The swirls the knowledge hit my stomach with should have been my cue to leave. I wouldn’t have hesitated if I hadn’t recalled the prenuptial agreement Roy had me sign an hour before we exchanged vows. He is ten years my senior, so at the time, he was also more successful than me.
Our prenup is extremely in favor of him.
There’s only one way I can tip the needle.
I need solid proof that he is having an affair. An infidelity clause was the only one I got approved.
Now I know why Roy fought so hard to have it expunged.
From the noises bellowing out of the honeymoon suite as I approach it, I’m mere seconds from securing enough proof to bury Roy and his unfair marriage contract.
With my body temp too high to function normally, I undo the final button of my trench coat and fan it open before I swipe the room keycard across the electronic lock.
It buzzes green for half a second before I push down on the latch.
I remain quiet, not wanting to startle Roy into an amicably neutral pose a divorce attorney could construe as friendly.
The honeymoon suite is massive. A living room with a grand piano hogs most of the space, only slightly overshadowed by a mini kitchen squashed against one wall.
I understand its minuscule design. Who wants to cook when on their honeymoon? I certainly wasn’t interested. Roy was just too cheap to mimic my logic.
The reminder of his stingy ways has me increasing the length of my strides. I dart through the living room, giving the opulence only a small snippet of attention before taking the spiral staircase that leads to the loft two stairs at a time.
The landing of the primary suite is gorgeous, with a working fireplace and Egyptian silks. I can’t enjoy it, though, since the moans of a man in the midst of ecstasy are weakening its luxuriousness.
I also don’t have a second to spare. Roy isn’t known for his stamina.
With my iPhone held in front of me, recording every step I take, I burst into the main room of the primary suite and then jackknife my upper body toward a monstrous four-poster bed.
“You cheating piece of shit…”
My words trail off when I find a bed in pristine, untouched condition. The rose petals the check-in clerk mentioned earlier are scattered across the unrumpled bedding, and a bottle of champagne is cooling in a bucket of ice, but not a single person can be seen.
A god, though. There’s one of them.
He isn’t on the bed. He’s sitting in a wingback chair on my left, snarling like I’m breaking into his apartment instead of the honeymoon suite my philandering husband booked for a weekend fuck-fest with his mistress.
The clerk tried to act nonchalantly while requesting ID to confirm that I was the Mrs. Martin she checked in a couple of hours ago.
The world’s best actor would have had difficulty schooling her features while matching my license with the video footage of a barely legal blonde with legs that go for miles cozied up to Roy’s side.
The clerk remade my card as requested before announcing she has security on standby if I require assistance, but the majority of the “busted on camera” stunt I hoped to pull off was left to me.
After numerous swallows, I ask, “Is this… I…”
I can’t talk. I needed a bit of wetness to subdue the dryness the stranger’s deliriously handsome face inspired, but spit is pooling in my mouth like an endless river.
My drooling can’t be helped. The stranger is stunning in a way that demands a stupor state. His hair is dark, his eyes are light, and tattoos skate the thick lines of his arms and peek out the top of his rolled-up-at-the-sleeves dress shirt.
Since his eyes are scanning my body as adeptly as mine are drinking him in, I take my time assessing all his favorable points.
His rigid jawline is covered with wiry black scruff, his buttoned-up shirt is undone to just below a pendant on a thick chain, and over two dozen tattoos are on his left arm alone.
His attire is pricy and his shoes are designer, but his neck tattoos give him a risky edge a Vegas businessman would struggle to pull off. He screams dangerous. Murderer, even, but I can’t stop staring.
I’ve never had the pleasure of standing across from such a sexy, alluring man, and I don’t want to give up a single second of ogling to consider an emotion as pitiful as fear.
This stranger deserves his own category of hot.
