And once again, I felt grateful to Amelia. Because of her, the campaign was a success. Because of her talent and beauty and presence, I was getting raises and bonuses. Not for any real contribution of mine.
My wife was saving my career while slipping away from me.
I closed the laptop and went back to bed, sliding under the covers next to her.
Amelia stirred slightly, letting out a soft moan in her sleep.
The need for her touch ached through every cell of my body.
I moved closer, carefully, not wanting to wake her but unable to stay away. I reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
In the soft light of dawn filtering through the curtains, she looked so beautiful it physically hurt.
What had I done?
Amelia’s eyes fluttered open. She looked at me sleepily, her expression soft and unguarded in that moment between sleep and waking.
“Hey, beautiful,” I whispered.
“Hey,” she whispered back.
I moved even closer, until our faces were inches apart. I could feel her breath on my lips, could see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
Slowly, carefully, I kissed her.
Just a soft brush of lips at first. Testing. Asking permission.
Amelia’s eyes closed, and I felt her lean into the kiss just slightly. Like she was feeling it deep inside. Like maybe, just maybe, she wanted this too.
A tear tracked down my cheek. I loved her so much it was destroying me.
We kept kissing, soft and slow and tender. I savored every second, memorizing the taste of her, the feel of her lips against mine.
Then I pressed my hardness against her through her transparent nightgown, and she moaned—a sound that shot straight through me.
In that moment, I knew she wanted me too.
I pulled her thigh up to my waist, our bodies fitting together the way they always had. I kissed her ear, the hollow of her neck where another man had left marks.
“Yes, Mark,” Amelia breathed. “Yes...”
I slid her nightgown up, pulled down her panties. She was wet—ready for me.
Our lovemaking was soft and deep and achingly tender. I gave her pleasure in waves, slow and building, and I knew from the sounds shemade, from the way her body responded to mine, that she was loving every moment.
This was us. Mark and Amelia. The way we’d always been.
And as she came apart in my arms, calling my name, I held onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end.
Maybe there was still a chance to save us.
CHAPTER 19
Amelia
The salon was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, attendants who appeared at your elbow before you could even think of what you needed. This was where Paris’s elite came to be pampered.
At the station next to mine, a woman in an elegant blazer was getting a French manicure. The beautician had whispered to me that she was the new anchor of France’s biggest primetime news program.
