Page 73 of Holding Penalty

“Piper, I’m fine. I like sleeping on the couch.”

“I’ve heard you tossing and turning and groaning out here for an hour. You’re not fine.”

I sigh, rummaging around my head for an argument.

“I’m never going to be able to get to sleep anyway, hearing you uncomfortable, and knowing it’s because I’m taking your bed. No matter what you say, I just won’t be able to. I’ll be up all night feeling guilty. You don’t want your poor wife feeling guilty, do you?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Somehow you trying to tug on my heartstrings with sympathy doesn’t work too well when you’re holding a weapon you just threatened me with.”

She grins. “And I’m still willing to use it. Now get up and get your ass into bed.”

Hearing my wife ordering me into bed like that makes my cock twitch, even if the context is hardly romantic.

How confident am I that Piper wouldn’t really physically assault me with one of my hockey sticks until I gave in and spent the night in my bed?

… Not very.

Nope, I wouldn’t put it past my wife to follow through with her threats. I can imagine her beating me with a hockey stick until I stopped being boneheaded. I can imagine it only all too well.

I’d better surrender now before I just accumulate more damage tonight.

“Fine,” I sigh, heaving myself up from the couch, not without wincing in pain from using my muscles.

“March,” she commands, straightening her arm and pointing to the open bedroom door.

“Are you usually this bossy when you order a man into bed?” I must be tired if my lips are loose enough to ask that. Or maybe I’m getting entirely too comfortable around my wife.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

If I said I’ve never been curious about what Piper’s like in bed, I’d be a lying bastard. I bet she does like to take initiative. And I bet she’s never been with a guy who could seize that initiative from her, make her feel the urge to be just a little bit submissive in a way she never is in daily life.

Piper doesn’t slacken in her prison-guard demeanor, marching me forward, standing behind with the hockey stick looming ominously in her grip.

“There,” I say after lowering myself onto the bed I haven’t slept in in weeks. Piper’s scent, now imprinted on the sheets and blanket and pillows, pierces my nose and makes my heart flutter in my chest.

“Good,” Piper nods. She rests the hockey stick against the wall and turns around, no doubt intending to take my place on the couch for tonight—but before she can take a step in that direction, I lean over and wrap my arms around her from behind.

She yelps as I tug her onto the bed, my arms tightening around her waist and holding her close to me as she tries to pull away instinctively.

“Nash!” she gasps. “What are you doing!”

“I told you before,” my voice feels too raspy in my throat as I speak against the soft shell of her ear, “my wife doesn’t sleep on the couch.”

“Nash,” she chides, but I can already feel her body relaxing slightly against my touch.

“Wife,” I chide right back, “this is the deal. If you insist that I sleep in the bed tonight, fine. But you’re sleeping here, too.”

The protest seeps out of her body, her posture softening in my grip. Even though she’s no longer making any movements to get up, I still have my arms curled around her far too tightly, tucking her far too firmly against my chest.

The fit of her back against my front also feels far, far too good.

“Alright, Nash, you win,” she says, her voice sounding sleepy and wispy. “You can let go now.”

I can. But should I?

I mull over the question far too long, all the while keeping her pressed close.

“Are you a cuddler or something, Nash?” Piper asks. There’s amusement in her voice, but also a lot more sleepiness. I feel it, too. It’s like the second we hit the mattress, the strain of the day caught up with us. It clearly has both of our guards down.