Page 45 of Guilty as Sin

Trust I don’t deserve.

The heaviness of guilt slogs through me as I click the light on. Both her pupils respond, and they’re both the same size. But I don’t allow myself to feel relief. I click off the penlight and hold it up between us. Her eyes follow it correctly as I move it back and forth, farther, closer.

When I drop the light to my side, her eyes focus on me. This close, the dark blue rings around her irises look so deep I could drown in them. I want to.

“All good,” I say. But it’s not all good. I try to swallow, but my throat’s too dry. “Sleep in your own bed tonight,” I tell her. I need to spend the night alone and miserable. It’s what I deserve for failing her.

Cora’s reddened lips fall open in shock, but she recovers quickly. With an offended glare, she clenches her jaw shut, turns on her heel, and marches out of my room.

* * *

“Did you sleep well?” I ask casually over the breakfast table. I spent half the night wracked with guilt, then got a fucking grip. Guilt is a weakness. I let my wife get hurt, but I’ll never let that happen again. Lesson learned. Moving on.

Don’t get soft on me, Brady.

I’m back to being my uncaring self, asking Cora insolent questions just to get a rise out of her. It’s working, because she’s narrowed her ice-blue eyes at me.

“No,” she says. “As a matter of fact, I did not.”

“Funny. I thought women usually slept well after the best fuck of their lives.”

She snorts at me. But instead of issuing a sharp retort, she starts peeling her banana.

“Fucks plural, I should say.”

“Are you that desperate for me to compliment your stamina?” She brings the banana to her mouth, but only parts her lips the slightest bit. With her eyes locked on mine, she pushes the banana into her mouth, forcing her own pouty lips wider.

Fuck me, it’s a good tactic. As was her choosing to wear my T-shirt this morning, with no visible shorts beneath. Pretending that all the blood in my brain isn’t rushing to my cock right now, I lean back in my chair and lace my fingers behind my head. I watch her delicate throat bob as she swallows.

“No compliments necessary,” I say. “I know my stamina’s impressive.”

“Men fail to realize that stamina doesn’t mean anything if it only lasts for one night. One night’s easy. If you truly want to be impressive, it’s the morning after that counts.”

She pushes the banana between her lips again, her eyes flashing with challenge. I reach over, yank the fruit from her mouth, and hurl it across the room. Challenge accepted.

I clear the breakfast table with a sweep of my arm. Plates crash to the floor, and the sound sparks something in Cora. She’s ready for me, hunger in her expression as I pull my T-shirt off her and toss it aside. I throw her onto the table the way I threw her onto the bed.

She cries out in pain.

Not the good kind.

I stop immediately.

“Fuck, what’s wrong?” I bend down, trying to examine her pupils again.

My blood goes cold. Cora’s eyes are shut tight, tears of pain leaking down the sides of her face.

“It’s nothing,” she whispers, clearly in agony.

“Liar. Tell me what’s wrong. That’s an order.”

Her eyes snap open, and she glares up at me. Although she doesn’t choose direct defiance this time, she doesn’t tell me what’s wrong.

She shows me.

My wife rolls onto her side, and I spit out every fucking curse I can think of. There’s a giant bruise on her back, mottled purple and horrific-looking. How the fuck did I miss that last night?

I think back. So that’s why she put my shirt on in the first place, to conceal the bruise in the middle of her back. It’s right on her spine, and I’m indescribably grateful the attack didn’t paralyze her. I feel awful and sick for how I worsened her pain. That I caused it in the first place.