God, Autumn. This is Lukas. He’s your…husband. You guys are trying to find a way to get out of this mess. What were you thinking?

But it’s like my soaring heart is deaf to my logical brain. It doesn’t care that Lukas Spencer, my husband of four years, is the one person I have no business kissing.

18. Lukas

18

LUKAS

What the fuck was I thinking?

I pace back and forth in the gym, trying to shake the image of Autumn and me kissing out of my brain.

I want to blame it on the drinks, but I’m not a teenager. I’m thirty-four for fuck’s sake. I should be able to handle my drinks better.

How did this happen? How did I end up ravaging her in the backseat of a car like a starved man?

Because she was simply irresistible.

The whole evening, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. The way she remembered things about me. The way she denied Maya’s request and didn’t take off my mother’s ring. The ease when she leaned back on me, as if she owned me. And she does in so many ways.

But her presence in my life is the outcome of a promise someone else made. A promise that wasn’t theirs to establish. She isn’t in my life by choice but because she had no other choice.

I was supposed to protect her from everything. Instead I…

Fuck! This cannot happen again. I’m here until this wedding, and once my work is done, I’ll sign the divorce papers, give her the freedom that was robbed from her.

I will never touch her again.

I will never touch her again.

I flop down onto one of the beanbags and try hard, really hard, to not think about Autumn.

The sweet taste of her mouth.

The feel of her on top of me.

The way she ground herself on my raging erection.

My brain once again revisits the evening, and all the blood in my body goes back to my cock.

Stop it, Spencer! Just stop it.

I try to think about other things, but Autumn returns to my thoughts every few seconds.

“Lukas! Lukas!”

I struggle to open my eyes, and when I’m finally successful, Mr. Big’s face is right in front of mine.

There’s early morning light in the gym, in addition to the side lamp I possibly left on.

“Shit! What time is it?” I try to get up, but my head swims.

“It’s six thirty.”

“What are you doing here so early?” I ask, grabbing the handrail of the treadmill.

“I always come at this time,” the older gentleman replies with a smile on his face, and then he asks me, “But what are you doing here? I hope your wife didn’t throw you out.”