The Night My Husband Was Away - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
You are reading The Night My Husband Was Away, Chapter 5: Chapter 5. Read more chapters of The Night My Husband Was Away.
The night stretched on endlessly after I got home, my nerves still buzzing from the encounter.
Vincent Roscente's words had struck a match, setting fire to desires I'd kept carefully banked for years.
I found myself staring at my reflection, critically examining every detail. Had I been letting myself go lately? Was that why they thought they could—
I reached for my prized Chanel No. 5, dabbing it along my pulse points with deliberate care. Then came the eyeliner, sharp and precise, followed by a swipe of deep red lipstick. Let them see. Let them remember.
Morning light spilled through the curtains as I stepped outside—only to freeze at the sight of a paper bag on my doorstep. Inside, two buttery pastries, still warm, and a note in familiar handwriting: Sorry for startling you last night.
My pulse jumped. How long had he waited out here? Had he lingered, hoping to catch me?
The afternoon heat pressed in like a weight, leaving me sprawled on the couch in a drowsy haze—until a knock shattered the stillness. Through the peephole, Daniel Evans stood there, toolbox in hand, grinning like he'd just won something.
"Vincent said your AC was acting up," he announced.
I blinked. My AC was fine.
Still, I smoothed my nightdress, checking the neckline, before letting him in. He moved with easy confidence, setting up the ladder like he owned the place. Sunlight cut through the curtains, painting stripes across his arms as he worked.
Every so often, he'd lean down to ask me something, his tank top clinging to every ridge of muscle. My throat went tight. I swallowed hard.
Then he turned, catching me staring.
"Getting warm in here?" His smirk was all mischief. "You're blushing."
He stepped closer, and the scent of him—salt and heat and something undeniably male—hit me like a wave. I stumbled back, my heel catching on the sofa, but before I could fall, his arm hooked around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
His heartbeat thundered under my palm. His breath, hotter than the stifling air, brushed my cheek.
My fingers dug into his arm, tracing the flex of muscle as he held me there, making no move to let go. His gaze burned over me, slow and deliberate.
I dropped my eyes—but not before stealing one last look.
Vincent Roscente's words had struck a match, setting fire to desires I'd kept carefully banked for years.
I found myself staring at my reflection, critically examining every detail. Had I been letting myself go lately? Was that why they thought they could—
I reached for my prized Chanel No. 5, dabbing it along my pulse points with deliberate care. Then came the eyeliner, sharp and precise, followed by a swipe of deep red lipstick. Let them see. Let them remember.
Morning light spilled through the curtains as I stepped outside—only to freeze at the sight of a paper bag on my doorstep. Inside, two buttery pastries, still warm, and a note in familiar handwriting: Sorry for startling you last night.
My pulse jumped. How long had he waited out here? Had he lingered, hoping to catch me?
The afternoon heat pressed in like a weight, leaving me sprawled on the couch in a drowsy haze—until a knock shattered the stillness. Through the peephole, Daniel Evans stood there, toolbox in hand, grinning like he'd just won something.
"Vincent said your AC was acting up," he announced.
I blinked. My AC was fine.
Still, I smoothed my nightdress, checking the neckline, before letting him in. He moved with easy confidence, setting up the ladder like he owned the place. Sunlight cut through the curtains, painting stripes across his arms as he worked.
Every so often, he'd lean down to ask me something, his tank top clinging to every ridge of muscle. My throat went tight. I swallowed hard.
Then he turned, catching me staring.
"Getting warm in here?" His smirk was all mischief. "You're blushing."
He stepped closer, and the scent of him—salt and heat and something undeniably male—hit me like a wave. I stumbled back, my heel catching on the sofa, but before I could fall, his arm hooked around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
His heartbeat thundered under my palm. His breath, hotter than the stifling air, brushed my cheek.
My fingers dug into his arm, tracing the flex of muscle as he held me there, making no move to let go. His gaze burned over me, slow and deliberate.
I dropped my eyes—but not before stealing one last look.
End of The Night My Husband Was Away Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to The Night My Husband Was Away book page.