Now that she’s pregnant, I don’t know how the truth will affect her, so I swallow the bitterness down and rely on our connection.
The peace between us is frail, but I won’t rest until she accepts me back. Until we become a family. We’ll overcome the past and build a titanium foundation strong enough to face the future.
I make sure she gets all the healthy food, lulling her into dozing on my chest during the day. I know the sun does her good, and at night, I stay awake with her, following her like a shadow until she tires and falls back asleep—showing her she’s not alone in this.
She does all the hard work, growing our baby, and I support her by attaching myself to her side.
We’re on the terrace, watching the sunset, and soft music plays in the background as we sit on the chaise lounge.
I massage her feet while she asks, “You haven’t had anything to drink at all.”
I think she knows that I know. That’s the thing. Our connection runs soul-deep.
“Do you want something to drink?” I test her back, causing an instant reaction.
She glares at me. “I don’t like the hard stuff.”
“I also have champagne and Merlot.”
“Not in the mood.”
“Me neither.”
Silence falls, but not for long. She’s chatty tonight. Maybe it’s because we’re running out of time.
“You won’t succeed. I won’t let you in,” she says vehemently, as if she wants to convince herself more than me.
“There’s still time to test that. I assure you, not even an army could stop me. I will search for you anywhere in existence, throughout the afterlife. There’s no place you could go where I wouldn’t find you.”
“Psycho stalker.”
I chuckle and lift her leg, kissing each toe to test my theory. She sucks in a breath, eyes glazing over. My wife has been watching me more intently lately, and that look is pure desire.
She’s horny, and that puts her in a mood, so I let her stew some more until she snaps.
“Stop touching me,” she mumbles but doesn’t pull her leg away.
I continue to stroke her, loving nothing more than to take her, but she must give me something, anything.
She’s stubborn, this woman of mine. But so am I.
Staring at the darkening sky, she puffs out a breath, the sound ringing with her craving for my attention. I ignore her, which only makes her squirm and sulk some more.
“Is there something you need?” I ask, trailing a finger over her leg and up to her thigh as I skim the hem of my shirt.
“Nope,” she says, popping the p.
She’s so adorably cute, I stand no chance.
She has started wearing my shirt and a thong for the second consecutive day, looking like fucking mine. It takes every bit of willpower not to maul her.
Zara wants me to crack, and it would take just a flick of my fingers to undress her.
I adjust in my shorts, my cock so painfully hard I groan in frustration.
She bats her lashes at me in a coy, fake-as-fuck expression. “Is there anything bothering you?”
The minx, this cruel woman who gets off on playing with me.
