5

The door to the east wing guest suite clicks shut, sealing us inside.

It is a massive, oppressive room, heavily decorated in dark velvet and floral wallpaper but the only thing I can focus on is the singular, antique four-poster king bed dominating the center of the floor.

I immediately back up until my shoulder blades hit the flocked wallpaper in the corner, clutching my overnight bag to my chest.

Steve drops his leather duffel onto the luggage rack at the foot of the bed.

He doesn't immediately turn around, but he lets out a low, exhausted breath, rolling his shoulders.

"You don't need to stand over there like I'm about to attack you, Serena," he says, his voice drained of the icy, authoritative edge he usually carries. "I'm not going to touch you."

"I'm not scared," I lie, my voice betraying me with a humiliating, tiny tremor. "I just... I'll take the chaise lounge."

He finally turns to face me, raising a single, dark eyebrow. "It's crushed velvet, it's barely four feet long, and it looks like it was built in the eighteenth century. You'll ruin your spine. We are married, we can share a mattress for eight hours without killing each other."

Before I can formulate a counterargument, he reaches up to his collar and begins unbuttoning his dress shirt.

My brain completely stalls.

Up until twenty-four hours ago, I had never seen my husband in anything less than a bespoke three-piece suit.

Seeing him in the partially open silk robe last night was jarring, but this...watching him strip off the layers of his armor... is a total system override.

He shrugs the crisp white cotton off his shoulders and tosses it carelessly onto a nearby armchair.

I actually forget how to breathe.

I know he boxes at a private, exclusive gym downtown, his assistant Mark schedules it for him every single morning at five, but I didn't realize the sheer, sculpted violence of what lies beneath his tailored clothes.

His shoulders are impossibly broad, tapering down to a narrow waist and the sharp, defined V-lines disappearing beneath the dark leather belt of his trousers.

Every inch of him looks carved out of warm, golden stone, corded with lean, heavy muscle.

He is, objectively and infuriatingly, the most devastatingly beautiful man I have ever seen in my life.

And he is my husband.

I tear my eyes away, my cheeks burning hotly, and duck into the en-suite bathroom to change into my oversized sleep shirt before I embarrass myself.

When I emerge ten minutes later, he is already under the heavy duvet, wearing only a pair of dark cotton sweatpants. His back is turned to my side of the bed.

I slide under the covers on the absolute extreme edge of the mattress, terrified of accidentally brushing against him.

We lie back-to-back in the dark, separated by three feet of expensive linen.

But the gap does nothing to dull the intensity. I can feel his body heat radiating across the sheets.

I lie there for hours, staring blankly at the wall, listening to the rain batter the windowpanes.

My mind relentlessly replays the image of his bare chest.

I think about the heavy, possessive grip of his hands on my waist from the night before, and the dark, unhinged way his voice dropped when he cornered me in the club.

When I finally jolt awake, the room is pitch black.

The storm is still raging outside.

I instinctively reach a hand backward. The sheets on the other side of the bed are cool to the touch.

The space is empty. Steve is gone.

I let out a shaky, frustrated breath, rolling onto my back.

My skin feels entirely too tight.

My clit is throbbing, and a heavy, restless ache has settled deep in my core.

With the stress, the adrenaline of almost getting caught, and the suffocating forced proximity, my body is violently demanding a release.

I can't stop thinking about him. Not the cold, distant senator I married, but the ruthless, hungry man from Room Four who demanded to know how to dismantle his own wife.

I need to get him out of my system before I completely lose my mind.

I slip out of bed.  The door to the en-suite bathroom is pushed slightly ajar, the room completely dark inside.

I slip in, easing the door mostly shut behind me to block out the noise of the thunder.

The bathroom smells faintly of the sharp sandalwood soap he must have used earlier.

I don't bother reaching for the light switch. I don't want to see myself in the massive vanity mirror.

I just want the physical sensation, a quick, silent release in the pitch black so I can finally turn my brain off and get a few hours of sleep.

I pull my oversized t-shirt over my head and drop it onto the cold marble floor.

I step into the massive, glass-enclosed walk-in shower.

I don't turn the water on. The plumbing would be too loud and I don't want to risk waking him if he is just in the hallway.

I just lean my bare back against the cool, smooth tile, closing my eyes and letting out a ragged sigh.

My hands trail down my stomach, my mind instantly, traitorously conjuring the phantom weight of Steve's hands.

I imagine his rough palms sliding against my bare skin, his chest pressing flush against mine, pinning me to the wall. I picture the raw, feral look in his eyes right before he almost kissed me in the penthouse.

My breath hitches in the dark. I slip my hand lower, tracing my clit, letting my head fall back against the tile.

"Steve," I breathe out, the whisper barely audible over the sound of the rain outside.

Click.

The harsh, blinding glare of the bathroom vanity lights flare to life.

I gasp, my eyes flying open, my hands violently ripping away from my pussy to shield my tits as the sudden brightness stings my vision.

Sitting perfectly still in the velvet armchair tucked into the far corner of the massive bathroom, is Steve.

He is fully awake, wearing his dark sweatpants, an unlit cigar resting loosely between his fingers.

He has been sitting in the pitch black the entire time.

His cold, blue eyes track slowly, over my naked, shivering body behind the glass door.

He hasn't missed a single thing.