Chapter 4 ALEXIS’S POV

The call came at 2:47 a.m.

I woke up fast, heart hammering, fumbling for my phone on the nightstand. Julie’s name lit up the screen. For half a second I thought she was calling me herself,then a stranger’s voice came through, calm but urgent.

“Mr. Alexis? Mercy General. Your wife’s been in an accident. You need to come.”

I was already on my feet, pulling on yesterday’s shirt, trying to find my shoes.

“Is she,?”

“She’s stable,” the woman said. “Concussion. The doctor will explain more when you arrive.”

The line went dead.

Outside, the city was halfasleep,empty streets, blinking red lights, the hum of a few distant engines. I barely stopped at the intersections. My hands were clenched around the steering wheel so tight they hurt.

But the guilt in my chest wasn’t the kind that makes you pray. It wasn’t thank God she’s alive. It wasn’t what would I do without her?

It was smaller. Uglier.

Resentment,because she’d pulled me out of sleep. Out of a dream I shouldn’t have been having.

Gray eyes. That damn smirk.

Mercy General smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee. The floors were too clean, the lights too bright,buzzing overhead like angry insects.

A nurse pointed me toward the second floor. My shoes squeaked on every step as I climbed.

Julie looked fragile in the bed,her skin pale, a white bandage wrapped around her head, dried blood dark in her hair. Her eyes found mine and filled with tears.

“Ekane,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

I took her hand because that’s what you do. Because anything else would be cruel.

“What happened?”

“Coming home from book club,” she said. “A car ran a red light and,” She stopped, her voice breaking. “I don’t remember the rest.”

A doctor met me in the hall a few minutes later. She looked tired, her scrubs wrinkled, but her voice was kind. Concussion. Overnight observation. Headaches, dizziness, maybe some memory loss. Nothing lifethreatening.

I nodded through it all, pretending to listen. Pretending to be the worried husband.

“I should get her things from the car,” I said finally.

The doctor gave me directions to the garage. I left, grateful for an excuse to breathe.

The elevator dinged softly. I stepped in, hit “Garage.”

Just as the doors began to close, a hand slid through the gap. The doors bounced open.

Dorian Vega stepped in like a punchline I wasn’t ready for,ripped jeans, black tshirt, leather jacket hanging off one shoulder. His hair was messy, his eyes sharp. He looked like sin on legs.

“Professor.” His voice was low, rough, maybe tired, maybe hungover. “Small world.”

“Mr. Vega,” I said, shifting aside. “What are you doing here?”

“My cousin decided pills and vodka were a good idea,” he said, leaning against the wall. “They pumped her stomach. She’ll live. We’re dramatic people. What are you doing here?”

I looked away briefly, “I was called in, something happened with my wife" I answered simply, making sure I didn't say more than that.

The doors shut. The elevator lurched downward.

Then,darkness.

The lights cut out, the car jolted to a stop. I heard him curse softly.

“Power’s out,” I said, more to fill the silence than anything. “It’ll come back.”

“You sound confident.” He laughed quietly. “Maybe we’re stuck here for a while.”

The emergency light flickered on,dim, red, turning everything strange and intimate. I could just make out his outline, the curve of his jaw.

The space felt smaller now. Hotter. His cologne,cedar, smoke, something darker,wrapped around me like a hand at the throat.

“Your wife okay?” he asked.

“Concussion. She’ll be fine.”

“Good.” He paused. “You don’t sound like you mean that.”

I turned toward the sound of his voice. “That’s out of line.”

“Is it?” He moved closer. I felt it in the air. “Or am I just saying what you won’t?”

“Dorian,”

His name came out rough. Wrong. Too familiar.

“Say it again,” he murmured. Closer now, his breath brushing my neck.

“This isn’t,” My voice broke. “We can’t.”

“Can’t what?” His hand found my chest, steady over the frantic beat beneath it. “Can’t stop pretending?”

I should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve reminded him who he was. Who I was. That I was married. That this was wrong.

But I was so goddamn tired,of lying, of performing, of pretending I didn’t ache every time he looked at me.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. His breath was warm against my ear. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.

He touched the back of my neck, fingers slow, careful, like he already knew.

“Alexis.”

The way he said my name,soft, hungry, reverent,cracked something open.

I grabbed his shirt and pulled him in.

The kiss hit hard,desperate, messy, teeth and breath and six weeks of wanting finally breaking loose.

He tasted like whiskey and mint. His stubble burned against my jaw. When he kissed me deeper, I made a sound I didn’t recognize,somewhere between surrender and relief.

He kissed me deeply, his mouth playing games with my lips and tongue. His lips moved from my mouth to my neck, his hands leaving my neck to my waist, grabbing it and pulling her closer. I felt my nipple harden as soon as they touched his chest.

I jolted, the sudden development surprising me. I had not known the nipple could harden because of pleasure. Was this a normal reaction?

“What's wrong?” He asked with hazy eyes.

I stared back into his eyes. This dude was doing things to me, and he had not even fucked me yet.

Was this right? I was a married man 

Well. Fuck it. I want this. 

I kissed his neck, too, my tongue licking his ear, my eyes shut as I began feeling sensations I had never felt before.

Dorian’s left hand moved to my chest and squeezed it. I moaned a little. His right hand moved from my waist to my buttocks,  squeezing it as well. I moved closer to him and wrapped my hands around his neck, my body full of desire. We were still kissing, and I didn’t want it to stop. He suddenly lifted me and pushed me against the wall.