Page 43 of Ruthless Enforcer

I reach beneath the edge of the bed, close my hand around the Glock, and slide silently to my feet.

The clock reads 7:17 a.m.

Clara.

The thought hits hard enough to send a shot of adrenaline straight through my bloodstream.

I’m out the bedroom door in seconds, every sense locked on the lower level.

Another sound. From the west side of the house. The solarium.

Fuck.

I take the stairs silently, weapon low against my thigh. The security system hasn’t tripped, which means either someone is very fucking good or…

Then I see it—light spilling beneath the door at the end of the hall.

The room that was empty yesterday.

The room I spent half the night turning into a studio for my wife, I remember suddenly.

I lower the gun. Jesus Christ. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my fucking heart down. Crossing the hall, I push open the door.

Clara is standing barefoot in front of a six-foot canvas, wearing my sweatshirt and nothing else, her hair piled on top of her head and a streak of blue paint across one cheek. Music plays softly from the speaker system I have wired throughout the house, and she’s humming along to it.

My cock goes hard so fast it's almost painful.

She doesn’t even notice me.

For several seconds, I just stand there. It seems the intruder in my house is my wife, and she’s armed with a palette knife.

She makes another sound—soft and unconscious and completely sexy—and I have to grip the doorframe to keep from crossing the room and putting my hands on her.

My wife.

The words slam into me with the force of a bullet.

I have a wife.

She's standing in my house wearing nothing but my sweatshirt and creating something I don't have the vocabulary to describe, and every possessive, feral instinct I've spent thirty-five years learning to control is currently trying to claw its way out of my chest.

I should be tracking Turner. I should be coordinating with Hendricks, reviewing surveillance, planning the next move in a war that could still burn both our families to ash. Instead, I'm standing naked in a doorway with my cock hard as iron, watching the way my wife's bare legs look in the morning light.

She hums again—pleased this time, satisfied—and stretches in a way that makes the sweatshirt ride up another inch, exposing the curve of her ass.

Fuck. I'm going to die here.

"You know," I say, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed over my chest—the only thing keeping my hands to myself, "most women wear pants when they work."

Clara startles, spinning around with the brush still in her hand. Paint splatters across the floor in a thin arc of brown.

Her green eyes go wide. Then drop.

She freezes.

Her gaze locks on my cock for three full seconds—long enough that I feel it in my balls—before jerking back up to my face. Her cheeks flush deep pink, and her lips part on a sharp inhale.

She doesn't look away.