Chapter 1

The quiet hum of the house was a sound Ethan had come to cherish. He sat in his worn leather armchair, the weight of a thick historical biography resting in his lap, but his eyes weren’t on the page. They were fixed on Nora, curled on the opposite end of the sofa, a testament to soft, effortless beauty.

A stray beam of morning sun caught the rich chestnut color of her hair, which she’d loosely pinned up, letting stray strands fall around the soft curve of her neck. She was sketching on her tablet, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. He loved that about her. He loved the easy silence they could share, a comfort built over eight years of marriage.

“What do you think for dinner tonight?” she asked, not looking up from her screen. “I was thinking maybe that pasta place.”

“Pasta sounds good,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.

She smiled, a small, private thing. “Figured you’d say that.”

Ethan’s gaze drifted from her face down to her body. She was wearing his favorite of her lazy Saturday outfits: a soft, oatmeal-colored cashmere sweater that was just a size too big, causing it to fall loosely off one shoulder to expose the smooth, pale skin of her collarbone. The soft knit pooled at her narrow waist before giving way to a pair of well-worn, matte black yoga pants. They were practically a second skin, stretched taut over her hips and the generous curve of her ass. It was a shape so full and substantial it seemed to defy gravity, a perfect, shelf-like plumpness even as she sat curled on the sofa.

He found himself lost in a familiar fantasy, imagining setting his book aside, walking over to her, and sinking both his hands into that perfect, giving softness. He could almost feel the satisfying strain of the thin fabric against his thumbs as he gripped her, the warmth of her body radiating through the material as he spread her cheeks apart. He knew the weight of her full, high breasts in his palms, the way they pressed against the soft knit of her sweater now, promising a perfect handful. He knew every inch of that body—the feel of her skin, the weight of her in his arms—but moments like this, just watching her, still took his breath away. She was a work of art, a blend of wholesome sweetness and a deep, simmering sensuality. It was that hidden sensuality that fascinated him most. He sensed, with a certainty that was both thrilling and frustrating, that beneath the perfect, sweet wife, there was a wilder, more carnal version of Nora that he had never quite figured out how to unleash.

Nora stretched, arching her back like a cat. The movement pushed her breasts forward, the twin mounds rising prominently against the cashmere, and made the fabric of her yoga pants pull even tighter across her incredible ass. She let out a soft sigh, and as she settled back into the couch, her eyes met his. He expected her to look away, to offer a simple smile, but she didn’t. She held his gaze for a long, charged moment, her full lips parting slightly. He saw a flicker of something knowing and playful in their depths, a silent acknowledgment that she knew exactly where his eyes had been and what he was thinking. It was a look that was anything but innocent, and it sent a hot throb straight to Ethan’s groin, a jolt of heat far more potent than any accidental gesture.

She finally set her tablet aside. “I’m going to pack you a lunch for the garden,” she announced, unfolding herself from the couch with a fluid grace that made his mouth go dry. “A proper one. Your ‘happy place’ deserves more than a squashed sandwich.”

He just smiled, a wave of affection washing over him. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” she said, turning to give him a wink before disappearing into the kitchen. He listened to the soft sounds of her humming and the clinking of containers, the biography in his lap entirely forgotten. He was a lucky man. A very, very lucky man.

The community garden was Ethan’s sanctuary. Here, there was order. His plot was a testament to his meticulous nature: tomato plants stood in disciplined rows, their stalks supported by perfectly tied stakes, the dark soil around their bases free of a single weed. He was on his knees, the sun warming his back, the earthy smell a balm to his academic mind. This, he thought, was real. This was control.

“Still plantin’ ‘em that deep, Professor?”

Ethan didn’t have to look up. The voice was a grating intrusion, as unwelcome as the crabgrass that tried to invade his patch. Gus. He’d arrived with a thud of his heavy boots on the grass path, his large shadow falling over Ethan’s work.

“They seem to be doing just fine, Gus. Thanks.” Ethan kept his eyes on the soil, pulling at a stubborn root.

“Gonna suffocate the roots,” Gus barreled on, ignoring Ethan’s curt reply. “A real gardener knows you gotta let ‘em breathe. You professors, always got your heads in a book, don’t know a thing about the real world.”

Ethan finally looked up, his gaze traveling over the man who was the antithesis of everything he valued. Gus was a man in his early fifties whose body had long since surrendered to neglect. His plaid shirt, perpetually untucked, failed to conceal the soft, prominent gut that hung over the belt of his stained work pants. His face, ruddy and coarse, was dominated by a thick, fleshy nose and large, watery eyes that had a way of staring just a little too long, as if they were searching for something to criticize. A few oily gray strands were combed over a balding, sun-spotted scalp. He gestured with a thick, calloused hand, his fingernails rimmed with a permanent crescent of black grime.