Page 128 of The Wright Man

The orgasm rolled over me like a wave. No—a tsunami. Violent and slow and endless. My body convulsed, my hands gripped the sheets, my back arched so hard I swore I left the bed.

And through all of it, I saw his face.

Locked on mine. Steady. Grounding. Devoted.

I collapsed onto the mattress, boneless, wrecked, breathless.

And for three and a half seconds, I basked in it… Until reality sucker punched me in the chest.

Oh, fuck.

Oh fuck.

I opened my eyes. My legs were still twitching. My thighs were soaked. My pulse was hammering in my ears.

I just came harder than I ever have in my life.

To the thought of Maleek.

I stared up at the ceiling, heart racing, reality seeping in around the edges.

This wasn't harmless.

This wasn't just fantasy.

I was in trouble.

Big, big trouble.

Chapter Twenty-One

Angelica

I was running.

Not literally, of course. Sprinting through a high-end Black-owned jewelry store with a Chick-fil-A bag in hand would've gotten me tackled by someone in a suit and sensible shoes. But emotionally? Mentally? I was full-on sprinting from the storm inside me. From my guilt. From Maleek. From myself.

It had been a week since The Hug That Wasn't a Hug—the one that left me vibrating like a tuning fork in heat. A week since Maleek had pressed his bare chest and his...everything else against me, and I'd melted into him like I belonged there.

And I'd been spiraling ever since.

I'd spiraled straight into Gavin's man cave trying to reset my hormones, and continued to spiral into an orgasm at the thought of Maleek—back-arching, eye-rolling, shout-his-name kind of orgasm. And I hadn't stopped feeling guilty yet.

I didn't know when it started, only that I'd woken up one day craving my best friend's voice more than my husband's. And that realization split me right down the middle.

So I did what I thought was right. I pulled away from Maleek—slowly, but noticeably. Not a hard cutoff—I know I couldn't survive that again—but just enough to call it "healthy boundaries."

I took longer to text back. Skipped late-night FaceTime. Dodged jokes that felt a little too flirty. Put more energy into Gavin. I answered when he started conversations (even if they were still mostly about him). I laughed at his half-assed jokes. I packed his lunch. I reminded myself that marriage was a choice you kept making, not a feeling you waited for.

Which is how I ended up here—walking into Boyd Anderson's overcompensating glass palace with Gavin's favorite order in one hand and my dignity in the other, trying to remember I was a good wife.

The showroom still looked like wealth had thrown up in it—glinting glass cases lined with rings and diamonds that whispered, You'll never be enough without me. It was as gaudy and intimidating as ever. But I smiled as I walked in, nodding at the pregnant receptionist behind the counter.

"Hey, Jasmine," I said, summoning every ounce of warmth I had left. "I didn't know you were expecting! Congratulations."

She beamed and rubbed her belly like something out of a Hallmark movie. "Thank you! Not our first—this is baby number two. My son's almost two already, so...we're gonna be busy."

I nodded, trying to ignore the way my chest tightened. "Back to back, huh? You're a brave woman."