Chapter 2

By the time we made it up to the downtown penthouse Preston and I shared, Rowan was shivering hard enough that his teeth were clicking.

We'd bought the place together. Most of the down payment, though, had come from me.

I found an oversized men's bathrobe and handed it to him.

"Go take a hot shower. Don't get sick on me."

Rowan accepted the robe, glanced down at his right hand, and went sheepish.

"Chloe... I — I can't undo the buttons with one hand."

His eyes were rimmed red. His voice had a wounded note just at the edge of it.

I sighed and stepped closer.

"Let me."

I stood in front of him and started undoing the buttons of his shirt.

But my fingers accidentally rubbed against his pecs.

He took a breath, his pants became tighter and tighter, and his cock raised a big bulge inside.

My face flushed slightly; the desire I had barely suppressed surged back up, and I couldn't help but become increasingly wet down there, my nipples itching more and more.

But Rowan was still a patient, so I could only pretend not to notice the change in him and continue unbuttoning my shirt.

His abs were perfectly sculpted, and droplets of moisture trickled down his muscles, sliding into his waistband.

I couldn't help but follow the droplets down; his penis was getting harder and harder, the glans visible through his trousers.

Rowan asked in a hoarse voice, "Chloe, there are still pants. Can you help me?"

My throat was a little dry. I nodded and was about to undo his belt.

Preston came stalking in, trailing cold air. He saw the scene in front of him and his face cracked.

"Chloe! What the hell are you doing!"

I turned. I didn't flinch.

"What, did you go blind between the car and the elevator? I'm undressing him. Obviously."

Preston was shaking. He jabbed a finger at Rowan. "You have some nerve!"

"I'm gone for an hour and you drag some guy off the street into our bed?"

"Have you two been screwing behind my back this whole time?"

I laughed, dry, and took a step toward him.

"Watch your mouth, Preston."

"Rowan's an old classmate from college. He got hurt. He has nowhere to go. I'm putting him up for a few days. That's it."

Preston gritted his teeth. "Putting him up? What do you think this is — a homeless shelter? Get him out of my house!"

I didn't move. "This house? I put down most of the down payment. I've paid most of the mortgage. I get half the say in who stays here."

"If I say he stays, he stays. If you don't like it, you're welcome to leave."

Preston stared at me like I'd slapped him.

"Chloe. You're telling me to get out? For a stranger?"

I laughed in his face.

"When you wrecked my gallery for Vivian, did you remember I was your wife?"

Preston was caught without an answer. His face darkened.

Right on cue, Rowan tugged weakly at my sleeve.

He looked pale, his shirt half open, that bare expanse of chest on display, his voice thin as paper, like he was about to pass out.

"Chloe. Don't fight with Mr. Hartley over me. It's my fault. I'll go. I'll stop bothering you."

He took an unsteady step toward the door — and didn't make it two paces before he sat down hard on the floor, cradling his bandaged hand and sucking in sharp breaths through his teeth.

I hurried over to catch him.

"Rowan — what is wrong with you! You're going to ruin your hand!"

I turned on Preston.

"Happy now? He's got a bad hand. Do you need to push him into his grave before you're satisfied?"

Preston's eyes bulged. He jabbed a thumb at his own chest.

"Me? I pushed him? He's the one putting on a show!"

A timid voice floated in from the hallway.

"Pres? Is everything okay? ...Did I upset Chloe?"

Vivian, wrapped in one of Preston's oversized coats, was standing at the door. Her eyes were red.

She took in Rowan on the floor and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh my god — sir, that looks awful."