The kitchen felt…cozy.
A strange word for a place that on paper belonged to me. But I knew the energy from the sacred heart of my parent’s home—my mother’s kitchen. Only this one was brighter.
It had Gabriella’s touch.
I saw it in the coffee pot on the stove. The appliances on the countertop. The food over flowing from the cabinets. Even some of the décor on the walls had changed from the sterile, designer look that I’d paid for to a personal note. Grapes and clay wine crocks were the central motif. Tuscan hills at sunset was the color scheme. There were new dishes in the cupboards, tools I didn’t know the names of in the drawers. Towels with fat dancing men with ridiculous mustaches, holding breads, wines, and pasta lined the oven handle and the odd unusable cabinet below the sink.
What have you done, little wife?
The transformation was insightful. It was like a seed planted. I gave the woman the means, and she created life.
Rubbing my jaw, I noticed too late the sticky crumbs of blood raining on the floor. With a curse, I found a sanitary wipe, swiped the pile, then went to leave in search of a shower, garbage bag in hand to put my clothes in to burn later.
One of the new plates sat empty on the end of the counter. A note rested on top. I knew the handwriting immediately. Her tight little scrawl told me that since I missed dinner, I had two options. There was a glass container of stew in the fridge, a loaf of soda bread in the bread box, and sorbet in the freezer. The postscript mentioned the alternative: I could eat whatever I wanted or nothing at all.
It was up to me.
I fisted the paper. Maybe she hadn’t meant the jab, but I took it to heart. Gabriella was a bit salty after the debacle in the dining room. I knew I’d been grouchy. But I wasn’t expecting her to say she’d stolen money to buy food. I was the husband. I provided. It was my responsibility to take care of her, dammit!
Grinding her words between my teeth, I marched upstairs and chewed on the subtext. We needed to talk. She couldn’t be mad at me for not being home for dinner. It wasn’t an insult to her cooking. I just wasn’t around.
I paused at her door. I was in no shape to see her.
But some force greater than myself drove me. Ihadto. I had to tell her that I appreciated the meal. That I would eat it as soon as I cleaned up, even though I wasn’t hungry. Why I felt compelled to do that was beyond me. Food had always been an item on the checklist. Fuel to keep my body going. But I wanted her to know I felt differently now.
I shouldn’t tell her if I can’t explain why.
“Okay, well, I’ll just say goodnight then,” I muttered under my breath.
As I twisted the handle, I remembered how I looked, but it was too late to stop myself. The door swung open. The bleeding hinges creaked. Light from the hall spilled into the room, chasing back the shadows.
My gaze tracked the room. There was the smallest of movements. A twitch of the covers.
Gabriella was tucked in the bed, curled on her side. The sight sent a rush of blood straight through my shaft, bringing him to full attention. She was right there. So close. So soft. Sofuckingtempting.
And….
She was awake.
Her unnatural stillness gave her away. I’d spent enough nights studying her to know what real sleep looked like on her. I closed the door quickly and stalked to my room. Determined to let her be, I made quick work of washing up. I fucked my fist for good measure, trying to banish the need. But it only made me want to take her twice as badly. With a growl of frustration, I ripped the towel from the rod and dressed in long clothes. The cleaned mask irritated the hell out of my freshly scrubbed face, but it was better than her catching me without it. Then, with the bag of my clothes in tow, I went to the kitchen, gobbled the food, and washed my dishes. I wasn’t going to make her clean up after me.
Standing in the kitchen, I looked over the backyard.
My fingers drummed against the counter.
I knew what I wanted. My fucking dick did too. But…she hadn’t offered. And I wasn’t going to ask. The monster in my pants begged me to reconsider.
Adjusting my sweats, I slapped off the kitchen light. The moment my feet hit the steps, an idea sprang to mind. Maybe there was another way to give into the temptation, to sate my obsessive need to be near her. But without being the one to ask for her body.
Let her know how badly you crave her.
This time, when I went to check on her, the lights were off. The creak of the door wasn’t loud enough to cover her gasp of surprise. My night vision, which was pretty decent for a man in his third decade, caught the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
I crept into the room. Gabriella didn’t move when I pulled back the covers. She was still. Unnaturally still. I scooped her into my arms. The little actress was good. Her body stayed limp. But I swore I could feel her pulse hitch.
Back in my bedroom, I climbed into bed and placed her beside me. She rolled sleepily away, even adding a soft moan to try and convince me she didn’t know what was happening. I let her be.
It was enough to be near her.
