Page 17 of The Wrong Husband
The promise of the breadth of his shoulders and of the width of his palms is borne out when I tilt my head back, then further back, to see his features.He’s tall.As tall as my brother James, who’s six-feet-four-inches.
The man shrugs off his jacket, dropping it on the treatment table.
I have a brief impression of the blood blotting the side of his T-shirt. Then he reaches behind himself—winces—and pulls it off.
Holy serotonin overdose.I draw in a sharp breath at the sight of acres of golden-brown skin, tanned by the sun. His pectoral muscles are well developed enough to warrant a dipbetween them. Very male nipples, and corrugated abs form an eight-pack.
Yep, an honest-to-life eight-pack, marred by an ugly bruise over his ribs on the right side. The skin is mottled and turning purple. Blood from the cut has dripped onto his jeans.
My gaze slides down to take in the mouth-watering iliac furrows on either side swooping down to the waistband of his pants. He flicks open the button, lowering his zipper.
The r-r-r-i-pping sound ricochets off the walls of the room and seems to hit me in my chest. My pulse shoots through the roof. I want him to shuck off his jeans so badly. It’s the hunger in me which brings me to my senses.
"S-stop," I croak. "You can keep your pants on." I stumble over the words like I’m thirteen, instead of a qualified trauma specialist. I need to get a grip on my emotions.
"As you wish, Doc," he drawls.
That last word feels like a caress coming from him. Another shiver squeezes my lower belly. Ridiculous. I close the distance toward him. With each step I take, expectation pitches in my chest. I am conscious of the fact he’s watching me closely as I inch toward him.
Under that sharp astringent hospital smell is something dark and smoky, like a distant campfire on a star-drenched night, with a hint of leather, maybe, from his jacket. And something else unique. Intoxicating. The scent of his skin, perhaps?
Just as I'm congratulating myself on completing what feels like a walk of shame as I near him, I stumble and pitch forward.
7
Connor
I hold out my arms, and she falls into them—against my bare chest, right over the wound. Pain zings up my spine, sharp and electric, but it’s nothing compared to the jolt of her touch. Slim fingers. Pale. Nails short, unpainted. Unadorned. And yet, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
I pull her closer. Her hair brushes my cheek, and I dip my head, breathing her in. Lush roses. Sultry jasmine. A trace of vanilla. The scent hits hard—feminine, intoxicating, fucking lethal.
I caught it from her hair tie in the bookshop. It gutted me then.
Now, with her in my arms, it’s more than scent—it’s sacrament. It sinks into my blood, holy and overwhelming.
My groin tightens. My scalp tingles. I want to drop to my knees and worship her—her scent, her softness, the quiet chaos she stirs in me. I grit my teeth to keep from groaning.
I've spent weeks watching her, imagining what it’d feel like to hold her. But nothing could’ve prepared me for this. She’s soft, curvy, all temptation. I want to grip her hips, feel the give beneath my fingers—but that would ruin everything.
She just met me. I might feel like I know her, but to her, I’m still a stranger. I can’t afford to fuck this up. Not when every cell in my body is screaming to claim her.
Our eyes lock. Her pupils are blown wide, just a rim of green circling the dark. And something inside me stills—then detonates.
The space between us hums, molten and alive. The world narrows to her gaze—steady, open, unflinching—and the quiet truth it holds.
She sees me.
Not the biochemist. Not the operative. Not the heir trying to make his privilege mean something. She sees past the masks, the armor, the weight I carry.
And she doesn’t flinch.
Awe unfurls in my chest, raw and unfamiliar. Like I’ve stumbled into something sacred I didn’t earn. Like I’ve been cracked open and, somehow, she accepts what’s inside.
And just like that, I know.
The world has shifted. I’m no longer the man I was five minutes ago. I’m standing in front of the woman who sees every brutal, broken part of me—and fits anyway.
My other half. My reckoning. My redemption.
