You’re too good for me, Dex.
Bullshit. We’re good for each other. We’re freaking made for each other.
Tonight, Sabrina is my wife in name, in body, and in my heart. There’s no point denying it now: I am deeply, hopelessly, and irrevocably in love with my wife.
Chapter 9
Sabrina
I need a minute to understand what just happened. To breathe and think and plan.
What now?
I know I’ll have to come out eventually. As soon as I figure out the answer to what now?
What if sex muddies an already complex situation? How could it not, when every part of me reacted to Dexter in ways I didn’t realize were possible? I’ve never experienced a connection so complete, unable to distinguish where my body ended and his began. The physical reaction is only the surface. I’m brimming with unnamable, unrecognizable, overwhelming emotions.
Tonight changes everything. Breaks down borders between a favor and an obligation, between friends and lovers, between living with Dexter and risking our relationship.
Risking my heart.
That’s what it comes down to. Our physical connection is shaking me to the core. Loving a friend is one thing; realizing my heart is as ready to submit to him as my body is? That’s something else altogether. The thought of surrendering to passion and risking a lifetime of friendship twists my insides. What if these turbulent feelings threaten the stability of our relationship?
No. Never. I won’t risk my relationship with Dexter.
I’d never recover from losing him.
I can’t take another hit.
A soft knock pauses my deep dive into an ocean of panic.
“Open up, Sabrina.” His familiar voice is laced with worry. “Let me in, please.”
“Yeah, um, give me a second. I’m just washing up,” I respond, trying to sound normal before I throw water on my face. The mirror shows the evidence of our lust, my skin marked by the red flowers of his greedy kisses. I attempt to cover my body with a towel before opening the door.
He’s standing outside, boxers carelessly pulled low and failing to hide the enticing arrow of manly hipbones. It is a monumental effort not to stare at his bulge.
“Are you OK?”
Blue eyes roam my body and stop at a mark I couldn’t hide. Dex steps forward and moves my hair back to expose another hickey.
He gently tugs at the towel, which I let fall.
I stand before my husband naked, vulnerable, and marked. Instead of shying away, my body reacts to his gaze—puckering my nipples, tingling the soreness at my core, stealing my breath. Maybe I shouldn’t be turned on by his concerned scrutiny, but Dexter’s attention is impossible to dismiss.
It’s like a wordless declaration: you’re mine to take, to look at, to worry over, to care for.
Warm, gentle hands encircle my waist. “Sabrina, did I hurt you?”
His voice is low and tormented.
No, he’s got it all wrong.
“I’m not hurt. Not at all.”
His brows furrow. “But I lost control, and that’s not OK.” He steps closer, cradling my cheek against his palm while he presses a soft kiss to my temple. I turn my head to kiss his hand.
“I swear I’m not hurt. I just needed a minute because tonight . . . tonight was a lot.”
