He was so close I could feel the heat of his gaze pressing against the skin of my back. I froze, certain that if I shifted even an inch, I would collide with him. Despite my efforts to stay grounded, unbidden thoughts began to plague me—shameful, persistent images of his exposed chest and the sharp, clean lines of his collarbones. I squeezed my eyes shut, mentally scolding myself for such scandalous impulses.It’s wrong, I told myself. He is my husband, but surely a man like him—an attractive man of experience—wouldn't want intimacy with someone like me. I imagined him with beautiful women from his past, and a sharp, irrational spike of jealousy flared in my chest. We weren't star-crossed lovers; we had no history of luck together. So why did the mere thought of him with anyone else make me want to lash outI was still spiraling through my own possessiveness when a large, muscular hand suddenly encircled my waist, pulling me backward until I was flush against him. An involuntary gasp
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