3.3 Beneath My Husband’s Roof

"Take me, Will," Gizelle whispered, her voice thick with desire.

“Gizelle!” The voice was sharp, clear, and came from the other side of the locked door. 

Reality crashed down like a bucket of ice water. Gizelle’s eyes flew open. 

Fuck!

Gizelle shot upright in bed, a gasp trapped in her throat, her chest heaving, the sound of her own breathing loud in the darkness. Her sheets were tangled around her legs, her body hot, her mind fogged with images she couldn’t bear to remember.

“I have fucking lost it. A wet dream about my brother-in-law!” she whispered to the quiet room. “I’ve lost it. I’ve fucking lost it.”

The thought was a splash of ice water. She scrambled from the bed, her movements jerky, as if she could physically flee the shame. She fumbled for the switch and the harsh, fluorescent light stung her eyes, illuminating a wild-eyed stranger in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her dark hair a riot. She looked exactly like a woman unraveling.

Gizelle went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She braced her hands against the cool tile, letting the cold water sluice over her, trying to wash away the memory of Will’s dream-touch, the imagined weight of him, the dark, knowing look in his eyes that her subconscious had conjured with terrifying clarity.

“It’s all Daniel’s fault.”

The thought was unfair, a petulant, desperate excuse, but it had the bitter ring of truth. He was a good man, dependable, respectable, wealthy. He had given her everything she could ask for except the one thing that mattered most. Intimacy.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried. She had earnestly. She’d reached for him, talked to him, tried to understand him. But every time she came close, he would step back, eyes full of something she couldn’t name. Her attempts to talk about it, to voice the hollow ache of rejection that was growing inside her, were met with a wall of polite, impenetrable disinterest. 

“I’m just not a very physical person, Gizelle,” he’d said once, his tone final as if he were stating a simple, unchangeable fact like his preference for tea over coffee.

And then Will had arrived.

Daniel’s younger brother was the storm to Daniel’s calm. Where Daniel was polished marble, Will was living, breathing wildfire. 

“Why does everything feel like a mistake?”

Once things get better with Daniel, she told herself, the mantra is as flimsy as tissue paper, this fixation will vanish. But standing under the cold water, her body still humming from a dream, she wasn't sure she believed it anymore. The hollow ache was becoming a ravenous thing.

Shivering, she finally turned off the water and wrapped herself in a plush robe. When she emerged, the house was silent. It was past one in the morning.

She padded downstairs, pulling her robe tighter around her. The refrigerator light flooded the kitchen as she reached for a bottle of water. She twisted off the cap and took a long drink, the coolness grounding her. Before she could turn, heat enveloped her. A body, solid and warm, pressed against her back, hands landed on the granite countertop on either side of her, caging her in. 

For a month now, his presence had filled the house but he never crossed a line, not openly, though there were moments, fleeting, almost imperceptible when she felt him noticing her. Each time she told herself it meant nothing. But the ache in her chest told another story.

“Can’t sleep?” His voice was a low, sleep-roughened rumble, his breath a warm caress against the sensitive skin of her neck.

Gizelle turned slowly, trapped within the circle of his arms. Will stood close, his expression unreadable in the half-light. Her eyes, against her will, went straight to his mouth. His lips looked impossibly soft, sculpted and utterly kissable. 

“Focus, Gizelle. For God’s sake, focus.”

She cleared her throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. “Just thirsty,” she managed, lifting the bottle slightly, a weak gesture that barely disguised her unease.

He didn’t step away.

“I need to go back to bed.” 

She tried to move, but he didn’t yield an inch. The solid wall of his chest remained, a barrier of pure, masculine will. 

He looked at her for a long moment. Then with a soft exhale that sounded more like surrender than decision, he said, “You look restless.”

Gizelle blinked, thrown off balance. “It’s late. I just can’t sleep.”

He nodded slowly, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Neither can I.”

“Are you thirsty, too?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, still imprisoned by his arms.

“Yes.” The word was loaded. “I am.”

Hoping to break the spell, she offered him the bottle. He took it, his fingers brushing against hers, sending a jolt up her arm. He placed it on the counter with a deliberate thud. 

“But not for this.”

Her eyes widened. Before she could form a protest, his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The hard planes of his body met her softness, and a startled gasp escaped her. She could feel her heartbeat drumming hard beneath her ribs. Every instinct screamed for her to move, to leave, to end the moment before it turned into something it shouldn’t.

“Will,” she whispered, a feeble warning that died in her throat as he leaned in.

His hand moved, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. The touch was soft, deliberate, and devastating. Her pulse stuttered. After months of being invisible, unwanted, unloved, someone was looking at her like she mattered, like she was seen and that alone felt dangerously intoxicating.

“Will, please, don’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking between protest and something dangerously close to longing. “Don’t make this harder.”

His expression shifted, something raw flickering behind his calm exterior. “Do you really think it’s only me?” he asked, his voice low. “You feel this too, Gizelle.”

“Stop,” she whispered.

