Taken By My Fiancé's Uncle - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading Taken By My Fiancé's Uncle, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of Taken By My Fiancé's Uncle.
The Moore residence stood silent beneath a starless sky. The last of the guests had melted into the darkness, leaving only the clinging scent of champagne behind—a fleeting testament to the union between the Moores and the Shaws.
Upstairs in the master bedroom, Lorraine Shaw lay sprawled across the silk sheets, her vision blurred with drink. She reached for the man standing beside the bed, her fingers curling into his warmth.
"Honey..." The word slipped out, honeyed and hopeful.
The dim light carved shadows along his tall frame as he leaned over her. His scent—warm, woody, undeniably masculine—wrapped around her before his body followed.
His weight pinned her, all heat and hunger and something darker. His mouth swallowed her gasp as his hands explored her body, lighting fires wherever they touched. Soon, she was lost to the rhythm of their shared pleasure.
When morning came, Lorraine awoke aching and spent. Sunbeams danced across the rumpled sheets, gilding her smooth skin.
She stared at the sparkling chandelier above, memories flooding back. Last night was her wedding night, the night she'd gone to bed a girl and woken up a woman. At twenty years old, she'd never imagined anything could feel like this.
The next thing she felt was warmth—a strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. Still half-asleep, she smiled and turned toward what she thought was her husband, ready to greet him with a kiss.
But instead of her husband's face, her eyes first focused on a bare chest illuminated by dawn's golden light.
Heat radiated from him as her eyes traced his features—the sharp jawline, those distractingly perfect lips. When her gaze reached his face at last, she took in the sharp arch of his brows and the elegant hollows beneath his closed eyelids.
For a second, she wondered if she was imagining things. But when she blinked, he was still there—real, solid, completely wrong. Then, a scream tore from her throat before she could stop it.
Lorraine yanked the sheets up to her chin, scrambling back until she fell off the bed. "Eugene?!"
This was unmistakably her bedroom, her own bed. Yet to her horror, the man in bed with her wasn't Stephen Moore, her supposed husband, but his uncle, Eugene Moore.
Lorraine couldn't believe her eyes. She struggled to piece together the events of last night, but her memory kept slipping away. The more she chased after it, the more it eluded her, leaving her frustrated and uneasy.
Eugene stirred, then sat up in one fluid motion. In seconds, he looked completely composed. His gaze landed on Lorraine—still on the floor, her hair a mess, her clothes rumpled. "Still in pain?" he asked, his voice even.
His words made Lorraine glance up at the rumpled sheets—a stark reminder of last night. Her pulse jumped, and for a moment, the room seemed to spin.
She tried to push herself up, but her legs gave way. She was a split second from cracking her head on the bedframe when Eugene's arm snapped out, catching her just in time.
His scent—woodsmoke layered with something deeper—wrapped around her, sparking another surge of panic in her chest.
Her voice shook as she looked up at him. "What are you doing in our room?"
Eugene rose with deliberate ease, his body as perfect as carved marble.
Lorraine's eyes dropped for just an instant before she forced them away, her face burning. She turned aside, but her voice cut through the space between them. "Answer me!"
"You enjoyed yourself well enough last night," he said evenly. "No point pretending now."
The words hit like a physical blow. Memories surged—the heat of his body, the way she'd arched against him.
She had moaned her husband's name in the darkness, never imagining the body pressing against hers belonged to his uncle.
Her vision blurred with tears, her voice quivering with rage. "If you don't give me a proper explanation," she threatened, "I swear I'll report you for assault."
Upstairs in the master bedroom, Lorraine Shaw lay sprawled across the silk sheets, her vision blurred with drink. She reached for the man standing beside the bed, her fingers curling into his warmth.
"Honey..." The word slipped out, honeyed and hopeful.
The dim light carved shadows along his tall frame as he leaned over her. His scent—warm, woody, undeniably masculine—wrapped around her before his body followed.
His weight pinned her, all heat and hunger and something darker. His mouth swallowed her gasp as his hands explored her body, lighting fires wherever they touched. Soon, she was lost to the rhythm of their shared pleasure.
When morning came, Lorraine awoke aching and spent. Sunbeams danced across the rumpled sheets, gilding her smooth skin.
She stared at the sparkling chandelier above, memories flooding back. Last night was her wedding night, the night she'd gone to bed a girl and woken up a woman. At twenty years old, she'd never imagined anything could feel like this.
The next thing she felt was warmth—a strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. Still half-asleep, she smiled and turned toward what she thought was her husband, ready to greet him with a kiss.
But instead of her husband's face, her eyes first focused on a bare chest illuminated by dawn's golden light.
Heat radiated from him as her eyes traced his features—the sharp jawline, those distractingly perfect lips. When her gaze reached his face at last, she took in the sharp arch of his brows and the elegant hollows beneath his closed eyelids.
For a second, she wondered if she was imagining things. But when she blinked, he was still there—real, solid, completely wrong. Then, a scream tore from her throat before she could stop it.
Lorraine yanked the sheets up to her chin, scrambling back until she fell off the bed. "Eugene?!"
This was unmistakably her bedroom, her own bed. Yet to her horror, the man in bed with her wasn't Stephen Moore, her supposed husband, but his uncle, Eugene Moore.
Lorraine couldn't believe her eyes. She struggled to piece together the events of last night, but her memory kept slipping away. The more she chased after it, the more it eluded her, leaving her frustrated and uneasy.
Eugene stirred, then sat up in one fluid motion. In seconds, he looked completely composed. His gaze landed on Lorraine—still on the floor, her hair a mess, her clothes rumpled. "Still in pain?" he asked, his voice even.
His words made Lorraine glance up at the rumpled sheets—a stark reminder of last night. Her pulse jumped, and for a moment, the room seemed to spin.
She tried to push herself up, but her legs gave way. She was a split second from cracking her head on the bedframe when Eugene's arm snapped out, catching her just in time.
His scent—woodsmoke layered with something deeper—wrapped around her, sparking another surge of panic in her chest.
Her voice shook as she looked up at him. "What are you doing in our room?"
Eugene rose with deliberate ease, his body as perfect as carved marble.
Lorraine's eyes dropped for just an instant before she forced them away, her face burning. She turned aside, but her voice cut through the space between them. "Answer me!"
"You enjoyed yourself well enough last night," he said evenly. "No point pretending now."
The words hit like a physical blow. Memories surged—the heat of his body, the way she'd arched against him.
She had moaned her husband's name in the darkness, never imagining the body pressing against hers belonged to his uncle.
Her vision blurred with tears, her voice quivering with rage. "If you don't give me a proper explanation," she threatened, "I swear I'll report you for assault."
End of Taken By My Fiancé's Uncle Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to Taken By My Fiancé's Uncle book page.