Chapter 2: A Touch Too Alive

Before I could respond, Jenny stepped forward, her young face betraying a mixture of concern and indignation.

"Miss Anderson," Jenny's voice was quiet but firm, her eyes fixed on Madeleine's flat stomach. "If the child is truly Mr. Thornton's, you must be at least five months along now, since he's been in a coma for six months. Yet I don't see any signs of pregnancy at all."

Madeleine's perfectly manicured nails dug into her palm. "How dare you? A mere maid questioning—"

"A mere maid who has loyally served the Thornton family for years," I interjected. "And more importantly, one who reports directly to Mrs. Elizabeth Thornton."

At the mention of James's grandmother, I noticed a flicker of uncertainty cross Madeleine's face. Elizabeth Thornton's influence in Manhattan's social circles was legendary, and her disapproval could make life very uncomfortable, even for someone with connections like Madeleine.

I seized the moment. "I'm sure Mrs. Elizabeth would be very interested in hearing about this claim, Madeleine. Shall we call her now?"

The color drained from Madeleine's face. After a moment of tense silence, she gathered her designer handbag and moved toward the door. "This isn't over," she hissed, but the threat in her voice had lost its edge.

As the door closed behind them, I finally allowed myself to breathe. Jenny lingered, fidgeting with her apron. "Mrs. Thornton, would you like me to help you get settled?"

I looked at James's still form on the bed, remembering that I now had responsibilities as his wife – even if it was just a business arrangement. "Yes, please. And Jenny? Thank you for speaking up."

She smiled warmly. "I'll bring fresh towels."

Once alone with James, I took a moment to study him properly. In repose, his features drew my attention – a strong, clean-shaven jaw, straight nose, and naturally arched brows above his closed eyes. His sandy brown hair was slightly tousled against the pillow.

The medical equipment created a steady background rhythm as I prepared for his evening care. Jenny had explained that James had always been extremely particular about cleanliness and wouldn't allow any of the staff to touch him directly - even in his current state, the nurses respected this quirk and left his personal care to family members only. Now, as his wife, that responsibility fell to me.

"I guess we're doing this," I murmured, reaching for his suit jacket buttons.

I worked them open one by one, peeling the jacket off his broad shoulders, the warmth of his body seeping through his shirt—alive, insistent, a pulse against my palms that made my breath catch. The tie came next, my knuckles brushing his throat as I loosened the silk, feeling the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath.

His shirt parted under my hands, each button revealing more of him—hard, sculpted muscle, not the slack frame of a desk-bound man, but the taut, powerful build of someone who fought to stay strong. This is my husband, well, he is hot, but weird - six months in a coma, yet his muscles showed no signs of wasting away.

When I slid the shirt from his shoulders, I froze. There, directly over his heart, was a tattoo – a stylized letter "M" in dark ink against his tanned skin. My fingers hovered over it for a moment, curiosity mingling with an unexpected twinge of something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy. M for Madeleine?

Jenny returned with the towels, interrupting my thoughts. After she left, I began to gently clean James's face and neck. The damp fabric glided over his smooth skin, tracing the sharp line of his jaw where stubble prickled against my fingers, rough and real. I moved lower, wiping his neck, feeling the corded muscle tense faintly under my touch—an illusion, maybe, but it sent a shiver racing up my spine.

His chest glowed faintly under the dim light, broad and carved, tapering to a lean waist where sharp, defined V-lines caught my eye. They dipped low, trailing toward his hips in a tantalizing tease, hinting at what lay beneath.

Then came the awkward part. I needed to remove his pants.

"This is just like peeling a banana," I muttered to myself, trying to make the situation less intimate than it felt. "Just a simple task. Nothing weird about it at all."

My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for his belt buckle. The metal was cool against my fingertips as I worked it open, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet room. Next came the button, then the zipper – God, the zipper—caught halfway down, snagging on the fabric. I tugged harder, frustration mounting, my knuckles brushing the tight plane of his lower abdomen, firm and unrelenting.

“Come on,” I hissed under my breath, yanking at it, and the zipper finally gave, sliding down with a slow, grating rasp that echoed in the stifling quiet. But in the struggle, my hand slipped—grazing the bulge beneath his briefs, warm and solid against my skin.

I froze, a jolt searing through me as I felt him stir, the fabric stretching as his arousal grew, unmistakable, swelling right under my touch. My face flamed, breath catching, but I couldn’t look away—couldn’t stop my fingers from trembling as they brushed him again, accidentally tracing the hard, pulsing length of him through the thin layer.

He was rigid, thick, straining against the confines, and the realization hit me like a shockwave, my palm lingering a beat too long, feeling him throb under my touch.

“It’s just a reflex,” I choked out, voice barely a whisper, trying to convince myself as my heart slammed against my ribs.

I gripped the waistband with both hands, desperate to move past it, and yanked the pants down his hips when a hand shot out - huge, unyielding — clamping around my wrist with bruising force. My heart lurched.

“What the—?” A scream clawed up my throat, but before it could escape, the bed creaked as he bolted upright, lightning-fast, yanking me into his chest. His other hand slammed over my mouth and nose, smothering my cry, his palm rough and hot against my lips.