I had just stepped out of the shower when the doorbell rang.
My body was still humming from the hot water, skin flushed pink, droplets tracing lazy paths down my thighs.
I hadn’t bothered with underwear; the robe was thin, emerald-green silk that barely reached mid-thigh, tied loosely at the waist.
It was one of those pieces I wore when I wanted to feel sexy for myself, since Joe certainly never noticed anymore.
Joe.
My husband.
The man who had promised me passion, adventure, and endless nights of pleasure three years ago, only to deliver the most disappointing, selfish sex imaginable.
He finished in under two minutes every single time—if he even lasted that long.
No foreplay.
No teasing.
No interest in my body beyond a quick fucking that left me aching and frustrated.
And God forbid I ask him to go down on me.
“Eating pussy is disgusting,” he’d sneered the one time I’d shyly suggested it, as if my pleasure was some revolting chore.
I was starving.
Sexually, emotionally, desperately starving.
My fingers had become mechanical, rubbing my swollen clit in frantic circles while I imagined something—anything—better.
My rose toy buzzed faithfully against my folds night after night, sucking and vibrating until I came with a weak, unsatisfying shudder.
But it wasn’t enough.
I needed heat.
Weight.
A man’s rough hands, a thick cock stretching me open, a tongue that worshipped rather than recoiled.
I needed to be fucked properly.
Claimed.
Ruined for anyone else.
I knew about the mistress, of course.
His secretary, a perky little thing half his age with fake tits and an even faker laugh.
He’d been taking “work trips” with her for over a year now.
It should have hurt.
It should have made me rage.
But all I felt was a hollow indifference mixed with bitter amusement.
How dare he cheat when he couldn’t even make his own wife come?
What a pathetic joke of a man.
So when the doorbell rang again, more insistently this time, I didn’t bother adjusting my robe.
Let whoever it was see me like this—flushed, barely covered, nipples already tightening from the cool air kissing my damp skin.
I opened the door.
And there he stood.
Killian.
Joe’s older brother.
The most infuriating, arrogant, devastatingly handsome man I had ever laid eyes on.
He filled the doorway like he owned it, six-foot-four of solid muscle wrapped in dark jeans that hugged powerful thighs and a black t-shirt stretched tight across a broad chest and thick biceps.
Intricate tattoos snaked down his forearms—dark, swirling designs of wolves and thorns and abstract patterns that spoke of a wilder, untamed life far removed from Joe’s corporate polish.
His dark hair was tousled, a little too long, and those piercing blue eyes—colder and sharper than Joe’s dull brown ones—locked onto me immediately.
A slow, predatory smirk curved his full lips as his gaze dragged down my body, taking in the way the silk clung to my full breasts, the curve of my waist, the bare expanse of my thighs.
I felt it like a physical touch, heat pooling low in my belly despite myself.
“Evening, Daphne,” he drawled, voice deep and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet.
“Looking… comfortable.”
My mouth went dry.
My traitorous nipples peaked instantly, pressing hard against the thin fabric like desperate little beacons.
I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hide them, but the motion only pushed my breasts higher, the silk whispering against sensitive skin.
“What the hell are you doing here, Killian?” I snapped, glaring up at him.
My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I needed the edge.
He was danger wrapped in temptation, and I’d spent years perfecting the art of pretending he didn’t affect me.
He leaned one massive shoulder against the doorframe, completely at ease, as if he hadn’t just shown up unannounced on my doorstep while my husband was away fucking his secretary.
“Staying a few days,” he said casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Joe didn’t tell you?”
My stomach twisted.
“Joe’s on a work trip.
And no, he didn’t.”
“Guess he forgot.
I called him this morning.
He said it was fine.
Spare room’s still open, right?”
I stared at him, heat rising in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the shower.
Joe had given permission without even texting me?
Typical.
He treated our home like a hotel he could book for his useless brother whenever he pleased, while he was off playing house with his whore.
“No,” I said firmly, blocking the doorway with my body.
“That’s not possible.
You’re not staying here.”
Killian’s eyes flicked down again, lingering on the way my crossed arms framed my cleavage.
His gaze darkened, pupils expanding until the blue was almost swallowed by black.
The air between us thickened, heavy with something electric and forbidden.
He took a slow step forward.
I instinctively stepped back, the cool marble under my feet grounding me as my pulse skyrocketed.
“Why not?” he murmured, voice dropping lower, intimate.
“Scared you won’t be able to keep your hands off me, sweetheart?”
I scoffed, even as a treacherous shiver ran down my spine.
“You wish.
You’re an arrogant asshole, Killian.
Always have been.
Thinking every woman on the planet wants you.”
He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through me.
“Not every woman.
Just you.”
Before I could retort, he reached out and brushed his fingers lightly down my bare arm.
The touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt straight to my core.
My gasp was involuntary, loud in the quiet hallway.
His skin was warm, rough with calluses, so different from Joe’s soft, manicured hands.
“See?” he said, eyes gleaming with triumph.
“Your nipples are so hard they could cut glass.
Been thinking about me again, have you?”