The air thickens instantly.
His pupils dilate just a fraction. His breathing shifts, barely perceptible but unmistakable. His voice turns hoarse. “Sunshine, we shouldn’t.”
I take a step closer.
Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
“Shouldn’t,” I repeat softly. “That’s not the same as don’t want to.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not,” he agrees.
“So,” I say, reaching out and trailing my fingers lightly along the edge of the bed beside him, “to sum up: we’ll be sleeping in the same bed. But we won’t have sex because we shouldn’t. Not because we won’t want to.”
He sits there like a statue. “Yes.” The word sounds like it costs him something. Like he’s trying to convince himself.
“Fine. Have it your way.”
I walk past him toward the bathroom. “I’m taking a shower,” I add.
He nods, still not quite looking at me.
“Okay.”
I close the bathroom door behind me and lean against it, my heart hammering.
This is insane.
There’s a beautiful, stubborn man I’m married to on the other side of this door. A man who won’t have sex with me.
I know I want to.
And I’m almost certain he wants to, too.
But somehow, that only makes it worse.
I turn on the shower and step under the hot water, letting it wash over me, trying to quiet my mind.
I can hear him out there. The low sound of him moving around the room.
Every noise feels amplified.
Intimate.
My brain betrays me instantly.
I picture him taking off his shirt. His hands moving over his body. The lines of muscle I’ve already memorized without meaning to.
Heat pools low in my stomach.
I close my eyes.
I stay in the shower longer than necessary, letting the steam wrap around me like armor.
Eventually, I turn off the water.
I dry off slowly, buying time.
My heart is still racing.
