He usually headed for the shower, dressed in record time, and left.
Not today.
Today, he had his sexy, sated wife curled into his side, her arm draped across his torso, as if she intended to never let go.
Worse, he liked it.
"Is it always that good for you?"
He heard a hint of vulnerability in her curious tone and his first instinct was to lie. He didn't want to label what they'd shared as special, didn't want to acknowledge it had moved beyond good to fucking spectacular.
Admissions like that bred closeness he couldn't afford.
Then he made the mistake of glancing down to find her staring at him with guileless green eyes still glazed with passion and his intention to lie faded.
"No,” he muttered. “What we just did? That was something else."
"Good." She nodded, her smile smug.
He didn't want to question why his answer pleased her because that implied possessiveness and a depth of feeling he didn't dare question.
"Can I ask you something?" She eyeballed him, defiant, as if expecting him to say no.
Dread settled in the pit of his stomach. This was why he never lingered after sex: questions he had no intention of answering.
"You can ask, but don't expect me to respond. I'm not the deep and meaningful type.”
"Bullshit.” She propped on an elbow, her probing stare focused on his face. "You hide behind that austere mask, when inside you're a big softie."
"What gives you that idea?"
"Last night." She pointed to her clothes strewn across the floor where he'd tossed them. "You carry me to bed, you take off my shoes, you tuck me in, and let me sleep."
She touched his cheek with a fingertip. "The actions of a thoughtful guy. A guy who understood how drained I was yesterday and didn't push me. A guy who let me sleep ahead of his own needs."
Fuck, why did she have to draw attention to his needs? His cock hardened, his desperation to be inside her again overriding his common sense, that insisted he get up and leave this bed so she wouldn’t make any more astute observations he didn’t want to hear.
Aas the sheet tented, she blushed, and he wanted to ravish her more than anything. Sex would put an end to talking and the infernal questions he'd do anything to avoid.
“Why do you do it?"
"Well, it's quite easy, actually. I have this thing called a libido and—"
"Why do you present a tough guy front to the world when there's obviously more depth to you?"
Hell. What could he say?
That tough guys didn't get hurt when their fathers ripped off friends and couldn't care less about their sons who idolised them?
That tough guys didn't break down alongside their mothers when their fathers were sentenced to prison?
That tough guys emotionally closed off to prevent the inevitable pain of trusting when the mothers they adore abscond without saying goodbye and didn't contact them for ten fucking years?
No, he couldn't say any of those things, so he settled for flippant.
"Because tough guys always get the girl," he said, kissing her to prove it.
And he kept kissing her, through another round of tantric, sensational sex, until they forgot about talking and questions and everything but the unslakable thirst for more.
