To the world, I’m strong, independent. But behind closed doors, I ache to let go. To obey. To give myself over to a man who knows exactly what I need, even when I don’t.

It took Connor to show me this part of myself. The flip side of projecting a strong facade is this secret, desperate need to yield to a will stronger than mine.

He’s the spark, and I’m the electric response. Each time I give in, it’s not instinct. It’s choice. Pure, deliberate submission that lights up every nerve ending in my body.

Because he’s earned it. Because everything he’s done to me has brought me pleasure. He’s affirmed I can trust him with his actions.

Without breaking eye contact, he sweeps me into his arms again and carries me up the staircase.

He holds me like I’m something precious, like if he blinked, I’d vanish. It turns my insides to putty, and my pussy to liquid heat. When we reach the main bedroom, the hush of the space wraps around us.

Moonlight spills through the skylight above, casting silver shadows across the deep blue covers of a super king-sized bed that looks like it was made for slow seduction.

Floor-to-ceiling sliding doors open onto a private patio which, in turn, overlooks a private courtyard. The soft glow of hidden lights paints the garden in quiet gold. It’s an enchanted little world, carved out of the night.

A partial wall screens the bed from the en suite beyond, where a freestanding tub waits under another skylight. Stars gleam above it like scattered diamonds, while the subtle mood lighting softens every edge, turning the room into a dreamscape—an ethereal haven.

There’s another door at the far end which must lead into a walk-in closet. I can’t wait to explore it. To unearth more secrets about this man who’s come to mean so much to me so quickly, despite my attempts to resist him.

He walks across the floor and to the bed, where he drops me, then follows me down, folding his body over mine.

"What do you think?"

"Of what?" My voice comes out squeaky, and I clear it.

He raises an eyebrow. "The bedroom, of course.”

"I haven’t seen much of it," I say coyly, looking at him from under my eyelashes.

“You have my bed at your back and me on you. You don’t need to see anything else.” His tone is arrogant. His gaze that of a conquering emperor.

The confidence with which his body envelops mine is the kiss of heavy clouds over the peak of a mountain range—inevitable, elemental, made to alchemize the other. The way a storm crowns a summit. The way mist claims the jagged edges until mountain and sky blur into one, indistinguishable.

He presses closer, and I feel it—how he’s reshaping the terrain of my body, flooding into every hollow, filling every silence between my breaths. Like weather rewriting a landscape.

Oh God. He’s changing me. With his commanding touch. His possessive growls. The way every angle of his body proclaims I’m his. I swallow around the emotion in my throat and manage to speak. “I should not find that hot, but I do."

“I’m aware." He leans more of his weight on me.

He’s a big man, at least a foot taller than me, and much heavier, and larger.

But having his bulk pin me down doesn’t feel threatening or suffocate me.

It makes me feel anchored. Grounded, like he’s holding down my body, and stilling my mind so I’m more at peace.

He makes me feel secure. And perhaps, I shouldn’t be surprised by that realization.

It’s why I’m here with him in his apartment, and why I agreed to marry him. I could fool myself and say it was to save the ER, but that’s an excuse. Really, it’s because I want him. Because I feel this connection with him—have felt it since he stalked into my ER.

I want to feel the bite of his command, the unwavering absorption of being at his center of attention. To have him pay attention to my every move, as he does when we’re together. I want to feel his skin on mine, his fingers on me, his cock inside me, his voice ordering me.

I want to fold for him—slow, exact—shaped like a piece of clay in his hands.

I'm a blank page, waiting for him to create a story through me. Our story.

Tying my future to Connor’s is like gripping a blazing rocket—its core aglow, trembling with power—on the brink of ignition, poised to ferry us both beyond the stratosphere. It feels electric. True. Organic. My pulse races with an exhilarating charge, as if every nerve is awake and alive.

The charge builds in my chest, races down my limbs, sets every nerve alight.

It’s electric. Raw. Like my heart skipped a beat—then found a rhythm that only exists when he’s near. My body knows it before my brain can catch up—this isn’t just adrenaline.

This is resuscitation. This is breath.

This is us . Alive. Vital. Real.

Before Connor, I almost surrendered—to the comfort of a safe lie, to the illusion that I was content, when I wasn’t. Now I realize, I would have traded my own happiness for safety.

To think, unaware that meeting Connor was just around the corner, I might have settled down for half a life instead of something magnificent.

With Connor, my instinct tells me it will be different. There are hidden corners to this man which excite me and make me want to find out more. Make me want to tease his secrets out and find out everything about him.

He wants to own me… Yet he’s confessed that he belongs to me, too. I didn’t see that coming. The thought burns hot under my skin.

He runs his nose up the column of my neck. "You smell delicious. Roses, jasmine, and vanilla. It drives me crazy."

"A mix of my conditioner and my lotion," I say on a breathless note.

He licks the skin under my ear, and I shiver. Goosebumps pop on my skin. My nipples are so hard, they hurt.

"Connor." I dig my fingers into his wide shoulders, enjoying their breadth, the cut of the muscles there, stretching the jacket he wears. The leather is beaten and worn smooth, and its scent adds a distinctive note.

"Hmm?" He nibbles on my ear lobe, tugging on it, then sucking it. My core quivers. My belly seizes up. That yawning hole in my center just got bigger, spreading to my extremities. I’m a black hole of longing, wanting… Waiting for him to fill me up.

Tiny tendrils of need curl their tentacles around me, digging their claws into my skin, and opening pathways of sensations I didn’t know I possessed.

I’m burning up. And I have a feeling, if I don’t get him to move, this is going to reach its logical conclusion, with him taking me right here on his bed.

And I want that. I want him to possess me under his roof where I’m surrounded by the signs of his presence. But not yet.

Maybe I’m more traditional than I care to admit—because if we’re getting married, then shouldn’t our first time be on our wedding night?

The thought sends a thrill down my spine.

What’s strange is, I never felt that way with Drew. It never even crossed my mind to wait. I didn’t care enough to make it meaningful.

That alone should’ve screamed that something was wrong. That I was settling for comfort over connection. For convenience over passion.

Besides, I want to see if Connor can hold out until then? Once he fucks me, I’m not going to be able to think straight. And I want to save that feeling. As if on cue, my stomach growls.

He stills. “You’re hungry?”

I am, and not just for food. I want to feel him inside of me, but that sounds so corny, I don’t say it aloud. Instead, I nod.

He pulls back, eyelids hooded, pupils blown wide, so the black swallows up everything but for a ring of electric blue around the irises. His eyes seem even more piercing. Like a solar eclipse edged in cold fire.

He rolls off me and to his feet. I instantly miss his warmth. His weight on me. His scent surrounding me. Then he holds out his hand, and when I take it, he pulls me to my feet. "Let’s get some food into you."