The Home-wrecker (The Goode Brothers)
The Home-wrecker: Chapter 17

Curling my hair in the bathroom, I get a quick flashback of last night every time I look at my reflection in the mirror. A smirk tugs at my lips.

First, that moment with Dean when he told me to kneel—and I did.

Then, later that night, in bed with Caleb.

I needed that. No, we needed that. Sex without purpose other than intimacy and pleasure. When was the last time we did that? Months? Years? I nearly forgot how good it can be. Our sex life used to be fun, back when I felt like someone he couldn’t resist. Back when my body felt like my own.

I still don’t understand what happened with Dean, though. It wasn’t about attraction or sex, but something acute and powerful happened to me when I looked up at him from the floor. I felt so cherished. Like all of his attention was hyperfocused on me.

I haven’t felt that way since college. Since Caleb and I first met, I knew that he wanted me. It was his attention I fell in love with first. The way his eyes would always find me. The way he made it seem like even when my boyfriend was there, Caleb and I were the only two people in the room.

From there, I fell in love with Caleb. His kindness, his humor, and his confidence. I felt so safe with him, and I knew from our very first kiss that I could spend the rest of my life comfortable and happy in his arms. Like he carved out a space just for me.

Being with Dean reminds me of those days. Like Dean sees me, too.

After my hair is curled and my makeup is applied, I slip on a pair of comfortable sneakers and throw my purse over my shoulder. Abby is with Caleb’s mother, so I have the whole day to myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to just go where I want when I want, and I have the perfect day planned.

“Where are you off to?” a deep voice calls when I walk out of the house with my keys in hand. I spin around to find Dean coming down the stairs. He’s dressed like he’s going somewhere too. In tight black pants and a dark-green polo that hugs his muscled arms, it’s incredibly distracting.

“Headed to the art museum in the city,” I reply cheerfully. “There’s a traveling exhibit from Lyon there this month, and I don’t want to miss it.”

“Art museum?” he replies with interest.

“Yeah, I know that seems weird…”

“Doesn’t seem weird at all,” he says, cutting me off. “Sounds lovely.”

Holding my hand on my forehead to block the sun, I squint up at him as the words just slip through my lips. “Do you wanna come?”

For a moment, he appears surprised by the invite. “I don’t want to crash your relaxing day.”

“You wouldn’t be crashing it,” I reply. “If you let me show you everything I love there and talk about art for a couple of hours, I think I’d enjoy it even more.”

This makes him smile, and the way his eyes light up makes my stomach flutter. Then he takes a step toward me, and when he turns his gaze back up to my face, I feel my skin flush with heat.

“I would love to hear you talk about something you love. Anyone who turns that down is insane,” he says coolly. “I’ll drive.”

I have to force myself to swallow. “Okay then.”

Dean climbs into his car, which is a sleek black BMW sedan. It smells like fresh leather and cologne on the inside, making my mouth water immediately as I sit down. The drive into the city is about forty-five minutes, and we spend the entire time avoiding anything awkward, like whatever the hell happened last night.

Instead, he tells me about his father and growing up in the city. I tell him about my family and college.

“I remember you a little bit,” he says with one hand gripping the steering wheel. “But you and Caleb were just friends back then, right?”

“Um…” My voice trails. Most of the time, when people ask how Caleb and I met, I just tell them we met in college. It’s a classic story of cheerleader meets star quarterback. I usually include how whenever he was on the field, I was constantly watching him, and whenever he ran to the bench, his eyes would find me on the sidelines.

Those things are all true. The part about me dating the captain of the team at the same time is purposefully omitted.

Usually.

“I was dating his teammate in college,” I say as I stare out the window.

“His teammate?” Dean asks, sounding surprised.

“Yeah,” I confess. There’s no excuse or sweet way to frame the story in our favor.

“You broke up with that guy for Caleb?” Dean asks.

“Eventually,” I say.

“Wow…”

When I turn to look at him in the driver’s seat, he’s wearing a smug expression as if he’s intrigued by the story. And maybe that’s why I told him a little more than I normally do. I knew he wouldn’t judge me.

“Very sexy,” he remarks before turning toward the road. I bite my lip between my teeth as I stifle a grin.

“It was sexy,” I reply.

