“We could still stuff him in a suitcase,” he says with a sly grin. “His allegiance to you, my princess, seems sorely lacking.”
“Oh, shut up.” But I briefly imagine that. Just for a minute. Those long limbs tied in knots while a cotton hanky muffles his protests. Or a pair of his own socks.
Yesterday’s socks.
Perhaps I’m also notcompletelyover what he did to save his own skin.
“You’re thinking about it,” Raif drawls.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your fault I was so mean. You goaded me into it.”
“Oh no.” Raif’s answer is all low, sexual chuckle. “You don’t need my encouragement.”
I fidget a little in my seat. His assessment, his tone, feels like hot, caressing fingertips. I cross my arms over my chest because my nipples are far too obvious in their enjoyment. “Well, you should know, I can’t ever seem to stay cross at Tod for long.”
“He doesn’t deserve your care.” Raif’s fingers tighten on the leather steering wheel as he adds, “But I guess that’s not something you consider when you love someone.”
“What? Oh, yes.” I tip my lips, forcing them into a quick smile.
He was engaged. I suppose that might mean he knows what love feels like. I thought I did, but I’m not so sure. I do know you shouldn’t marry one man when you love another.Tod. Lovely, stupid, selfish Tod.Up until now, it’s been easy to discern my feelings for him. He looks at me like a puppy would its owner, and that makes me want to ruffle his hair and call him my good boy. I thought that might be love, but now, it seems more like… well, like, owning a dog.
Tod obviously doesn’t love me, or I wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Then again, it’s not like I married Raif to protect Tod.Not exactly like that, anyway.
My gaze slides unbidden once more to my partner in matrimony and mendacities for the next twelve months. How I feel about Raif is not so easy to work out, especially when his cologne isso pervasive, filling every inch of space between us. His fingers work the steering wheel so deftly, his thigh continually tautening and relaxing just a few inches from mine as he drives.
How I feel about him—how Ifeelabout him is maddening.
When I think about being in bed with him, I come over all hot and prickly with a sickening kind of elation. It’s like… when I was a little girl, I used to look forward to my birthdays with such anticipation. Like most little girls, I imagine. I’d work myself into a tizzy, thinking about my birthday party and the games we’d play, my cake, and the pile of gifts I’d be allowed to open when everyone went home.
But the reality of the day was somehow very different. I’d be standing at the front door, dressed in my party outfit, watching my classmates skip along the garden path. My stomach would get queasy, and I’d get this desperate urge to pull my hand from Dad’s, to run away and hide. Or maybe fling the front door shut in their faces.
It always seemed as though Dad understood. He’d tighten his hand on mine and remind me these were my friends—that they were here to see me.
Maybe that was part of the problem.
It’s weird, but just thinking about those experiences still makes me feel so intensely uncomfortable. I wanted a birthday party—I wanted itsobadly. But on the day, I just couldn’t handle it.
I’m told I’d cry instead of blowing out my candles yet lose my ever-loving shit if anyone’s breath came near it. I’d put my hands over my ears when “Happy Birthday” was sung. Sometimes, I even yelled for them to all shut up.
Birthdays are supposed to be fun—at least they are until you become aware of the passing years, your lack of achievements, and your own marching mortality—yet I found them an ordeal.
At best, a disappointment. At worst, a traumatic tear fest.
But I wanted to enjoy them so badly, and the anticipation would make me feel so giddy. And that, I suppose, is how I feel about sleeping with Raif.
And bysleeping, I mean having sex with him.
Maybe I’m worried the reality won’t match my expectations.
I glance down at my lap, my ring glistening in the late afternoon sun.
Or maybe I’m worried it will.
I’m in such deep shit—oh! What if, like my childhood birthdays, I cry in the middle of the act?It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened.
“Lavender?”
