The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

Hawthorne stepped out of the bathroom, fresh from his shower, only to find Gwyneth sitting on the bed, wide-eyed and lost in thought.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, his tone gentle as he reached out to playfully pinch her nose. His gaze was soft, full of quiet affection.

Gwyneth didn't dare admit what she'd really been thinking-that she was wondering how it would feel to be with this strong, undeniably attractive man lying beside her. She was inexperienced, and all she'd ever heard was that a woman's first time hurt, but that, afterward, there was pleasure waiting on the other side.

She looked at Hawthorne, a mix of anticipation and nervousness fluttering inside her.

"Nothing," she replied quickly, shaking her head. There was no way she could say any of that out loud.

A moment later, the butler arrived with a glass of warm milk-Gwyneth was certain Hawthorne had requested it for her.

He took it from the tray and handed it to her himself. "Drink this. It'll help you sleep."

Obediently, Gwyneth accepted the glass. When she'd finished, Hawthorne lay down beside her, automatically pulling her into his arms, holding her close.

"Sleep now," he murmured in his deep, reassuring voice, "We'll talk about everything else once you're feeling better."

The rich, gentle timbre of his words soothed her, as if someone had pressed pause on all her worries, her thoughts growing drowsy and indistinct.

She wasn't entirely sure what he meant by "once you're feeling better"-but with Hawthorne at her side, she felt safer than she had in a long time. The world blurred at the edges as she fought to keep her eyes open. She wanted to say something more to him, to keep talking, but against her will, her eyelids slipped shut and she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, Hawthorne didn't leave for work as usual. When Gwyneth came downstairs for breakfast, she found him in the kitchen, busy at the stove.

She remembered that when she'd stayed here before, it was always the house staff who prepared meals. Since when did Hawthorne cook?

From where she stood, Gwyneth could see him clearly-his head slightly bowed, the lines of his profile strong and defined. Even in casual clothes, he exuded a kind of easy power and vitality. Broad shoulders, lean waist-he looked better than any man she'd ever known.

Hearing her approach, Hawthorne glanced up. Gwyneth stood before him, her hair still damp from her shower.

He frowned. "You washed your hair?"

She nodded, sheepish. “Yeah, it'd been days. I couldn't stand it anymore."

She thought her hair must have smelled terrible and felt greasy, and she couldn't imagine how

Hawthorne managed to sleep beside her. This morning, she'd woken up and made a beeline for the shower, barely bothering to dry her hair before rushing downstairs. noveldrama

"Don't you know you're still recovering? Go back upstairs."

He pulled off his kitchen gloves, washed and dried his hands, and strode over to

her.

Gwyneth shrank a little under the weight of his stern gaze, feeling guilty even though all she'd done was wash her hair.

Hawthorne took her by the hand, leading her firmly back upstairs.

In the bathroom, he grabbed a hairdryer and began gently drying her hair for her. He brushed her hair aside, exposing her slender, pale neck. On her bare back, just beneath her shoulder, was a tiny beauty mark. Hawthorne's hand found it, his fingers tracing over her skin almost unconsciously.

Gwyneth felt her skin heat up where he touched her, a blush creeping across her cheeks. Her heart sped up, and she was acutely aware of him leaning closer, his lips brushing softly against the nape of her neck.

Her pulse was racing by the time he turned her around, and their lips inevitably met in a kiss.

Hawthorne deepened it, leaving Gwyneth breathless and clinging to his shoulder for support when they finally broke apart.

"I...um...it's gone," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He heard her anyway. "What did you say?"