Page 50 of The Bad Husband

She’s always been jealous.

He talks about her as if he’d known her from before he met and married her.

That thought shatters when his hand slides around my body and squeezes a boob through my sheer top a couple of times before drifting down and trailing the waistband of my shorts.

Warm and wet, my center clenches when his fingers part my folds and stroke my clit.

At once, I grab his wrist and stop him.

“I don’t want to do this, Damon.”

He stops but doesn’t take his hand away from me.

“Why?”

“I can’t do it with her in the house.”

“This has nothing to do with her,” he murmurs.

“Yes, it does.”

I swiftly shift around but find myself caged in.

He sets his other hand on the door above my head and leans toward me, his eyes drilling into mine.

“It does not,” he says.

I find his stance compelling although his words have little logic.

“She was mad at me,” I say, invaded by the aroma of his skin.

“She’s jealous of any woman.”

My eyebrows move up.

“How reassuring. Have you done this before, then?”

A smirk arches his lips.

I swat at his chest.

“Forget that I’ve ever asked that.”

He laughs quietly as he grabs my hand and kisses my palm, turning me into a heap of need.

“In a different life,” he says, reading my eyes.

Here comes again… Another poetic, elusive answer.

Are all men the same? Never making any sense?

“What if she does something bad to me when you're not around?” I argue.

A smile curves his lips.

“Why would she do that? She wants your father’s money more than anything else,” he says, and for the first time ever, he seems to show his true feelings about her.

He’s cold and blunt, not protective or connected to her. He talks about Henrietta, as if she’s the guest who has overstayed her welcome.