Julian stood frozen in the doorway, the phone slipping from his limp fingers and clattering loud to the hardwood floor—clack-clack-crash—bouncing once, screen cracking faint.
The sound sliced sharp through the thick, humid air, but it didn't matter.
Nothing mattered. Coffee splashed hot from the mug in his other hand, dark liquid streaking down his wrinkled shirt, burning faint against his skin, dripping off the hem in fat drops, pooling at his feet like spilled blood that steamed faint in the cool morning.
He twitched hard under the slithering golden light, the skin around it pulling tight. Less than twenty-four hours.
Not even a full damn day since Devon had ripped him apart on stage, stolen his victory, his pride, his everything. And now this.
In his house.
In his bed.
With his wife.
The air reeked—sex and sweat and the sharp, sweet bite of Amara's jasmine perfume twisted deep with the darker, animal musk of bodies pushed past exhaustion, past reason.
