My Honeymoon Stranger's Trap - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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"No... stop... My husband never treated me like this..."
The words tumbled out in a desperate whisper as I pressed my palms against the mattress, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the room. The man behind me only chuckled darkly, his grip tightening.
I was a newlywed—blissfully, naively so.
Just forty-eight hours ago, my husband and I had arrived at this tropical paradise, giddy with honeymoon excitement, only to discover the hotel had double-booked our suite. The only available option? A cramped two-bedroom villa shared with another couple.
No big deal, I'd thought. What's the worst that could happen?
Turns out, the answer was everything.
That first night, freshly showered and tangled in the sheets, we'd barely settled into our show when a breathy moan sliced through the silence—low, sweet, and unmistakable. My pulse spiked.
"Are they...?"
Curiosity got the better of me. I pressed my ear to the headboard and froze. The walls might as well have been made of tissue paper. Every sigh, every creak of the bed, every slick, intimate sound echoed between the rooms like a live performance.
Then my husband's hands were on me.
One second, I was listening; the next, my nightgown was shoved to my waist, his fingers slipping beneath my panties as he mounted me without warning. A startled cry tore from my throat—loud, shameless, obscene.
The room next door went dead silent.
The next morning, I collided with Vincent Lombardi in the hallway. His smirk was all teeth, his gaze dripping with implication. Heat flooded my cheeks as last night's filthy chorus played in my head. I ducked my chin, suddenly fascted by the tile floor.
My husband, the traitor, grinned and threw him a thumbs-up like they were frat brothers celebrating a conquest.
Smack!
Tiffany Valentine's palm connected with Vincent's bicep. "What's so funny?" she snapped, shooting him a glare that could melt steel. Looping her arm through mine, she dragged me toward the door. "Men. Let's go see the sea turtles before I drown one of them."
Their laughter chased us down the path, boisterous and unrepentant.
At the time, I shrugged it off. We were strangers—ships passing in the night. A little embarrassment wouldn't change that.
But I was wrong.
That moment was the first loose thread, and now the whole tapestry was unraveling.
The beach was a postcard: turquoise waves, golden sand, the salt-kissed breeze tugging at my cover-up. I shimmied out of it, proud of my daring bikini—until Tiffany dropped her sarong.
Holy hell.
Her "swimsuit" was two scraps of white fabric held together by dental floss. The triangles barely covered her nipples, and the thong bottom? Let's just say modesty had left the chat. Every bend, every step—good Lord, was that a shadow—?
My husband's jaw hit the sand. "Is that even legal?" he choked out.
The words tumbled out in a desperate whisper as I pressed my palms against the mattress, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the room. The man behind me only chuckled darkly, his grip tightening.
I was a newlywed—blissfully, naively so.
Just forty-eight hours ago, my husband and I had arrived at this tropical paradise, giddy with honeymoon excitement, only to discover the hotel had double-booked our suite. The only available option? A cramped two-bedroom villa shared with another couple.
No big deal, I'd thought. What's the worst that could happen?
Turns out, the answer was everything.
That first night, freshly showered and tangled in the sheets, we'd barely settled into our show when a breathy moan sliced through the silence—low, sweet, and unmistakable. My pulse spiked.
"Are they...?"
Curiosity got the better of me. I pressed my ear to the headboard and froze. The walls might as well have been made of tissue paper. Every sigh, every creak of the bed, every slick, intimate sound echoed between the rooms like a live performance.
Then my husband's hands were on me.
One second, I was listening; the next, my nightgown was shoved to my waist, his fingers slipping beneath my panties as he mounted me without warning. A startled cry tore from my throat—loud, shameless, obscene.
The room next door went dead silent.
The next morning, I collided with Vincent Lombardi in the hallway. His smirk was all teeth, his gaze dripping with implication. Heat flooded my cheeks as last night's filthy chorus played in my head. I ducked my chin, suddenly fascted by the tile floor.
My husband, the traitor, grinned and threw him a thumbs-up like they were frat brothers celebrating a conquest.
Smack!
Tiffany Valentine's palm connected with Vincent's bicep. "What's so funny?" she snapped, shooting him a glare that could melt steel. Looping her arm through mine, she dragged me toward the door. "Men. Let's go see the sea turtles before I drown one of them."
Their laughter chased us down the path, boisterous and unrepentant.
At the time, I shrugged it off. We were strangers—ships passing in the night. A little embarrassment wouldn't change that.
But I was wrong.
That moment was the first loose thread, and now the whole tapestry was unraveling.
The beach was a postcard: turquoise waves, golden sand, the salt-kissed breeze tugging at my cover-up. I shimmied out of it, proud of my daring bikini—until Tiffany dropped her sarong.
Holy hell.
Her "swimsuit" was two scraps of white fabric held together by dental floss. The triangles barely covered her nipples, and the thong bottom? Let's just say modesty had left the chat. Every bend, every step—good Lord, was that a shadow—?
My husband's jaw hit the sand. "Is that even legal?" he choked out.
End of My Honeymoon Stranger's Trap Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to My Honeymoon Stranger's Trap book page.