Drugged His Partner to Claim Me - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

My resistance crumbled completely. "Alright," I breathed, "we'll see each other again."
Ethan Lowell's face lit up like Christmas morning. Before I could react, his lips crashed against mine in a kiss so fierce they'd be swollen for hours. "God, I'm crazy about you, sis," he murmured against my mouth.
After he left, my pulse refused to calm down. As I mechanically straightened cushions and wiped surfaces, the fog of desire slowly lifted—but the truth remained crystal clear.
I was done lying to myself.
Somewhere between him rescuing me from that alley and all the stolen moments since, I'd fallen hard for Ethan.
A silent promise formed in my heart: If my husband ever found out, I'd sign the divorce papers without argument. But until then? I wouldn't push Ethan away anymore.
Maybe men were temporary, but the way he made my body sing? That was real.
I used to care about society's rules, about being the perfect wife. But after drowning in loneliness for so long, I'd learned a harsh truth—morality makes for cold company at night.
Once I surrendered to my feelings, Ethan and I began our dangerous dance.
The guilt twisted me into the perfect housewife—extra attentive, unbearably sweet. My clueless husband ate it up, bragging to his golf buddies about his "domestic goddess." When he started taking credit for my cooking skills, I knew I'd overdone it.
Which is how I found myself hosting a dinner party for ten drunk businessmen while Ethan watched me like a wolf circling its prey.
I was slicing strawberries in the kitchen when he appeared, all fake innocence. "Bathroom break," he announced loudly, then yanked me inside before I could protest.
The contrast was dizzying—laughter and clinking glasses just feet away while the bathroom thickened with tension.
Ethan caged me against the tiled wall. "You've been ghosting me for weeks," he accused, breath hot against my neck. "Do I disgust you now?"
"Are you insane?" I hissed, shoving at his chest. "They'll hear—"
Instead of backing off, the bastard locked the door.
The scent of bourbon clung to him as he slumped against me, nuzzling my exposed shoulder. "Might be a little drunk," he slurred—though the predatory gleam in his eyes said otherwise.
He pressed my palm to his pounding heart. "Missed you so damn much. Feel that?"
The hard planes of his chest under my fingers sent liquid heat pooling low in my belly.
When his calloused hand found my breast, then slid under my skirt, my knees nearly buckled. "Ethan, please—"
"Please what?" He captured my mouth, swallowing my whimper as he guided my hand south. The thick length straining against his slacks told me reasoning was pointless.
"Just answer one thing, sis," he murmured against my lips, all faux innocence.
Through gritted teeth: "What?"
"Who's bigger—me or him?"
I exhaled sharply. "You."
In every conceivable way.
Every fiber of me wanted him—just not here, not with a roomful of people separated by one flimsy door.
His smirk turned wicked. "Like touching me?"
"Y-yes." The admission spilled out as his thumb circled where I ached most.
I was soaked, trembling. If this continued—
"Next time," I begged.
Ethan gave a dark chuckle, already freeing himself. "Then help me out, gorgeous."
What happened next was equal parts madness and inevitability. As I sank to my knees, he guided himself to my lips with a groan.
Holy hell.
All coherent thought vanished as I took him in, reduced to muffled sounds and watering eyes.