Page 126 of The Wright Man

My voice was steady. Dangerous. Quiet.

He blinked. "What?"

"Get. The fuck. Out."

Tears were rising fast now, hot and humiliated, but I held them back.

"Angie—"

"Get the FUCK out, Gavin."

I shoved him. Harder than I meant to, maybe. He stumbled into the hallway, still half-hard and fully naked, muttering something about me "being unreasonable."

I slammed the door behind him so hard the walls shook. Locked it.

And then I slid down to the floor, my back against the wood, and let the tears fall. Angry, ugly, choking sobs I couldn't stop.

Not just because of what he said.

But because for the first time in our marriage, I realized I hadn't come looking for love.

I came looking for proof.

And I didn't find it.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my robe pulled closed and clinging to my damp skin like it didn't want to let go of the humiliation still clinging to me. My ears were ringing with Gavin's words.

You've had four pregnancies.

Like it was a defect. A smudge. A flaw he had to fuck around.

Like the stretch marks on my hips and the softness in my belly weren't the result of losing four babies he claimed to have wanted. Like I should be grateful he wanted to fuck me at all.

My fists clenched against the sheets. That motherfucker hadn't touched me in over a year. Not a finger. Not a glance. But the second I ask for some softness—for a moment that feels like connection instead of conquest—he wanted to take me from behind like I was a faceless, shapeless thing?

Because he couldn't stomach looking at the body that carried our children?

I hadn't walked away from the best man I ever knew just to end up begging Gavin to touch me.

I closed my eyes. And I saw him.

Maleek.

The way he looked at me earlier. Like I was the first sunrise he'd ever seen. Like every inch of me was a prayer he was dying to answer.

Like he wanted to take me apart slowly and put me back together better.

I didn't hesitate. I opened my nightstand and pulled out my favorite toy.

The deep purple one with the curved head and the weight that made me feel full — the kind of full that remembered what full felt like. I laid back, relaxed against the sheets, and let my knees fall open.

I let my eyes close… And I let it be him.

My fingers ghosted over my own skin the way I knew his would—slow and deliberate. Tracing the inside of my thigh, the dip of my waist, the slope of my breast.

Do you want this, Angel?

His voice in my head, rough velvet wrapped in heat. My breath caught on the question.