Page 95 of The Hotel Room

And yet, she didn’t feel the need to send him away.

She turned back to the canvas, exhaling softly. This wasn’t about forgiveness. It wasn’t about them, or the betrayal, or the storm they were still weathering.

It was about finding her way back to herself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

James

The room was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. James listened to the gentle rhythm of Kate’s breathing as she lay on her side, her back to him on their bed.

Their bed.Theirbed.

The thought filled James with a kind of bittersweet reverence. How close he had come to losing this—to losingher.

He didn’t know what would happen when the baby came. When Kate no longer needed the physical support of sharing a bed for her comfort—what then?

Would she ask him to move out of their bedroom? Would he have to leave their house entirely?

He’d do it without complaint. Whatever she asked of him, he would do.

But God, the thought of it—of being physicallyawayfrom her again—made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t describe.

Kate shifted slightly, adjusting the pillow beneath her head, and he caught the faintest wince in her expression.

“You okay?” he murmured softly, his voice low so as not to disturb the stillness.

She nodded, but her shoulders remained tense. “It’s just my back,” she admitted quietly. “It’s been sore all day.”

James moved without hesitation, sliding closer until he was kneeling beside her.

“Let me,” he said gently, his hands already reaching for her.

She didn’t resist, just exhaled a long breath as he rested his palms lightly on her lower back.

Her body felt warm beneath his touch, the curve of her spine familiar, the subtle shift of her muscles as she adjusted to him instinctive.

James began to knead carefully, his fingers pressing and rolling along the knots he could feel beneath her skin. He started slow, mindful of her comfort, gradually increasing the pressure as her breathing deepened.

This wasn’t new.

He’d done this for her during both of her previous pregnancies. He knew exactly where the tension gathered, the spots that needed the most attention, the places that would make her sigh softly when he got them just right.

As he worked, his thoughts drifted—not to the present, but to the man he’d been not so long ago. The man who had stood in that soulless hotel room, tangled in sheets with a stranger, chasing something he couldn’t even define.

He remembered the fleeting thrill of it, the adrenaline rush that had masked the shame he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. He remembered the stranger’s body, the mechanical motions, the way he’d thrust himself toward a release that felt hollow before it was even over.

It had been physical, yes. But emotional?

Empty.

Carnal pleasure forged in emotional hell.

And now, here he was, kneeling on their bed, his hands moving over Kate’s back with a reverence he couldn’t put into words.

This.

This simple act of easing her discomfort, of helping her relax enough to sleep—this was more intimate, more profound, morepleasurablethan anything he had experienced in that hollow, meaningless encounter.

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