Deborah slipped her arms around his neck, her breath soft and sweet against his skin. “Jackson, I love you. Kiss me, just once. If you do, I’ll tell you everything.”
He grinned. “You little troublemaker.” Jackson could never resist her. He’d been married to Cynthia for twenty years, but she’d never been playful or bold like Deborah. Honestly, he doubted Cynthia ever really loved him. She’d married him when she was struggling, just to give Isabella a stable home. When she agreed to get her tubes tied, he figured it was because she didn’t want kids with any man ever again. Her heart was probably still with her late ex-husband.
First loves were different. Even after all this time, Jackson still kept a place in his heart for his first wife. Every year, on her death anniversary and on the festival for honoring the dead, he’d visit her grave alone. He would sit there for hours, talking to her, sharing memories until he finally felt ready to leave.
Thinking of all this, Jackson didn’t even feel guilty anymore. Cynthia didn’t love him, so what was the point in feeling bad about the affair? He loved women like Deborah, women who knew how to flirt, who weren’t shy in bed, who made life exciting. Cynthia had always been so stiff, so by-the-book.
Jackson leaned in and gave Deborah’s lips a playful nip. “There, happy now? So, what’s going on? Did someone say something to you, or did you slip up? Were you the one who sent those photos to Cynthia?”


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