How long before proximity becomes familiarity, and familiarity becomes temptation, and temptation becomes a mistake?
Footsteps approach from behind me—measured, steady—and my pulse spikes, but I refuse to turn around. Instead, I lift my mug to my lips and brace for company.
7
RAFAEL
The water hits the back of my neck in a relentless, steaming cascade, scalding-hot—exactly the way I want it.
I angle my forehead against the tile and just breathe, the heat burning my skin until all I can feel is pain and my pulse.
I woke up this morning with Aisling in my arms.
Correction, I woke up with myfakewife in my arms, her back pressed tight to my chest, my hips aligned with the curve of her ass, my arm snug around her waist, my hand cupping her breast like she belongs to me.
And most sinful of all, my cock rigid and unashamed as it nudged against the softness of her body.
I don’t remember initiating it. I don’t remember rolling over or seeking comfort in my sleep.
But I must have, because I was most definitely on her side of the bed.
And I do remember the seconds after—when consciousness bled in, slow and cruel—to reveal it wasn’t Genevieve I was holding.
It was Aisling.
And for a split second—just one traitorous, unguarded, devastating heartbeat—it felt good.
The kind of good that settles into the marrow of your bones.
Familiar.
Automatic.
Like my body has been waiting five years to remember what it feels like to hold her in my arms.
Which makes me a monster.
Because the last woman I held in my bed died with my name on her lips.
My wife. Myrealwife.
I slam my fist into the tiles of the shower wall—quiet, controlled, because everyone in this godforsaken house is already walking on a razor’s edge—and exhale until the water cools the ache in my knuckles.
I shouldn’t want anyone.
Not now.
Not ever.
Not when the echoes of my last vows haven’t even faded.
But this morning, I woke up hard.
And not from memories of Genevieve. Not because of grief or longing or the phantom weight of her head in the crook of my neck.
But because of Aisling, her scent, her warmth, the sound she made when she shifted in her sleep—soft, breathy, and feminine.
I drag my hands through my hair, and the water sluices down my back, following the ridges of the muscle I’ve turned into armor through a lifetime of trying to rid myself of feelings.
