Hating Him, Wanting Him

The ensuite door clicked shut behind Evan, and the silence he left in his wake felt immediate and cavernous. Stacy remained exactly where she was for a long moment, staring at the pale stretch of wall in front of her. The sheets were still warm where his body had been. The indentation of him lingered in the mattress, a shallow valley beside her hip. Even the air felt different: cooler somehow, thinner, as though something essential had been removed from the room.

Lonely.

The word came forward in her mind, unwelcome.

As soon as he had let go, as soon as he had rolled away from her, something inside her had dropped. A deep, hollow sensation opened in her chest and spread outward, slow and suffocating. It wasn't mild. It wasn't subtle. It was profound, a yawning emptiness that made her stomach tighten.

She craved his arms.

The very idea made her wince.

She craved the weight of him wrapped around her waist, the solid press of his chest against her back, the steady rhythm of his breathing at her neck. She craved his warmth soaking into her skin, anchoring her. She even, God help her, craved the firm, unmistakable pressure of his erection against her backside. The memory of it pulsed through her body, vivid and physical, heat pooling low in her abdomen.

What the hell was wrong with her? She pushed the feelings down and away as best as she could. These were feelings she did not want to confront.

In their place, rage surged up like a slap. Fury burned bright and immediate, scorching through the lingering softness of sleep. She threw the blankets back with more **** than necessary and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed her.

White lace clung to her body, delicate and sheer, the fabric cool where it wasn't warmed by her skin. She dragged her fingers over it in disbelief. The intricate pattern skimmed over her breasts and hugged her hips. It was beautiful. Intimate. Designed to be seen, to be appreciated, to be desired.

Of course, Stacy hadn't gone to bed in this outfit. She had, instead, gone to bed in flannel. Thick, ridiculous flannel with little stitched Christmas trees. She had chosen it deliberately. Armour. A statement. A boundary.

And she had woken up like this.

It was worse than yesterday, really. Yesterday he'd at least had boxers on. Today he'd been completely naked. Skin to skin. Nothing between them but the thinnest scrap of lace.

And the worst part, the part that made her jaw clench until it ached, was the certainty pressing in at the edges of her mind: they were going to do it again tonight.

And the night after.

She couldn't see a way out.

That fucking idiot and his fucking potion. Her hands curled into fists against the sheets. The rage was enormous, almost comforting in its clarity. It gave her something solid to hold onto, something that wasn't soft or needy or humiliating.

But beneath it, aggravatingly, persistently, was something else. Something she wished wasn't true. Something she would deny wholeheartedly if asked.

Stacy felt incredible.

She was rested in a way that bordered on supernatural. Her mind felt sharp, clean, as though someone had wiped condensation from a window. Thoughts aligned more easily. The fog of stress and resentment that usually hovered at the edges of her consciousness was absent.

She inhaled slowly. Even now, furious and unsettled, she felt stronger than she had in months. Maybe years. All she had to do was sleep with Evan one night, and she woke renewed. How would she feel after doing it for a week? A year?

That was the trap, wasn't it?

Clear-headed, she could see the absurdity of her situation more plainly than ever. The magic didn't just bind them physically. It rewarded proximity. Encouraged it. Conditioned them like lab animals.

Rest for compliance. Punishment for distance. Some sort of magical experiment, pushing, manipulating, turning her into something she didn't want to be.

And then, beneath the loneliness, beneath the rage, even beneath the clarity, there was one more feeling clawing for her attention despite her best efforts to ignore it.

Arousal.

It simmered low and steady, refusing to be ignored. Her thighs shifted against the sheets before she could stop them. The memory of waking up wrapped in him replayed with ruthless precision. The heavy warmth at her back. The way his arm had tightened when she'd pulled it closer. The feeling of his hand on her breast when she'd placed it there.

It had all turned her on. Deeply. Intensely.

She knew exactly why. Yes, thank you very much, she was perfectly aware that the potion's magic was manipulating her body just as it had manipulated everyone's perception of her marriage. Whatever was behind this magic was powerful. She could no longer trust her reactions to Evan. It had fundamentally altered her physical responses, twisted her instincts.

All of this she understood intellectually. That knowledge didn't change the reality of the heat pooling between her legs. It didn't change how badly she had wanted those extra minutes when she had pretended to sleep, pulling him closer, pressing her backside into his erection.

The memory burned into her, shining brightly, an intense shame that she would have a hard time shaking.

Evan, the asshole who had gotten her into this mess, had been the only one who had done the right thing. He had tried to move away, keeping his word, following through with the plan they'd made together the night before. She'd felt it: the careful withdrawal, the restraint, despite the evidence that he'd felt as aroused as Stacy. And she had stopped him. Moaned softly. Held his arm. Guided his hand to her breast to tempt him to go further, to be bolder.

Humiliation flooded her cheeks with heat.

What had she been doing? Encouraging her stepson to touch her. To use her. How would she have been able to cope with her actions had he not shown restraint? How could she have looked herself in the mirror knowing how she'd sold herself out, given away the last bit of agency she had left.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

She could tell herself it was weakness. A momentary lapse. The potion's influence.

But the truth sat heavy in her stomach.

If she found herself in his arms again tonight, feeling that warm, perfect alignment, she would want it again. Maybe not right now, not with anger fuelling her spine and stiffening her resolve, but in the dark? Half asleep? Suspended in that haze of safety?

She would do it again.

And more.

And she hated him for that.

Evan.

His name alone sent a fresh ripple of arousal through her body. His face surfaced in her mind: earnest, conflicted, trying so damn hard to be decent. The image made something inside her twist in a way that was far too close to tenderness. Heat flared again, sharper this time. Her fingers drifted downward toward her groin before she consciously registered the movement, sliding over lace, tracing the line of her abdomen.

She froze.

Damnit.

Not what she needed.

The ensuite shower roared to life, water pounding against tile. The sound snapped the moment in half.

That was her cue.

She pushed herself upright. No lingering grogginess. No heaviness in her limbs. Just that steady, infuriating vitality. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. She scanned the room and crossed to the dresser, opening the drawer where her flannel pajamas had lived before she'd put them on the night before.

They were there. Folded neatly. As if she hadn’t worn them to bed. As if the lingerie clinging to her body had been her choice rather than a hex.

She hesitated only a second before pulling the flannel on over the lace. She didn't bother removing it. There was no point. David would be leaving for work soon. Evan would head to school. Once the house was empty, she would have time. Space. Privacy.

Now, she had no desire to parade around in something designed to provoke. David no longer looked at her like a husband. And she had no intention of letting Evan stare at her and get his rocks off.

Besides, he’d already gotten more than an eyeful.

And a handful.

Her jaw tightened again as she imagined what he was probably doing in the shower to ease his own arousal. Thinking about what she'd done in bed to intensify it.

She tied the drawstring of her pajama bottoms with sharp, efficient movements and headed for the bedroom door. Anger stiffened her spine, giving her steps purpose.

She needed coffee.

Not because she was tired (she wasn't, not even remotely) but because she needed something ordinary. Something routine. A mug in her hands. The smell of grounds blooming under hot water.

Something to anchor her. Something to distract her.

From Evan.

And from the dangerous, treacherous parts of herself that wanted to knock on the ensuite door and ask if she could join him.