Chapter 36
James
Walking away from her might be the hardest thing I've done in years.
She’s my wife. This is our wedding night. And I'm protected by the agreement we both signed. It clearly states, neither of us will let emotions enter this marriage.
Yet, I couldn’t cross the threshold of her bedroom.
I didn’t trust myself.
No matter that just being near her sets something off in me. Something physical. Immediate. Difficult to ignore.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her during the ceremony.
Standing there in that blush dress, she was a vision. I watched the way the light caught the fascinator in her hair. The way her fingers tightened around the bouquet. The way she looked at me as though this moment meant something more than the contract we both signed.
Then there was the kitchen.
Even during service, when every instinct in me should have been fixed on the brigade, the orders, the pass, I was aware of her.
I noticed the way she moved between stations with that quick, economical grace of hers. Like a dancer who knows exactly how much space she occupies and how to move through it without colliding with anyone.
I noticed the faint crease between her brows when she concentrated on plating.
The way she leaned over a pot to stir it, the steam rising around her until her face glowed under the kitchen lights.
The way she rolled her shoulders when the pressure mounted.
My attention kept drifting to her. And now, she’s here.
In my apartment.
Under my roof.
I worried about that.
For years, the space has belonged only to me and Malice. Order. Routine. Control. I was certain another person moving through it would unsettle everything.
That my OCD would spike.
That didn’t happen.
Instead, the moment she walked in, something shifted.
The apartment felt…different. Less like a place I retreat to between shifts. More like somewhere someone might actually live.
Somewhere warm.
The realization unsettles me. Because the truth is simple.
Having her here feels right.
As if she fits into the space in a way I hadn’t anticipated. As if the apartment was waiting for her.
I drag my fingers through my hair and try not to think about what that might mean.
Because if I start examining it too closely, I might have to admit something I’m not prepared to face.
When she pulled off her hair tie and it fell to the floor, I snagged it without her noticing. Again.
I sniff the hair tie, inhaling her scent, which goes straight to my head. Warmth infiltrates my chest and dispels the coldness normally lurking there.
I head to the drawer of the desk in my room and pull it open. Then add the hair tie to my collection.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Nine hair ties. I rearrange them until I’m satisfied.
I should tell my wife that I’ve been collecting them. That this is why she keeps losing them. That I hoard them and look at them because they calm me.
I’ll do so soon. When I’m sure she understands my compulsion. I promise myself.
I force myself to look away from the pieces of elastic. Then I then shut the drawer.
Once I touch her, the wall I’ve tried to put up between us will crumble.
I walk into the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and drop them into the hamper. Then I step into the shower. My shaft is painfully engorged, bobbing up against my lower belly.
I turn the shower to cold, stand under it, and wince.
The needles of water beating against my shoulders and chest, do little to help alleviate the tension that has built up.
The fact that the object of my lust is sleeping under my roof doesn’t help either.
I wrap my fingers around my cock and pump myself. Once. Twice. Thrice. My balls feel like they’ve turned to stone.
I think of my wife. Of her sweet lips. Her delicious curves. Her scent, which is so uniquely hers.
That’s all it takes for my orgasm to shoot out from the base of my spine. For her nickname to spill from my mouth. “Ember.”
My cum decorates the wall.
My chest rises and falls, my breathing unsteady. I push my forehead against the tiled wall, struggling to get my heartbeat under control. When I feel composed, I turn off the shower, dry myself, then wrap the towel around myself.
I head out of the room and pause. My jaw drops.
There, seated on my bed, is my wife. In the light from the bathroom, the material of her blush wedding dress turns sheer. I can make out the curve of her breasts. The hard buds of her nipples are outlined against the thin fabric. I swallow.
Goosebumps pop on my skin. A zip of lust slams into my chest and arrows to my groin. I’m instantly hard. All the work I did earlier to bring my longing under control snaps.
The craving, the need, the hunger I have for this woman propels me forward. I take a step. Another. Until I reach her.
She drags her gaze down my torso to where I’ve knotted the towel around my waist. Her lips part. Her pupils dilate.
The air in the room heats until I’m sure the water droplets on my torso are about to steam up.
"Why are you here?" I clear my throat.
She visibly starts, then jumps up to her feet. “I... Uh... There were no towels in my room.”
She still hasn’t removed her gaze from the one around my waist. I want to chuckle at her fixation, except I feel myself harden.
I turn away before she can spot the tent over my crotch.
I head toward my walk-in closet. I take a few breaths to calm myself, willing my cock to go down.
I stay out of sight for the few minutes it takes to get myself in control. Then I grab a few towels and head out.
