The house was supposed to be empty.
Lila was on a thirty-six-hour call shift, and I had only come by to drop off the lasagna I’d made for them. But Marcus was there — shirtless in the kitchen after a workout, sweat still glistening on his broad chest and carved abs. His gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, leaving nothing to the imagination.
“Elena,” he said, voice low and rough when he saw me standing in the doorway. His eyes darkened as they dragged over my sundress. “You shouldn’t be here right now.”
I knew I should leave. Instead, I set the dish on the counter and stepped closer.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I whispered, the confession spilling out like a sin I was tired of hiding. “Every time I see you with her… every time you call her your wife… I get so f*****g wet it hur
