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“Fuck they wouldn’t,” he mutters in return.

Maybe the rules have relaxed. Only, I’m really new money and not nearly as rich as Pete.

I glance over my shoulder at her old man again. Good. He’s managed to put his game face on. Get that gumshield in, old man.

I know, I know. Clara wants to fight her own battles, and I respect her for that. But after she told me about her love letter from the IRS, I decided to see why her old man is insisting on being a colossal asshole. And to tell him to cut it out. Or else.

If I stand by and do nothing, what kind of man would that make me? Not the kind of man who deserves to hold Clara as she sleeps in his arms.

Jesus, what a night. Who would’ve thought a little role-play developed on the fly would turn into something so profound? When we finally came down, and when I got the strength back in my legs, I scooped her up and carried her to my bed.

Without complaint.

I laid her down with such reverence, then climbed in beside her. I’d tucked my knees behind hers and pressed my lips to her hair. And when the morning came, I was delighted to find she was still wrapped in my arms.

I feel my expression waver as I recall breakfast, watching as Clara reached for paper and a pen. She had a couple of new fantasies to jot down, she said. Excuses, she meant.

If you can’t beat them. . .

Pushing away my frustration, I joined her at the table and made a suggestion of my own. A teenage boyfriend sneaking into his teenage girlfriend’s house. Not quite a fantasy but maybe a little history will help. A little reminiscing and a lot of fingering, I expect.

Ah, fingering. There’s just something about the closeness, the kissing, the eye contact. It makes a man feel like a conductor of pleasure. He gets to drink in all the small shifts as he nurtures her pleasure as it grows and grows until she can’t hold back any longer and feels fit to burst.

“Gonna leave you here, friend,” Pete says.

I snap back to myself, smiling like an idiot. I mean, fucking is king, and head is amazing, but when I’m fingering Clara, it’s all about the visual. “Sure. And thanks, Pete.”

“Don’t get into any trouble now, you hear?”

I give a quick salute. As if I’d give that old bastard the ammunition.

Pete wanders off, and I turn and pull up a chair over to the niche dear old Dad is seated in.

It’s just a conversation. I’ll keep my cool. Use an even tone. Stick out my pinkie, if I need to.

“Marriage,” Edwin says, his tone mild for someone who looked dangerously constipated a few moments ago. “I’ll admit it, I didn’t anticipate it.” He makes a show of crossing one knee over the other before folding his hands in his lap. I am unbothered, the motion says. Your presence has barely ruffled my feathers.

The vein pulsing at his forehead says otherwise.

“Good surprise, though, right?” So maybe I want to goad him a little as I lower myself to my chair.

“It was clever. A touch dramatic, but that’s Clara for you.”

My agreement hits the air in a soft chuckle. “Maybe not as dramatic as the kind of shit you’ve thrown her way recently.”

His mouth gives a considering pull. “Perhaps the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.”

“I’m not sure I see the likeness myself.” Not even if I squint.

“We only see in others what we want to see.”

“Interesting.” I nod as though considering. “With respect”—with zero fucking respect—“that’s not how I find things.” Because I’m looking at a gaping asshole. A black fucking abyss. And nobody wants to see that shit.

“Clara is—”

“My wife.” I give a bland smile as I twist that knife deep.

“That is unfortunate.”