My Landlord's Midnight Lips

I was dead asleep when suddenly—a pair of lips smashed into mine.

Half-conscious, I assumed it was Daniel, my husband, finally home from his night shift. My body reacted before my brain could, kissing him back with a hunger I hadn't realized I still had.

But then I caught the stench—whiskey, thick and sour on his breath. Who the hell had he been drinking with at this hour?

Not that I cared. It had been weeks since he'd touched me.

Fumbling for the lamp, I flicked it on—and my stomach plummeted.

The man in my bed wasn't Daniel.

It was Vincent Lowell. Our landlord. A man twice my age.

A scream ripped from my throat.

Vincent jerked back, scrambling off me like I'd burned him. One hand clamped over my mouth, his grip too firm, too sure. "Sophia, don't—it's not what you think! Just let me explain."

Bullshit.

My eyes raked over him—tan, toned, wearing nothing but a guilty expression.

Damn. He was… fit.

A glance at the clock: midnight.

Daniel would be home any minute.

How the hell was I supposed to explain this?

Lately, he'd been paranoid, accusing me of looking elsewhere. Just last week, he'd snapped, "Are you seeing someone?"

Vincent's face flushed crimson as he grabbed his clothes. "I swear, I got the rooms mixed up. I'll go. Just—don't scream. We'll talk tomorrow."

Before I could respond, he bolted, leaving me staring at the empty doorway, an odd, hollow ache in my chest.

That was it? He just… walked away?

The front door creaked open. Daniel's voice cut through the dark. "You're still up?"

I sat up too fast, smoothing my hair. "Couldn't sleep. Go shower."

He sniffed the air. "What's that smell?"

My breath hitched.

Alcohol. Vincent's cologne.

Daniel stepped closer, nose wrinkling. "It's on you. Did you drink in bed?"

He yanked back the covers. I didn't stop him.

"The mattress was damp," I lied. "Probably mildew. I sprayed vodka to disinfect it."

He frowned but let it drop—literally.

As the sheet settled, a gust of air sent a pair of white briefs tumbling onto the floor.

My heart stopped.

Neither of us owned that color.

Vincent's.

That bastard couldn't even take his damn underwear with him?

Daniel's gaze locked onto my neck.

Thank God he hadn't noticed—yet.

I hooked the briefs with my foot and dragged them under the blanket.