She’s lurking by the bed, her arms behind her, literally squirming with discomfort. Only the light from the bathroom outlines her lush figure in more detail.
It’s like she chose that specific position to show off the flare of her luscious hips and the thickness of her thighs. My scalp tingles. My cock twitches. Jesus. Christ. I need to stop being a horny teenager around her.
I march up to her and hold out the towels.
When she takes it from me, our fingers brush.
Goosebumps shoot out from the point of contact up my arm. My thigh muscles bunch. Jesus. How could I be so turned on by such a small contact?
A gasp emerges from her mouth. which tells me she felt the electricity from that brief touch too.
Which only makes me want to close the distance to her, gather her in my arms, and kiss her.
Then throw her down on my bed and—I hastily drag my thoughts away from whatever scene my overactive imagination is about to paint.
“Next time, knock on the door before you enter.” The words are out before I can stop myself.
Hurt paints her features.
She pivots and walks toward the door. Her back is straight, her shoulders stiff. Damn, I pissed her off.
"Ember, I’m sorry.”
She pauses at the doorway but doesn’t turn.
“I…didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, you did.” She turns to me, her lips pinched. “Just for the record, it was you who suggested I move in with you.”
“And I stand by it. It’s important for—”
“—your investors and your grandmother to believe you. I get it.” Her lips turn down. She seems exhausted and frustrated, and more than a little pissed. She looks so fucking adorable. I want to go over and lick her lips and kiss her back into a good mood.
But that’s not a good idea.
I soften my features, “I want you here. For…me.”
Her eyebrows knit. “I don’t understand.”
“I do like you.”
“Oh?” She seems skeptical.
“I wouldn’t have proposed this arrangement if I didn’t. I trust you.”
Some of the tension drains from her shoulders.
“Will you accept my apology for acting like a dick?” I offer my most disarming smile.
She studies me, unimpressed.
Tough audience.
My wife isn’t nearly as easy to charm as the rest of the world.
She presses her lips together.
“Hmm. What about the times you acted like an arse in the kitchen?”
This woman.
Give her an inch, and she takes the whole damn mile. I feel the laugh rise in my chest. I swallow it down.
“That was warranted.”
“What?” Her eyes widen. She draws breath to argue.
I lift a hand, cutting her off.
“You’re a good chef. I want you to be a great one. That’s why I push you.”
Her fingers move to her temple. She rubs it slowly, thinking.
When she looks back at me, the heat in her expression has cooled. Something steadier has taken its place.
“You can come into my room anytime. No need to knock.”
She surveys my features; realizes I’m being serious. Her shoulders relax further. “Good night, Chef.”
She shuts the door behind her.
The exhaustion from the day weighs heavily on my shoulders.
I stagger to my bed, then drop my towel and sprawl under the covers. I close my eyes and fall asleep.
I’m woken up with the sound of footsteps. Light. Careful. Moving across the floor toward the bed.
Every muscle locks. Every nerve fires. Someone's in my flat. Someone's in my bedroom.
The footsteps are trying to be quiet. Stealthy. The kind of quiet that means intent. Means danger.
My heart slams against my ribs. Threat. Intruder. Attack.
No one has a key. No one should be here. Malice doesn't walk like this—soft paws, not human feet. This is—This is someone who shouldn't be here. Someone who broke in. The darkness shifts around me. The bedroom walls dissolve.
I'm not in London anymore.
I'm on my last mission in Mali, supporting the British peace-keeping forces. I’m in a safe house. On the third floor. The windows are barred. The door is supposedly secure.
Supposedly.
There are footsteps in the corridor outside. Soft. Deliberate. The kind of footsteps that mean someone's bypassed the lookout. Disabled the locks. Come to finish what the firefight earlier couldn't.
My breathing goes shallow. Silent. Every sense sharpens to a razor's edge.
The footsteps get closer. Closer. They're in the room with me. I can hear breathing now. Soft. Controlled.
Just like that night. Just like the enemy creeping through the darkness, knife in hand, thinking I was asleep, thinking he could—
The memory slams into me. The moment I woke up to steel against my throat. The half-second between sleep and survival that nearly cost me everything.
I didn't hesitate then. I can't hesitate now. A hand touches my shoulder. My body moves before my brain catches up.
Years of training. Muscle memory forged in sand and blood and situations where hesitation meant death. Where the enemy comes in soft and quiet, and if you don't react fast enough, you don't react at all.
I surge up.
Fingers curl around a throat. It’s slender and warm. I'm moving, twisting, using momentum and weight to flip the body onto the bed beneath me.