When we reach the museum downtown, Dean parks on the top floor of the garage down the street, and we take a shifty elevator down to the ground level. Walking to the museum and passing by other people on the street, I feel an odd sense of mischief being out and alone with Dean.

These strangers probably think he and I are together. And something is alluring and exciting about that. Technically, I’m not doing anything wrong, but the prospect of being bad excites me.

He pays for our tickets when we reach the building and even opens the door for me when we enter. The moment we’re inside, I feel at ease. I’ve been to this museum more times than I can count. When I was pregnant with Abby, I would come all the time just to walk around and try to induce labor. People probably thought I was crazy, but if I had to get my steps in, I was going to do it around something that I loved.

I take Dean through the various permanent exhibits, showing him some of my favorite pieces. He shows interest and listens intently to every word I say. But when we make our way to the special exhibit, the one full of pieces I’ve only seen on computer screens and in textbooks, I can hardly contain my excitement.

“Oh my gosh.” I gasp. “This is a real Vestier. I haven’t seen this since college.”

Standing in front of the painting, the woman’s face staring back at me, I’m speechless. I can feel Dean’s eyes on me, so I turn his way, giving him a quizzical look.

“What?” I whisper.

“You really light up here,” he answers plainly as he leans in so close I get a whiff of his cologne.

Goose bumps erupt down the back of my neck. “I love it.”

“I can see that,” he replies, gazing into my eyes.

With a blush, I turn back toward the painting. That’s when I notice the one on the far wall. With a gasp, I move toward the piece. A man and a woman lie together, their bodies draped in fabric that is so intricate it looks as if it’s caught in time, swept up by the wind. Red blood drips from the wounds in each of their chests, and their lips are so close they nearly touch.

“Wow,” Dean mumbles from behind me.

“I love this one,” I reply as I swallow the emotion building in my throat.

“They’re dead,” he says in a low mutter, and I find myself smiling as I tear up.

“They’re lovers. This was a real couple,” I reply gently. “She was married to his brother, and when they were caught together, her husband killed them.”

“That’s depressing,” he says. I can feel his chest softly touching my back.

Turning my head to gaze up at him, I reply, “I think it’s beautiful.”

Looking back at the painting, I stare at it, feeling as if I could stand here forever. The way they look caught in a storm together. The longing on their faces, as if they loved each other until their dying breaths.

I love how art captures those feelings we often can’t describe. The pull on my heartstrings it evokes when, at its core, it’s nothing more than colorful paint someone applied to a canvas three hundred years ago.

Growing up, my family always made me feel as if expressing deep emotions was somehow beneath us. The only feelings to be shown were love, faith, and gratitude, and even those were best displayed modestly.

Art was my outlet, even if I wasn’t the one creating it. I could feel it. It’s like magic to me how something so simple could evoke something so visceral.

And when I look at the two lovers in this painting, it makes me feel…desire. Deep, yearning, obsessive desire.

“What are you thinking?” Dean whispers into my ear, and it jolts me from my thoughts. Turning toward him, I blink, and a tear slips over my cheek.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a coy smirk as he reaches forward and wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. Our faces are so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. Although there are people meandering around us, it feels as if he and I are alone in this room with this work of art in front of us.

“I was just thinking…” I whisper.

Then something happens. I can’t explain it, and I don’t understand it, but suddenly, time stretches on without us, and I feel caught in the same storm the couple in the painting is caught in.

Dean’s eyes bore into mine as something electric and all-consuming passes through us. I wonder if he can feel it, too.

When his breath quivers and his lips part, I get my answer.

When his fingers touch the bare skin between my shirt and my pants, I suck in a delicate gasp.

“Go on,” he breathes.

He tugs me ever so gently toward him, so we’re practically embracing. To anyone around us, we appear to be like the couple in the painting, two lovers gazing longingly into each other’s eyes.

My body is on fire, and the turmoil inside me is agonizing. It’s as if my mind and my body want two different things, and there is no way to reconcile them.

I want him. In a physical, torturous, heart-wrenching way, I want him. Dean is everything I crave out of my life. Independent and headstrong. With one quick motion, he could cut the ties keeping me chained to this life.

But I love my husband, and I love my family.

I don’t understand why I so desperately feel this need to be free from it.

