Rachel's Forbidden Brewery Cheating

The stainless steel tanks gleamed under the low amber lights of the brewery like sleeping beasts. Rachel adjusted the strap of her yoga bag on her shoulder and tried not to look bored. The company retreat had sounded charming on paper—private tour of Black Oak Brewing for spouses and executives—but her husband, Mark, had already drained three pints of the hoppy IPA and was holding court with his sales team, voice too loud, laugh too sharp. His face had that familiar flushed, sloppy look she’d grown to resent.

She slipped away from the group without a word.

The back hallway smelled of malt, yeast, and something darker—rich, almost sexual. Her black Lululemon leggings clung to her toned legs, the result of too many early-morning yoga classes. At thirty-two, Rachel still turned heads. Five-foot-six, athletic curves, long chestnut hair usually twisted in a sleek bun. Tonight it hung loose, brushing the tops of her breasts beneath a thin gray tank. Her wedding ring caught the light as she trailed her fingers along a cold railing.

She felt him before she saw him.

Jax leaned against a doorway at the end of the hall, arms folded, watching her like he’d been waiting. Twenty-eight, tall, heavily inked. Black ink sleeves crawled from wrists to shoulders—tribal patterns, a roaring lion on one forearm, geometric lines that disappeared beneath the tight black tank stretched across his wide chest. His dark hair was cropped short on the sides, longer on top, and his jaw looked sharp enough to cut glass. But it was his eyes—pale green, predatory—that locked onto hers and refused to let go.

Rachel’s breath caught. Heat bloomed low in her belly, sudden and unmistakable. Her ring glinted again as she lifted a hand to tuck hair behind her ear, and she saw his gaze flick to it. He didn’t look away. If anything, the corner of his mouth curled.

“Lost?” His voice was low, rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey.

“Not anymore,” she answered before she could stop herself.

Jax pushed off the doorframe and closed the distance in three lazy strides. He smelled like cedar, sweat, and toasted barley. Up close the sexual energy rolled off him in waves—raw, unapologetic, the kind of masculine confidence that made her thighs press together instinctively.

“I’m Jax. I teach the corporate yoga sessions on Tuesdays. Also make the beer when they let me loose back here.” He tilted his head. “You’re Rachel, right? Mark’s wife.”

The way he said wife sounded like a challenge.

She lifted her chin. “That’s me.”

He smiled slowly, eyes dropping to her mouth, then lower, tracing the outline of her nipples now visibly tight against the thin fabric of her tank. “Your husband’s three sheets to the wind. You don’t look like you want to babysit him tonight.”

Rachel’s pulse hammered in her throat. She should have turned around. Instead she took one step closer, until the heat of his body brushed hers.