Page 28 of Torn By Fate

Goddamn it.

Her perky breasts were perfectly shaped, her nipples tightening in small buds as the cool air brushed against her bare skin.

My arms dropped, but my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

This was deliberate. Calculated.

She knew I was watching—she had to know—and she was putting on a show designed to unravel me.

Her hands moved to the waistband of her pink shorts next, pushing them down over her hips with agonizing slowness. She stepped out of them, then hooked her thumbs into the elastic of her underwear.

I watched, like a goddamn pervert, utterly transfixed, as she slid those down too, until she stood completely naked in front of the window.

Every inch of Serafina was exposed to me.

The gentle curve of her waist, the soft flare of her hips, and the dark triangle between her legs.

My body responded to her display with embarrassing predictability, blood rushing south as my dick hardened against my thigh.

My wife was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache, in a way that had nothing to do with the scar tissue still healing beneath my shirt.

She turned slightly, and my dick twitched again. I saw the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, and the way her spine curved in the warm light.

Every inch of her was flawless.

Flawless and mine.

Her hand came up and her fingers trailed along her own skin. Slowly and deliberately, tracing the line of her collarbone, then lower, following the slope of her breast without touching her hardened nipples, and moving across her flat stomach.

Every touch on her delicate skin was… purposefully intimate.

A performance.

A provocation.

Serafina was a woman who had deviously calculated exactly what she was doing and how it needed to be done.

And God help me, it was working.

The sound that left my throat was almost animalistic.

My cock was hard. Painfully, stupidly hard, pressing against the front of my black pants with an insistence that bordered on humiliation.

My wife was a mad woman; everything about her was maddening, and she drove me fucking mad.

I pressed the heel of my palm against my hardness through my pants—rough, punishing, the way a man disciplines something that has gotten out of control. A low groan escaped my throat before I could stop it. The pressure sent a bolt of sensation through me that was equal parts relief and agony, and I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper.

Her hand drifted lower, dipping below her navel. The dim light caught the pale skin of her inner thighs and left the center of her in deliberate shadow.

My hand moved again. I couldn’t stop it. The rough drag of fabric against the length of me was its own kind of torture. I pressed harder, grinding my palm against the ridge of my cock through my pants, and the sound that escaped me this time was closer to a curse than a groan.

It was the knowledge that she was doing this for me, for the watcher she couldn’t find in the darkness but knew was there—that knowledge was what unraveled me.

Serafina was teasing me. Playing with me.

And I was allowing her, standing in the darkness like some pathetic voyeur while my wife—the woman who had tried to kill me—put on a dirty show.

This time, the anger that surged through me was welcomed. Familiar. It burned away the desire licking against my flesh, replacing it with something colder, more manageable.