“You trust me?”
“Yes.” He remains silent, but his hands speak volumes about where his head is at. And it’snoton wedding cakes or pissing his mother off, but what kind of trouble we can get in. “Why are you being secretive right now? Are you about to tell me you’re some spy or something?”
“I’m not that interesting.”
He doesn’t smirk.
Doesn’t smile.
Nothing in those green eyes suggests any sort of playfulness thatisBobby.
“Could’ve fooled me,” I lightly tease, resting my palms on his hard chest. “You’re pushing a line with your overbearing mother right now, and, unless you plan on kidnapping me from all this today, I suggest you let me go back inside.”
He says nothing.
“You look miserable.”
“I am miserable,” he returns immediately. “My cock isn’t inside you, and I’m currently fiending for my wife underneath me. It’s a different experience than it was before.”
I love those words and how he’s still thinking about last night as much as I am.
However, he just said them like he was served and had to go to court over a misunderstanding or a debt he owed.
“You couldn’t say that in a more depressing tone,” I deadpan, and I can’t help but look for any signs of…old Bobby.
New Bobby, while I love him as husband Bobby with the way he kisses and fucks me, is more gloomy than before. Bobby can normally shake it off within a few minutes or a drink, but he’s struggling with something.
“I’m not going to say that like my team just scored a winning touchdown, Meirna. It’s that serious.”
“You talk as though we’re never going to have sex again.”
He scoffs under his breath, which is reassuring in a way. “I can guarantee that won’t be the case.”
“Please don’t tell me your father upset you so much that it’s going to ruin?—”
“Never.” He pulls me closer and, this time, he does grab a bit of my ass. “He won’t be getting in between us moving forward.”
What did you do or going to do?
Off him?
The absurd thought comes to mind, thanks to all the crime documentaries I watch, but then it sticks.
And stays.
Then festers.
Bobby’s irritability would take a starring role in how his mental state would explain a murder. I’m fully aware he’s had enough of Alan’s overbearing and rude way ofteachinghim how to run Harding Holdings, but Bobby isn’t a criminal mastermind.
He likes avocado toast with burrata and truffle oil, for God’s sake.
“You haven’t smiled at me yet,” I point out. “So I’m thinking there’s another issue at hand here.”
“Nothing more than my father is a class-A cunt.”
Ah, finally.
There it is.
