Husband for Hire – Part Three: The Line Blurs

Delaney was determined to keep her distance. One bed. Clear rules. No touching. But when proximity becomes heat and heat turns into something she can’t ignore, all those boundaries start to blur.

Now she’s wide awake, sharing a bed with a man who isn’t hers—and kissing him like she wants to break every rule they agreed on. The only problem? She was never supposed to feel like this. 

Husband for Hire – Part Three: The Line Blurs

It was never just pretend.

Delaney

The bathroom is filled with steam and shame.

I tug on the most aggressively unsexy pajamas I packed, an oversized T-shirt from a 10K I never ran and a pair of plaid pajama pants that make me look like a cranky lumberjack. Perfect.

Hair tied up. Face clean. Absolutely nothing to tempt a hired husband who looks like he was carved from temptation itself.

When I step back into the suite, the lights are low and Beau’s already in bed, shirtless, of course, because of course he is. The sheets are pulled low across his hips, his arm thrown over the pillow like he belongs here. Like this is normal.

Like this isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had.

I crawl into bed on my assigned side and face away from him like that’ll help. The mattress dips when I shift. I swear I hear him smirk.

I clutch the edge of the comforter like it’s a boundary line. As long as I stay right here, on my half, facing the wall, wearing pajamas that scream platonic energy, I’ll be fine.

Except I can feel him.

He’s not touching me. Not even close. But his presence drips through the silence like a slow leak. Warm. Steady. Impossible to ignore. Every shift he makes beneath the sheets pulls at my focus like a hook behind my ribs.

The bed is huge. We could build a pillow fort between us and never brush knees.

And yet… he feels closer than he should.

“So,” he says into the dark. “No sexy little nightie?”

“I don’t hate myself enough to let you see me in one.”

He chuckles. “You think I need lace to want to look at you?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “We are not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Flirting. Talking. Breathing in the same direction.”

“Bit late for that last one.”

Silence stretches between us. I roll to my back, eyes on the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything else, and I think maybe…maybe I’ve won. Until his voice cuts back in, softer now.

“You always sleep this stiff?”

I huff. “You always talk this much before bed?”

“Only when I’m thinking.”

I bite. “Thinking about what?”

A pause. Then—

“You.”

That one word hits like a sucker punch to the chest. Not teasing. Not smug. Just quietly honest.

I swallow. “You don’t have to keep up the act when no one’s watching.”

“I’m not acting,” he says simply. “Not right now.”

I roll to my side—still facing away—but my heart’s hammering. Because the truth is, I can’t tell what’s fake anymore. Not his voice. Not the warmth in it. Not the way my body responds like it’s been waiting for him this whole time.

I tell myself to ignore it.

I don’t.

…………

I wake up slowly.

The room is dark, lit only by the soft orange glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. I blink once. Twice. It takes me a minute to remember where I am. Blackwood Ridge. Honeymoon suite. Fake husband.

My body feels too warm. My skin buzzes. And something’s… off.

Except… no. Not off.

Different.

I shift just enough to glance around, and that’s when I feel it.

His knee, brushing mine beneath the covers. His breath, slow and even. His hand—low on my waist, heavy and possessive in a way that shouldn’t undo me the way it does.

There’s no wall of pillows between us. No sharp line drawn down the bed like I promised myself I’d keep. Just heat and proximity and that damn cologne that clings to everything he touches.

I’m not facing the wall anymore. I’m facing him.

And somewhere between pretending to sleep and trying to forget how good he smells, I must’ve shifted closer. Because our knees are brushing beneath the covers, and his hand is resting just shy of my hip, fingers curled loosely against the space between us.

I freeze.

It’s not much. Not really. Just a light touch through a layer of blankets and cheap plaid pajamas.

But it feels like much. Too much. The weight of his hand, the accidental drag of his fingers against the dip of my waist, the way his thumb twitches ever so slightly like his body’s thinking for him. Enough to make heat curl low in my belly like a stretch of wildfire just waiting for oxygen.

I tell myself it’s muscle memory. Sleep reflexes. Nothing more.

But my body doesn’t buy it.

Because my breath catches. My heart stutters. Every nerve sharpens like it’s been waiting for him to touch me and 

I should move.

Instead, I hold perfectly still, like maybe if I don’t breathe too hard, it won’t count.

His hand shifts slightly. Slides.

Not intentional, not even fully conscious, but enough to press against the curve of my waist now, his palm heavy and hot through the thin fabric of my shirt.

And still, I don’t move.

Because my body is reacting before my brain catches up. Skin prickling, thighs tightening, pulse tapping an unsteady rhythm in my throat.

