Daddy Helps When Husband’s Away Chapter 08
After brunch, Mason nodded off on the living room couch with Liam in his arms.
Between his job and the jet lag, he could pass out anywhere.
I was just about to slip away.
But at the doorway of the living room, Ethan called my name with a smile.
“Sophia. Come on. Let me show you the nursery upstairs. Five minutes.”
Mason opened his eyes blearily and waved.
“Go on, baby. I’ve got Liam.”
Go on.
My husband, once again, was pushing me toward his stepfather with his own two hands.
I had no choice but to follow him up the stairs.
At the far end of the second-floor hallway was what he’d called the nursery.
But the second he pushed the door open, I realized — it wasn’t a nursery at all.
It was his study.
Only in the corner by the window, almost as a token, sat a white bassinet and a stuffed rabbit.
Ethan pulled the door shut behind him.
Click.
Followed, unmistakably, by the sound of the lock.
He pulled the cord on the blinds. The golden afternoon light was sliced into narrow bars.
The whole study dropped into a dim, close, charged atmosphere.
He walked toward me, step by step.
“Sophia. I’ve got a question for you.”
“What kind of woman opens the door in a soaked-through silk robe when her husband’s arranged for her stepfather to come over?”
I stepped back instinctively. My waist collided with the edge of that old oak desk.
Nowhere to go.
Ethan boxed me in, hands flat on the desk on either side of me, trapping me between himself and the wood.
I hunched my shoulders and, in something not much louder than a breath, whispered,
“…I didn’t know you’d be there so early.”
He laughed.
“Twice, Sophia.”
“Once on the couch. Once on your marriage bed. Almost.”
“And yet each time you fell straight back into my arms. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
I bit down hard on my lip.
I had refused him. I had sworn there wouldn’t be a next time.
And here I was, standing in his study.
Ethan pulled the dark green silk scarf from around his neck — the one he’d been wearing with the cardigan.
The fabric slid, glossy, through his long fingers.
He leaned in and tied it over my eyes.
Instantly, everything went black.
With sight gone, every other sense flared up — sharp, magnified.
I could smell him with startling clarity: that mature, woody cologne, laced with the faint traces of lemon and butter from cooking breakfast.
Then his hand settled on my shoulder, and turned me around from behind.
He lifted my arms and guided my palms flat against the cold wall — the wall with the oil painting of the nude on it.
One of Ethan’s hands closed at the back of my neck. Gently but implacably, he tipped my head down until my forehead pressed against the cool wall.
His breath — burning — hit the skin just below my ear.
“Christ. Sophia.”
“Half a month apart. And you’re this hungry for me?”
He bent close and pressed the length of his body lightly against my back.
I bit down hard on the back of my own hand.
Sweat slid from my temple down along the side of my neck, all the way to my collarbone.
In the study, there was nothing but the sound of two people breathing hard.
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