The morning after my wedding night found me in the kitchen, nursing tea and pretending my thighs didn't ache in ways that were entirely Damon's fault.
The house was blissfully quiet for once. Arnold was away on business, probably terrorizing some foreign market.
Victoria had swept off to a charity luncheon, which I assumed involved judging poor people while wearing expensive hats. And Damon was still upstairs, sleeping off our... activities.
Which left me alone with my chamomile and my complicated feelings and…
"Good morning."
Christopher appeared in the doorway, looking unfairly put-together in a casual button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His hair was slightly damp from a shower. His jaw was freshly shaved. He looked like a catalog model who'd wandered into the wrong kitchen and decided to stay.
Domestic Christopher was devastating. I'd always known this, in the abstract way you know the sun is hot or the ocean is deep.
But I'd never been alone with it before. Never had to face the full force of Christopher Ashford in soft morning light, looking rumpled and approachable and devastatingly human.
"Morning," I managed, wrapping both hands around my mug like it could protect me from my own stupid thoughts. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough." He moved to the coffee maker, his movements easy and familiar. "You?"
"Like the dead. This house has remarkably comfortable beds."
"It should. They cost more than most people's cars."
We exchanged pleasantries—surface-level, safe. The weather. The upcoming week's schedule. Whether the cook had made those pastries I liked.
Normal conversation between two people who were definitely not thinking about anything inappropriate.
But something in Christopher's expression made me pause. A tension around his jaw that hadn't been there before.
A deliberate way he wasn't quite meeting my eyes, focusing instead on his coffee cup like it contained the secrets of the universe.
"These old houses," he said, too casually, stirring his coffee with unnecessary concentration. "They have their quirks. Thin walls, mostly. Sounds carry in strange ways."
A pause. "Especially at night."
Oh.
Oh no.
Heat flooded my face with the intensity of a thousand suns. He heard us. He heard everything.
Every gasp, every moan, every embarrassing sound Damon had pulled from my throat. Every desperate plea I'd made and every devastating thing Damon had whispered in response.
I wanted the marble floor to open up and swallow me whole. Wanted to dissolve into my tea and evaporate into steam. Wanted to be literally anywhere else on the planet, including the bottom of the ocean.
"What happened between me and Damon…"
The words tumbled out before I could stop them, desperate and defensive.
"It didn't mean anything. It's just... physical. Satisfying needs. Nothing more. It seemed like… I mean, it was just—"
"Kitty." Christopher's voice was gentle but firm, cutting through my rambling. "You don't owe me an explanation."
"I know, but…"
"You're a grown woman with the right to decide who you share your bed with." His expression remained carefully neutral, giving away nothing. "Especially since Damon is your legal husband."
"Only on paper."
The words hung between us like smoke, heavy with implications neither of us wanted to examine.
Christopher tilted his head slightly, studying me with those unreadable gray eyes that always seemed to see more than I wanted to show.
"Why are you trying so hard to justify yourself to me?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
I didn't have an answer—not a rational one, anyway. What I had was a tangle of emotions I couldn't name, a desperate need for him to understand something I didn't understand myself.
And the devastating effect of Christopher looking soft and present and concerned in a way that made my chest ache with wanting.
I couldn't justify what I did next. Couldn't explain the impulse that propelled me forward, closing the distance between us in three quick steps. Couldn't rationalize why I rose on my toes and pressed my mouth to his.
Christopher froze.
One heartbeat. Two. Three.
Then he shattered.
His hands gripped my waist, spinning me, pressing my back against the wall with a force that stole my breath. His mouth claimed mine—hungry, desperate, like a man who'd been starving and finally found sustenance.
This was raw. Real. Devastating.
His tongue swept against mine, and I moaned into his mouth—actually moaned, like some romance novel heroine I'd always mocked.
His thigh pressed between my legs, and I ground against it shamelessly, chasing friction I desperately needed. His hands slid down to grip my backside, lifting me slightly so I could feel exactly how much he wanted it.
He was hard against my hip, straining against his perfectly pressed trousers, and the knowledge that I'd done that to him, composed, controlled Christopher, sent liquid heat pooling between my thighs.
“Chris…” I arched into him, fingers tangling in his hair, destroying that perfect styling I'd admired minutes ago.
His fingers slipped beneath the lace of my underwear, finding me wet and wanting, and the sound he made, low, guttural, wrecked, was worth every shred of dignity I'd just surrendered.
He stroked once, twice, his thumb finding my clit with devastating accuracy, and I bit down on his shoulder to muffle my cry.
Then, Christopher wrenched himself away.
He stumbled back three steps, chest heaving, shaking his head like he was trying to physically dislodge what just happened. A few strands of his perfect hair had escaped, falling across his forehead in disarray.
God help me, it only made me want him more.
"This isn't right." His voice was raw, breathless, wrecked. "We have to stop. This… This was a mistake."
"Christopher…"
"You're my brother's wife." He dragged a hand through his hair, tucking the errant strands back into place, rebuilding his composure brick by careful brick.
I watched the transformation happen—watched him reassemble himself into the controlled, proper Christopher I'd first met. "On paper or not, that's what you are. And I'm your brother-in-law. That's all I can be."
"That's not—"
"What just happened..." He was backing toward the door now, putting distance between us like I was something dangerous. "We need to forget it. Completely. It never happened."
"You can't just decide that. You can't just—"
"We need to keep our distance from each other." His hand found the doorframe, steadying himself. "It's better that way. For everyone."
"Christopher, please."
But he was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him with damning finality.
I remained frozen against the wall, heart pounding, lips swollen, body thrumming with unspent wanting. My skirt was still bunched awkwardly. My hands were still trembling.
My thoughts had scattered like startled birds, impossible to gather back into any coherent formation.
I'd come downstairs for tea.
Now I was questioning everything I thought I understood about myself. About Christopher. About the tangled, impossible mess my life had become.
The taste of him lingered on my lips like an accusation.
Chamomile and honey and something uniquely him—steady and warm and completely, utterly forbidden.
What had I done?