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I slid the socks over her warmed skin and my wife chose that exact moment to stir awake. I froze above her, a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Zeno?” she mumbled, blinking sleep out of her eyes.
She sat up and the covers fell to her waist. A green nightie that did nothing to hide her puckered nipples mocked me.
I nearly groaned. I was obsessed with her tits, her ass, her smile, and just her in general, unfortunately.
“Go back to bed,” I said harsher than intended, but it was the yearning talking. I just wanted to slip under the covers and sleep with her body plastered to mine.
Obviously, I lost my mind between now and the moment I said my vows.
“What are you doing here?”
Good question.Stalking youbecause your tranquil energy sets my nerves at ease. Wonderingif you were dreaming of me.“I…”
“You?” she urged with a slurred speech.
I cracked my knuckles, trying to come up with an excuse, and said lamely, “We have a fundraising gala tomorrow. Seven p.m. sharp.”
“Yes, I already know this.” She stared at me like I’d grown two heads. And fuck, maybe I had. “Céline told me.”
“Great.” I rolled my shoulders. “See you then.”
I was doing an exceptional job at not making this weird at all.
Darla’s lips curled into a smile. It could have been a sneer, really. “Were you watching me sleep?”
“No.”
“Okay, if that’s it…” She rubbed her fingers through her hair confusedly. A one-eighty degree from the confident woman who’d hoovered my cock and licked every drop of cum from my fingertips after I gifted her a new office. “Good night…?”
I cleared my throat and spun around. “Good night.”
Her eyes burned into my back, silently telling me she saw straight through my lies.
I walked away with a forced self-assuredness that did nothing but remind me of my predicament.
I actually fuckinglikedmy wife.
And the worse part?
I wanted her to like me too.
CHAPTER 23
Dancing with the Devil
Darla
The De la Croixes held a yearly fundraising gala for an organization geared towards women empowerment in the city of Montardor—a cause that I one hundred percent supported. Most affluent families threw events like these for the sake of cleaning their images. Given my in-laws’ shady business deals, I wasn’t surprised they donated millions a year to keep the public pacified.
The low whir of conversation and orchestral music made up the ambiance in the estate’s ballroom. Éva munched on chocolate-covered strawberries by the dessert table with her friends, Céline and Yves played the dutiful hosts, and Ben was busy fingering a Russian socialite under the table to my left.
My husband was nowhere to be seen.
I meandered around the room with a champagne flute, exchanging smiles with everyone coming to congratulate me on my nuptials. A group of old ladies oohed and aahed over my red diamond ring and I chuckled at their advice for a successful marriage:do notgo to bed angry with your spouse and make sureto always kiss each other good night.
Putting on a happy façade was getting exhausting. Every laugh felt shallow. Every smile lacking luster. Even my hand trembled as I reached into my clutch to pull out my phone to check my messages.