He mumbles something.

Low. Rough. Sleep-slurred and quiet enough I almost miss it.

“Darlin’…”

My whole body reacts.

Heat flashes up my spine. My stomach flips. My thighs press together on instinct like they’re trying to trap something in—or maybe hold something back. I press my lips together, hard, like it’ll stop the sound from settling somewhere I really don’t want it to go.

It’s the voice. That deep, gravel-soaked murmur. The kind that could talk me into damn near anything.

And the worst part?

I don’t even think he’s dreaming about someone else.

I think he’s dreaming about me.

It’s not a question. Just a sound. Soft and familiar and so real that I feel it everywhere.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, fighting the ridiculous warmth spreading across my chest. I don’t even like being called that.

Except from him.

In that voice.

In bed.

I close my eyes again. Try to will myself back to sleep. Try to remember that this is fake. That the man curled up beside me is paid to make it feel real. That this means nothing.

But God… it feels like something.

The way he’s breathing, steady and even. The way he instinctively shifted closer in the night like his body knew mine was there. The way my heart won’t slow down no matter how many times I whisper this is nothing in my head.

I know I should shift back. Reclaim my side of the bed. Rebuild the wall I spent all night holding up.

But I don’t.

Because right now, just for a breath, just for a heartbeat, this doesn’t feel fake. It doesn’t feel like I hired a man to pretend he wants me.

It feels like he does.

And maybe I want to believe that a little too much.

So I lie there, still and burning and quietly falling apart, and I let him touch me.

Just for a little while.

I can’t sleep.

Not with the weight of his hand still lingering on my waist. Not with the echo of that voice in the dark, that name ‘darlin’, looping through my head like a siren call.

I shift for the fifth time, then throw the covers off and slide out of bed, careful not to disturb him. He doesn’t move. Just stays wrapped in the same heat and stillness I left behind.

The suite is cold in the way hotel rooms always are, quiet and unfamiliar. I cross to the kitchenette and pour myself a glass of water with shaky hands. My body’s still humming, my skin still aware of where he touched me, even in sleep.

I lean back against the counter, sip slowly, and try to breathe. Try to reset.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

I jump, nearly sloshing the water down my shirt.

Beau’s standing in the doorway, all sleepy eyes and shirtless sin, like he just stepped out of some twisted dream I didn’t ask to have. His hair is tousled. His voice is rough. And his sweatpants ride low enough that I actively have to look up to be appropriate.

“Jesus,” I hiss. “Do you have to sneak around like a damn panther?”

He grins, slow and lazy. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just noticed you were gone.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just… couldn’t sleep.”

He nods and crosses the room toward me like it’s no big deal, like he’s not barely dressed and smelling like the faintest hint of his cologne. He leans his hip against the opposite counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“You always run this hot?” he asks, eyes flicking down to the glass in my hand.

“You’re the one radiating heat like a human furnace.”

“Can’t help it,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. “You get used to sharing a bed and your body just reacts to what’s next to it.”

I lift my chin. “Even when it’s not real?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looks at me. Really looks at me. And something about the silence stretches too long. Something about the air shifts. My throat tightens.

I glance away, needing a buffer. “This was easier when you were an idea and not a six-foot-three problem in my bed.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Still just a man, Delaney.”

“That’s the problem,” I whisper.

He’s quiet again. Then, slowly, he steps forward.

Not in a rush or trying to intimidate. Just… closing the space between us.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. He lingers, trailing along my jaw like he’s memorizing it. My breath catches.

“I’m not trying to mess you up,” he says softly.

“Too late,” I breathe.

And then I lean in, or maybe he does. Maybe we both do.

But suddenly his mouth is on mine, slow and sure, like he’s not just kissing me, he’s learning me. As if every angle and sigh and hesitation is something he wants to study, not conquer.

My hands find his chest, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his pants where they bunch at his hips. His tongue brushes mine, and I melt into it, into him.

It’s not rough. It’s not urgent.

It’s worse.

It’s good.

I kiss him back harder, just once, long enough to feel the shift. The spark. The danger.

Then I break the kiss, breath coming fast, and put my hand on his chest to stop him before I stop myself.

“This is too much,” I say, barely louder than a whisper.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. Just stays close, watching me with those too-knowing eyes, like he already saw this coming.

I back away, slowly.

He lets me go.

And as I turn and walk toward the bedroom—heart racing, skin buzzing, rules crumbling in my hands—I can’t stop the thought that follows me all the way back to bed.stop the thought that follows me all the way back to bed.

This was never supposed to feel like this.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part four

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

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