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“Britney, I’d like to float an idea to you that I tend to suggest to couples when they come to me with some misalignment.” She leans forward and rests her elbows on the edge of the kitchen table. “Do something together. Something that you both love, like a hobby or attending a concert or sporting event. You just mentioned he’s a lot like you⁠—”

“Are you telling me to go out and commit murder with my husband?” I ask, barely containing the glee in my tone.

Dr. Fallon smiles wryly. “I am not.”

“But could it be murder?”

“Britney—”

I grin widely as I scoot my chair back and stand. “Thanks, Doc.”

She sighs. “Any time.”

21

BELLA

I glance at Damiano across the center column of the SUV as we drive quietly through the New York streets. The blueish under-lighting from the G-wagon’s dash gives him almost a sinister appearance. The passing streetlights and flickering city neon only add to the dramatic shadows playing over his face.

I mean, unreasonably hot.

As much as I’ve found myself daydreaming about smashing something into that face or drawing “Lamiano” or “Shit Weasel” across it in Sharpie, let’s be real: face game is ten out of ten. A hundred out of ten.

And then there’s the rest of him, all lean, grooved muscles and broad, masculine angularity…

Yeah.

Therein lies one of my biggest problems when it comes to my husband.

Despite having spent my entire life refusing to be controlled, it appears being around someone who controls everything makes my pulse riot.

And by "someone", I mean him.

Because it’s not an anxious, desperate control that Damiano exudes.

It’s calm mastery.

Order imposed with complete, unhurried, confident precision.

On the one hand, it makes no fucking sense that an unhinged ball of reckless whimsy like me, who obviously sold her soul the gods of chaos and disorder, could even stand to be in the same room as Damiano.

But on the other hand?

Maybe that’s exactly why.

There’s something about all that quiet command that has my hormones reacting before my brain can object.

His very body is an example of that control: perfectly honed and chiseled and pushed to peak human perfection. Like every grooved muscle and lean line is there because anything less wouldn’t dare show its face to him.

It’s not like he’s fighting for control. It's like he's already won and utterly subjugated it, and he’s very aware of it.

So am I.

“We’re almost there,” Damiano rumbles in the dim dashboard glow, derailing my thoughts before I start outright fantasizing about climbing into his lap and riding him until I explode. “Let’s go over the plan again.”

We haven’t revisited the conversation we started in The Seven Bells about being married, having needs, and not having to like each other to fuck.

Granted, that conversation was sidetracked by…let me see if I remember… ahh yes, Damiano pulling my tampon out, PUTTING IT IN HIS MOUTH, and then stroking his fingers in and out of me until I exploded, clinging to his arm.