Brought on by her mother? Violence? Blood? All of the above?
I don’t want to know. I shouldn’t care. Usually, there’s a line I can draw between most other people and me. One that protects them and me from the consequences of my life. But that line? It’s getting harder and harder to see when it comes to her.
The water cuts off, and I tense, eyes snapping to the bathroom doorway. From the space underneath, I watch the shadows of her movements and smile wryly to myself. This iswhat I’ve been reduced to. Watching my wife underneath the bathroom doors.
A moment later, she appears wrapped in a towel before beating a quick retreat to her walk-in closet. Thankfully, I kept some things there for her in case the time came when she agreed to stay with me. I wince, thinking of the selection of revealing negligees stocked in there. A nicer man would have offered something more comfortable.
Unfortunately for her, I’ve never claimed to be a nice man.
“What about this movie night tomorrow?” I ask from the bed, where I’m reclining with my hands behind my back. I know if I try to bring up what just happened, she’ll deflect and reinforce all those walls that keep her nice and safe.
“What about it?” comes her cautious response. She makes a sound of derision, and I can’t help but smile. She must be surveying the offerings in disgust. At least she’s not white with shock.
“Your friend Yasmine mentioned movie night tomorrow when we were at the hospital. Did she mean here?”
There’s a long silence from the closet. Amusement curls my lips at the thought of her needing privacy after the things I’ve done to her body. But I’m not going to argue what makes her feel comfortable. She’s here, and for now that’s enough.
“Do you really care?” comes her voice.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
“It’s nothing special. We don’t get a lot of time to spend together, so she’s going to come over for drinks and whatever to catch up. Maybe take a swim in the pool. I told her about you. Who you are. She basically knew already.”
She finally emerges from the closet, and my heart trips over itself. The pink negligee she’s wearing consists of barely enough material to be called pajamas. Straps so thin that all it would take is one yank to have them come undone. A slit up the thighof a short, silky skirt. AndJaysusI’ll be damned if she’s wearing anything underneath.
A masochist is what I am.
Catriona frowns at the bed, then heaves a sigh before lifting the covers to slide in. I try not to stare at where the negligee rides up her thighs. Try not to obsess on how close she is to me, how she smells like honey and lavender all over again.
“I’m not going to do anything to her for knowing. I’ll even invite Eamon and Mara over after I take care of a few things. We’ll make it a proper party. Frances can make dinner and some appetizers. What’s your favorite?”
She’s studying me warily, but doesn’t say no. “She doesn’t have to do that. I was just going to keep it small and probably get takeout or something.”
“This is your best friend. I insist.”
There’s a stiff silence before she says, “Don’t pretend you care.”
I turn on my side as she clicks off her lamp. The light from mine is the only illumination left in the room. She’s on her back, the golden silk of her hair draped over her pillow, arms crossed protectively over her chest. Always so defensive. Ready to attack.
“Eamon will feel left out, and you don’t want to get on his bad side.”
“Whatever you say. I’m not going to argue against food from Frances. She’s the best part about being married to you.”
Chuckling, I turn off the lights so she can rest. There are bruises underneath her eyes, and I know that panic attack must have sucked the rest of her energy.
“Good night,” I say to the darkness.
“Good night,” she says when she thinks I’ve fallen asleep.
I wake before she does.I know because she would have leaped off the bed if she woke up to find me plastered to her back, legs tangled, and my hand low on her belly. My cock strains against her ass, hips moving against her as I shake the last remnants of sleep from my brain. When I realize what I’m doing, I still, but it costs me.
All I can think about is the security footage I’d watched the night of our reception. When she’d gone to the bathroom and touched herself. How she’d whispered my name. I know she wants me. I could make her tell me, show me. But it’ll be so much sweeter when she comes crawling to me.
Lying there is torture, but the twisted parts of my soul urge me to wait, to see what she’ll do when she wakes up and realizes where she is and who’s behind her. It doesn’t take long. She’s an early riser, and the moment the sun is up, so is she.
Her slow, deep breathing cuts off with a gasp, and her body stiffens against mine. I only manage to swallow back a groan as her hips jerk in surprise. This is the best kind of fucking torture.
This is how I wanted to wake up after the night we spent together. With her all sleepy-soft and dazed. If I’d had the time and the luxury, I would have pressed her forward into the mattress on her belly. Pressed kisses into her skin from her neck down between her legs. Made her come with my mouth first and then taken her slowly from behind, fists in the length of her hair.
