I woke up in a bed that didn’t belong to me, tangled in sheets that smelled like vanilla and sweat.
Her scent.
Her skin.
Her sin.
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting soft gold across Marianne’s bare back. She was still asleep, her body curled under the covers, hair sprawled over the pillow like a halo. She looked peaceful. Innocent. But I knew better. That woman was temptation in its purest form—and I’d given in.
Twice.
And I wanted more.
But guilt slammed into me like a freight train.
Emma.
My wife.
I ran a hand down my face and sat up. My body ached with satisfaction, and still, even now, I was hard. Just the sight of her lying there—lips slightly parted, marks from my mouth still lingering on her breasts—made blood rush south again.
I had to leave.
I