His jaw tightened and for a moment, she thought he might step away. Instead, he took half a step closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the way his breath hitched as if he was fighting something too.

“This isn’t right,” she said, but her words came out fragile.

“I know,” he replied.

Their eyes met. His lips found the column of her neck. They were soft shockingly and warm as they pressed against her pulse point. Her eyes fluttered closed for a dangerous second, torn between the guilt pressing on her conscience and the ache that wouldn’t quiet before she forced them open.

Her hands came up, pushing weakly against the solid rock of his chest. It was like trying to move a mountain. He only tightened his hold, one hand sliding up her spine to tangle in her damp hair. He gave a gentle, insistent tug, pulling her head back, arching her throat into a vulnerable, offering curve. 

He took full advantage, his mouth leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses along her skin, each one a brand. He was relentless, skilled, mapping a path of devastation that left her trembling and helpless.

“Do you like it?” His voice was a husky vibration against her skin.

A moan escaped her as his lips found that particularly sensitive spot just above her collarbone. It was her undoing. He felt her surrender, the moment her fight bled away. She was sinking in a sea of sensation, a prisoner of a craving she’d starved for months.

Her hands as if with a will of their own, lifted to sink into his thick, dark hair. But her gaze caught on her left hand, on the diamond of her engagement ring, glittering coldly in the dim kitchen light. It was a beacon of reality, of vows spoken, of a life promised.

Damn!

“This is wrong. I can’t betray my husband. No, Gizelle!”

A surge of adrenaline, fueled by guilt, shot through her. She shoved him, putting all her strength into it. He stumbled back a step, his eyes wide with genuine shock. The desire in them was now mixed with confusion.

“This is wrong!” she choked out, her voice trembling. “Everything about this is wrong. I’m your brother’s wife. Stay the hell away from me.”

She tried to dart past him, to flee back to the sterile safety of her marriage bed, but he was faster. He caught her, his hands firm on her arms, and spun her, pushing her back against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator. 

His eyes were dark pools of pure intent. He released her one arm which went straight to the delicate lace tie at the front of her robe and with a single tug, it came undone. The silk panels fell open, exposing the thin strap of her nightgown beneath. Her eyes widened in shock.

“Will, what are you doing? Let me go!” 

She struggled in earnest now, a frantic twisting of limbs, but he was too strong. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her hips firmly against his.

“Will, no,” she pleaded, but he was a man possessed, deaf to her words. 

His hands slid down, palming her backside, pulling her even tighter against the hard ridge of his erection, evident even through the layers of their clothing. Her eyes bulged at the intimate contact, a fresh wave of heat flooding her.

“Look what you’ve done, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice husky and raw as he moved his hips in a slow, deliberate circle against hers. The friction was maddening. “Look what you do to me.”

“Will, please, let me go,” she begged, her voice cracking.

This was overwhelming. He was offering her the very thing she had been craving. It was becoming an impossible battle to resist. Her body was betraying her, responding to his with a will of its own.

“Do you really want me to stop?” 

His warm breath fanned her lips as he continued that slow, sensual rhythm. She could feel herself growing damp, ready for him. The thin silk of her panties was no barrier against the truth of her arousal. She could feel her resolve crumbling, her body preparing to capitulate. But the ghost of Daniel, sleeping just down the hall, loomed between them.

“Will…” she started, but he silenced her the most effective way possible.

His mouth crashed down on hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was rough, burning, and hungry. His lips were demanding, coaxing hers apart and God help her, he was an incredible kisser. The last of her resistance melted away. She stood in his arms, letting him take control, her own moan a soft surrender into his mouth.

“Just kiss me back,” he whispered against her lips, before sucking the bottom one into his mouth.

And she did without conscious thought, her lips began to move against his. Her hands, which had been pushing him away, slid up to clutch at his shoulders, then tangled in his hair. 

They broke apart, both breathing heavily. A thin string of saliva connected their swollen lips for a second before it broke.

“Will, I can’t,” she stammered, even as her body arched toward his. “This shouldn’t be happening.”

He ignored her words, moving back to her neck, his kisses now softer, more seductive, a masterful play designed to make her crave more. 

“You look so damn hot in this,” he whispered, his lips moving to her ear, nibbling on the lobe. 

A whimper escaped her, a sound of pure need. He slid the strap of her nightgown down her shoulder, his mouth following, branding the newly exposed skin. She closed her eyes, savoring the exquisite sensation, memorizing it.

“This is wrong,” she whispered again. “I can’t betray your brother.” The words were a plea, but her body was a prayer for the exact opposite.

“Do you really think this is wrong?” he growled, pulling her impossibly closer. 

She tilted her head back in a gesture of pure, unadulterated pleasure as he kissed his way down her throat, sucking at the pulse that hammered for him.

“I don’t care about him,” he breathed against her damp skin, the words a blasphemy that sent another thrill through her. “All I care about is you.” He fisted a hand in her hair, not painfully, but with a possessiveness that made her shiver, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “Just give in, sweetheart.”