Her Husband's Best Friend's Forbidden Touch

Elena swirled the last of the red wine in her glass, watching the firelight fracture across the liquid like tiny lightning bolts. Outside, the storm roared against the cabin’s thick logs, wind screaming through the pines as if the mountain itself wanted in. Rain lashed the windows in violent sheets. She was supposed to be alone tonight. Mark’s business trip had been extended again, leaving her in this remote rental cabin for three more days.

A sharp knock at the door made her jump.

She set the glass down and padded across the hardwood, pulling her oversized cream sweater tighter around her thighs. When she opened the door, a gust of icy rain swept in with him.

Alex stood on the porch, soaked to the bone, dark hair plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his leather jacket. Even drenched, he looked illegally good—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, that dangerous half-smile already curling his lips.

“Mark said the road might wash out,” he said, voice low and rough from the cold. “Figured I’d come check on you before it did.”

Elena’s pulse spiked. She’d known Alex for six years. Known the way his eyes lingered on her when Mark wasn’t looking. Known the low, filthy timbre his voice dropped into when he teased her just a little too long. She’d touched herself to those memories more times than she would ever admit.

“You’re soaked,” she said, stepping aside. “Come in before you freeze.”

He brushed past her, close enough that she caught the scent of rain, pine, and warm male skin. Her nipples tightened instantly under the thin sweater.

While Alex peeled off his wet jacket, Elena poured him a glass of the same bold cabernet. They settled on the thick rug in front of the stone fireplace, backs against the oversized couch, legs stretched toward the flames. The storm knocked the power out twenty minutes later, plunging the cabin into darkness broken only by the dancing orange light.

They didn’t bother with candles.

Conversation started safe—how Mark’s trip was going, how the cabin had been her idea for a quiet weekend, how the storm had come out of nowhere. But wine loosened tongues. Memories surfaced. The night the three of them had gotten drunk at the lake house three summers ago. The way Alex had carried her to bed when she’d twisted her ankle hiking. The time he’d caught her coming out of the shower in nothing but a towel and they’d both pretended it hadn’t happened.

The space between their bodies shrank inch by inch.