Chapter 5: The Weight of Touch

He knows. He has to know.

The thought hammered inside Avery’s chest like a trapped bird as she stared at the broad back of her new husband.

No. Calm down, Avery. She took a slow, silent breath, trying to steady her trembling hands. How could he? He’s blind. He is relying on files compiled by investigators. He’s just highly intuitive. If he knew the truth, he would have thrown me out or called the police the second I walked down the aisle. He’s just testing the boundaries of the woman he thinks is Kendra.

But the chilling accuracy of his words, noticing the softness of her voice, the weight in her posture felt less like intuition and more like a predator circling its prey. She was walking a tightrope over a pit of fire, and she had no safety net. She needed to find those files.

"Kendra."

Damien's deep baritone shattered her frantic thoughts. He was standing by the edge of the massive king-sized bed, his fingers already loosening the silver buttons at his cuffs.

"Yes?" she replied, her voice a little too quick, a little too breathless.

"I need your assistance," he said, turning slightly toward her. "As I mentioned, my routine is quite strict. Usually, my valet assists me, but since you are now my wife, those duties fall to you. Come here."

Avery swallowed hard. Undress him?

She slowly crossed the room, her bare feet sinking into the plush rug. The distance between them shrank until she could feel the radiator-like heat radiating from his massive frame. He stood towering over her, a dark silhouette against the flickering firelight.

"First, the shirt," Damien commanded softly.

With trembling fingers, Avery reached up. Because she was shorter, she had to stand close, so close that her chest almost brushed against his. She could smell the intoxicating scent of cedarwood, rich wine, and clean male sweat.

She focused on the top button of his crisp white shirt. Her knuckles accidentally brushed the warm, solid skin of his collarbone. She gasped softly, her eyes darting to his face. Behind the dark, impenetrable lenses of his glasses, his jaw was set, his expression perfectly stoic.

He can't see me, she reminded herself frantically, her face burning a deep crimson. Just get it over with.

"Tomorrow, my schedule begins at precisely six in the morning," Damien murmured, his voice low and vibrating right above her head as her fingers worked on the third button, exposing the hard, sculpted planes of his chest. "I expect my coffee black. No sugar. You will accompany me to the home office in the east wing before I leave for the corporate headquarters. You are to manage my personal schedule and handle my correspondence. I do not like disorganization, Kendra."

"I... I understand," Avery whispered.

With a firm pull, Avery slid the crisp white shirt down his muscular arms, exposing a perfectly chiselled torso that looked like it had been carved from marble. She stared at his chest, her breath completely hitching. It was incredibly intimate. She was practically half-naked in her silk robe, standing inches from a shirtless, breathtakingly handsome billionaire whom she was supposed to be tricking. The sheer, raw masculinity of him was overwhelming.

Avery’s mind was running completely wild. The east wing. He said his home office is in the east wing.

"The trousers," Damien prompted.

His voice had dropped a full octave, thick and heavy. His chest rose and fell in a slower, more deliberate rhythm.

Avery swallowed hard, her eyes instinctively dropping down to find the metal clasp of his belt. But as she did, her breath died in her throat.

The expensive, dark tailored fabric of his trousers was stretched tight. Right there, impossible to miss in the flickering glow of the firelight, was the prominent, rigid outline of his semi-hard length.

He was aroused.

A warm, electric shockwave shot straight from Avery's chest down to her toes. Her face burned with a heat so intense she thought she might actually combust. Her gaze darted back up to his face in sheer panic, her hands frozen mid-air.

He’s blind. He doesn't know I can see... that, she thought frantically, her mind spinning out of control. Or does he?

Damien stood perfectly still, his expression a mask of cool composure, but the slight tightening of his jaw and the rapid pulse in his neck betrayed him.

Avery stumbled back a half-step, her voice coming out in a high-pitched, flustered squeak. "I... I think you can handle those yourself!"

A slow, devastating smirk curved Damien’s lips, as if he knew exactly what had sent her running. "Very well. Guide me to the bed, then, my sweet wife. I am rather... exhausted."

Relieved to have an excuse to look away, Avery quickly took his hand. His palm was large, warm, and wrapped completely around hers, sending a jolt of electricity straight up her arm. She carefully guided him the two steps to the side of the bed. Damien sat down on the edge of the mattress; his dark glasses still fixed in her direction. He reached up and slowly took them off, placing them on the nightstand. His eyes were closed, his long, dark lashes resting against his cheekbones.

"Goodnight, my sweet wife," he murmured, sliding beneath the heavy charcoal silk sheets.

"Goodnight," Avery whispered.

She quickly climbed into her side of the massive bed, pulling the covers up to her chin, keeping as close to the edge as physically possible.

The silence of the room returned, filled only by the crackle of the dying fire. Avery stared up at the dark ceiling, her body tense, her skin still tingling from the sight and touch of him.

The east wing home office, she thought, her eyes wide in the dark. That's where the files are. Tomorrow, when he leaves for corporate headquarters, I'm going to find them.

Beside her, in the shadows, Damien slowly opened his eyes. He turned his head, his sharp, dark gaze locking onto her silhouette in the dim light. He listened to her rapid, shallow breathing, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face.

Let the game begin, my little imposter.