Chapter 1
Three days since I let Tony bend me over his desk.
Three days of my husband finding excuses to touch my throat, his fingers brushing my collarbone where the hickey Tony gave me is fading. Robert’s been watching me across rooms with a new kind of hunger. Not the comfortable desire of fifteen years of marriage—this is something rawer. When I reach for my coffee mug at breakfast, his gaze locks on my hand and I know he’s picturing them gripping the edge of Tony’s desk. When I turn my back to him in the kitchen, I feel his stare drag down my spine like he’s visualizing exactly what Tony did to me.
At dinner last night, I was mid-sentence about the Wellington Foundation’s spring fundraiser when I caught him staring at my mouth. He was watching my lips move, and I knew exactly what he was imagining. Me on my knees… begging.
The clawing need deep in my belly hasn’t quieted since that night at the casino. I want more, but I don’t want this to ruin our marriage.
The hickey’s almost gone. The yellow-green shadow isn’t visible unless you knew it was there. But Robert knows where to look.
I’m lying against his chest, his heartbeat steady under my cheek. It’s after midnight and we should be sleeping, but his thumb keeps stroking the fading bruise. The touch is soothing and hypnotic. My thoughts drift, softening at the edges.
“Shannon.”
I press my cheek harder into his chest. “Mmm?”
“The casino.”
Just two words, but they land like stones. I’m immediately awake and my shoulders tense. I’ve been waiting for this. Dreading it. Craving it so badly I can barely breathe.
“What about it?” I attempt nonchalance and fail.
His thumb stops.
“You know what I mean.”
Yeah. I know. That’s the problem. We’ve been pretending everything was normal for three days. We drank our coffee in the morning while he scrolled through emails and I took a charitycommittee call for the Wellington Foundation that I don’t remember agreeing to. We had dinners at our usual spots, both pretending nothing had changed.
Totally normal.
Except Robert kept staring at my neck. And every night he fucked me harder than usual and asked me filthy questions.
Did it feel like this?
Was he rough with you?
Tell me. Tell me what he did. Tell me again.
I told him. Over and over. And every time, something settled into his expression. Not jealousy. Not anger.
Lust.
He caresses my neck again, thumb brushing my collarbone. We can’t avoid the conversation any longer.
He speaks before I do. “I want you to go back.”
Holy shit. He said it.
“Robert—“
“I haven’t thought about anything else. Three days straight.” His laugh is short and surprised. “I didn’t know it would feel like this.”
I push up on my elbow so I can see him. His silver hair is mussed and stubble shadows his jaw. But even though it’s late, he looks energized in a way I haven’t seen in years.
Even though his meaning is clear, I need him to spell it out. “You’re sure you want me to go back?”
“Yes.”