Standing in this gallery, in my safe space, I don’t belong to anyone here. I serve no one. I worship no one.

“Please, Briar,” he whispers, his breath grazing my lips. “Let’s get out of here.”

Those words feel like a bomb that detonates and takes out everything. It razes my entire life, and at this moment, I find it so alluring that I let it.

“Okay,” I mumble in return.

He slips his hand in mine and tugs me toward the door. I barely see the art we pass as we rush through the museum. Thoughts swirl through my mind as we go, but I brush them away as if we’re trying to outrun them.

Outrun the consequences. Outrun the guilt. Outrun the multitude of reasons I should not want this.

I’m not thinking. Only acting, and it feels good. After years and years of making the smart choice, the Christian choice, the moral choice, I forgot how good it feels just to make the carnal, selfish choice.

Dean and I are out on the street, hands linked and practically running to the car. He’s wearing an expression on his face of victory and elation. His eyes sparkle as he slips his tongue out and wets his bottom lip. When his eyes rake over my body from top to bottom, I feel alive for the first time since college.

As we step into the elevator of the parking garage and the doors close us in, I feel my temperature rise. He turns toward me with hunger in his eyes as he corners me against the wall.

“Look at me,” he commands, and I lift my gaze to his face. “Hands behind your back,” he says, and the way he tells me exactly what to do sends chills down my spine.

Like the condensation on a glass of sweet iced tea left out in the sun, I melt under his scorching gaze. When his lips move toward me, my heart races and my head turns slightly. His kiss lands against the rapid pulse of my neck, and I forget how to breathe.

The arousal that courses through me is fervent and intoxicating. His lips are harsh against my skin, and my eyes fly wide open as his hands grip my waist with brutal need.

I’m lost in a torrent of desire.

His deep, sexy voice whispers in my ear, “You might be married to him, but you belong to me.”

Blood rushes to my core, pulsing with need. With my hands still pressed obediently between my body and the wall of this elevator, I’m powerless. I’m his.

As his lips finally find mine, I hold my breath and jump headfirst into this feeling. His mouth captures mine, and suddenly, we’re alone on a planet of our own. We are the only two people who exist. He licks into my mouth, caressing my tongue and making it so I couldn’t breathe if I wanted to.

Everything about this kiss is exquisite, like the stroke of paint on a canvas blending together to form a masterpiece.

But when I feel him grind the stiff length in his pants against me, the panic sets in. I feel his cock, and suddenly I’m flooded with dirty, terrible thoughts of what I’d like to do with it. I want to touch it, taste it, worship it, take it.

It’s so, so wrong.

Like being doused in cold water, I gasp. Just then, the elevator chimes, and the doors open.

I lift my hands from behind my back and shove Dean to the side so I can rush out of the elevator. When I reach the open air at the top of the parking garage, I suck in a breath as if I’ve been underwater this entire time.

“What am I doing?” I shout to myself as I pace the open space.

“Briar,” he calls toward me, but my mind is not open to listening at the moment. It’s too caught up in passion and conflict.

“I love my husband,” I argue. “I’m not stuck in some loveless marriage.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he says.

“Then…what are we doing? Why did we do that?” I’m practically screaming, clearly hysterical from that heated moment.

Meanwhile, Dean is as cool as a cucumber, strolling toward his car with his hands in his pockets.

“This isn’t a game, Dean!” I shout toward him.

When he spins toward me, he’s wearing a twisted expression of frustration. “What do you want me to say, Briar? That I’m sorry? Because I’m not.”

“You can’t just…kiss married women, Dean.”

“I just did,” he replies smugly. “And don’t tell me you didn’t want it.”

“I—” This isn’t fair. My body wanted something my heart didn’t.

Or did it? My heart wants Dean, too. Sweet, dominant, compassionate Dean. But wanting and having are two different things, and if loving Caleb is my crime, then not having Dean is my punishment.

His car beeps as he unlocks it. Then he opens the passenger door and looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to get in. The painful surrender on his face guts me.

“I won’t touch you anymore, Briar. If you don’t want me to, I’ll respect that.”

My throat starts to sting as I strangle the urge to cry. Without another word, I walk to the car and climb into the passenger seat. The drive back to the house is silent and uncomfortable, but there are no words to say that would erase the harm we’ve just done.