My Father’s Wife Chapter 01

My Father’s Wife Chapter 01

Clara’s POV

The AC in Arthur’s Lincoln Navigator was dead.

The digital display claimed it was blasting sixty-five degrees, but the vents leaked nothing but the lukewarm, stagnant disappointment of a humid New England afternoon.

Outside, I-95 shimmered under the heat, its blacktop looking soft enough to melt.

Arthur had spent thirty minutes that morning arguing with a delivery service before deciding he wasn’t going to pay $300 to have our summer gear sent ahead.

Never mind that his hedge fund had just cleared an eight-figure quarter.

To Arthur, dropping ten grand on a rare wine at a charity auction was a necessary statement; paying for a logistics service was a defeat.

So, he packed the SUV himself, stuffing the trunk until the chassis groaned.

That left me completely pinned in the back.

To cram a massive Yeti cooler behind the front passenger seat, they’d shoved the chair so far forward it crushed my knees.

The only breathing room left was the narrow gap between the front headrests.

Right next to me, my twenty-year-old stepson, Julian, was pressing into every inch of my space.

His long legs were spread wide, knee pressing firmly against mine, coarse hair rasping my skin.

He was wearing a threadbare gray tank top and swim trunks that looked like they’d already seen a dozen beach bonfires.

He smelled like summer—sunscreen, raw sweat, and a sharp hit of Bleu de Chanel.

His thick bicep burned against my shoulder, heat flooding my blood and tightening my nipples

I shifted my eyes to the driver’s seat.

Arthur’s hands were gripped tight at ten and two. The skin on the back of his hands was spotted with those unmistakable brown markers of fifty-six years of life.

I stared at the slight, loose sag of skin beneath his jawline as he muttered about traffic.

A heavy, sickening knot tightened in my stomach.

Three years ago, I thought marrying him was an act of survival. I was fresh out of NYU with an art history degree and a suffocating hundred and fifty thousand dollars in student debt.

Arthur had appeared like a financial god.

Instead, he bought me a beautiful, suffocating mausoleum in Greenwich.

Our sex life was a checklist item—a silent, five-minute chore of friction before he checked his phone, rolled over, and snored.

I was twenty-five. I was starving.

I could feel Julian’s eyes boring into the side of my neck, his hot breath catching the loose strands of my hair.

I imagined his hands—young, strong, unmarked by time—replacing his father’s.

The thought made my lower abdomen tighten with a sudden, vicious throb.

“Arthur, can we pull over soon? The air is suffocating,” I said, my voice raspy.

“We’re making good time, Clara. Just deal with it,” Arthur snapped, his eyes glued to the road.

Next to my ear, Julian let out a low, mocking chuckle.

“Yeah, Clara. Listen to the boss. We wouldn’t want to ruin Dad’s schedule.”

Before I could fire back, he deliberately shifted his weight.

His thigh, rock-hard and covered in a fine layer of dark hair, slid firmly against my leg.

The sheer friction of his skin against my sundress was electric.

Suddenly, a massive tractor-trailer aggressively cut into our lane.

When Arthur braked, Julian’s palm slammed onto my upper thigh, fingers digging deep near my aching core.

His thumb dragged slowly along my inner thigh, brushing my damp heat and making my clit throb.

He didn’t pull his hand back for three full seconds.

As he finally let go, his thumb intentionally dragged against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.