Page 20 of The Professor's Wife

He smiled, and it reached his eyes. He was beautiful. Exquisitely beautiful. The kind of man I might have dreamed about in another life.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a soft laugh. “Daze, I’m not looking for an easy fuck. I didn’t come in here expecting anything.”

His bluntness jolted me. “I just think another woman would have mauled you the moment you walked into this room.”

“I’m not with another woman.”

I wanted to ask why he had pursued me. But I didn’t want to sound insecure. Still, the last week had shaken me to my core. I was out of my depth. Reacting nonsensically and impulsively.

Could he really be sincere?

Eyeing him warily, I quietly asked, “Do you really find me beautiful, or was that just a line?”

His humor vanished. His gaze was fierce.

“You are easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

I dropped my arms, my fingers curling into the fabric of my dress. His words hit me like a soothing balm.

I swallowed hard, confessing in a rush, “I know how strange I must suddenly seem. I’m just having one of those days, you know? I feel like I’ve peeled off a layer of myself, and I don’t know the person underneath. So…I’m out of my depth.”

He shifted, as though he wanted to come closer but held himself back. His hands clenched at his sides, his voice tight.

“I know what that’s like.”

“Really?”

His eyes bore into mine, a hint of vulnerability showing as he said, “Really.”

When I didn’t answer straight away, he said, “We still have time to turn your day around. We can go for another walk. Watch something dumb on television. I can make you smile,Daze.” His voice lowered. “Or you could let me come a little closer.”

My eyes burned, and I dropped my gaze to the worn rug at my feet, its pattern blurring as I tried to steady myself.

I didn’t want another walk around the block.

I didn’t want the distraction of a television screen.

I wantedhim—his attention, sharp and consuming, the way it could pull something ancient and restless awake inside me. I wanted the warmth of being seen by him, the closeness I’d been aching for.

I blinked hard, forcing down the tight knot rising in my throat.

Finally, I whispered, “Then come closer.”

Tristan didn’t move straight away. He looked at me like he was memorizing the moment. Like he needed to be certain I meant it.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

The space between us dissolved, and I felt the air shift.

He stopped just short of touching me. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough that if I leaned in even slightly, our bodies would meet.

I looked down at his fingers—those beautiful, callused fingers—and then back at his face. He was watching me with such tenderness that it made my chest ache.

“I want this,” I whispered. “I want…you.”

Tristan’s breath stilled in his lungs as he stared at me.

Then his eyes darkened.