He hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties and rips them. The fabric tears easily, and he tosses the ruined lace aside. He spits on his fingers and then slides them between my legs, rough and insistent.
He's not being tender. He's not being careful. But I asked for this.
He pulls his shirt off, then his jeans. When he's naked, he positions himself between my legs. The fact that I’m not wet would be a real problem if he hadn’t used saliva. Still, I know this is going to be uncomfortable.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider. He's hard, and when he presses against me, I feel the heat of him.
"Asher," I whisper. “I love you.”
He doesn’t respond. For a moment, there is only silence. Then he just pushes forward, and I feel him start to enter me.
And then he stops. His body goes rigid. His breathing changes. And I feel it immediately. The shift. The loss of hardness.
"Fuck," he mutters. He pulls back, his hand going to himself. "Fuck."
My first thought is that I’m relieved. Not being wet enough isn’t going to be a problem. My second thought is that maybe this gives us time to slow down and build up the way we should.I sit up slightly, reaching for him. "It's okay. We can still get there."
"It's not fucking okay, Julie. Jesus Christ." His voice is sharp, defensive. He moves away from me, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to me. "This is a fucking nightmare."
"You're stressed. You're exhausted. It happens."
"It doesn't happen to me." He runs both hands through his hair, his shoulders tight. "I'm sorry. I just... I'm tired. Work has been insane. The board is breathing down my neck about the transition, and I haven't slept more than four hours a night in weeks."
I move closer, putting my hand on his back. "I know. We don't have to do this tonight."
“That’s probably for the best.”
"We can cuddle," I say softly.
He shakes his head. "No. Let’s just go to sleep.”
I get up, go to the bathroom, and pull on a soft cotton shirt and sleep shorts before going back to bed. Asher’s already there, facing away from me. I climb into the bed on my side and try to process what just happened. Something has fundamentally changed with my husband.
Sometimes I wonder if he even likes me at all anymore.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
JULIE
I'mat work doing inventory Monday afternoon when my phone buzzes against the stainless steel counter. Devon's school. I answer immediately.
"Mrs. Stevens? This is the attendance office at Lakeside. Devon is experiencing some bad anxiety and would like to go home."
My stomach drops. "Is she okay? Does she need medical attention?"
"She says she just needs to leave. Can you come pick her up?"
"Of course. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
I find her in the attendance office, sitting in a wooden chair with her backpack on her lap. Her eyes are red. Her hands are shaking. The attendance secretary gives me a sympathetic look as I sign Devon out.
"Come on, honey," I say. "Let's get you home."
She doesn't speak during the drive. I keep glancing over, trying to gauge how bad it is. Her breathing seems normal. She's not crying. But she's staring out the window with her arms wrapped around herself.
When we pull into the garage, she gets out of the car without waiting for me. By the time I walk into the kitchen, she's already upstairs. I give her space. Make myself tea. Answer emails on my laptop at the kitchen island. An hour later, she comes downstairs wearing different clothes. Leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. Her hair is in a messy bun. She looks completely fine.
