I shove away from the desk and go into the living room. She’s lying on the sofa… asleep. She looks younger when she’s asleep and you can’t see the hint of shadows in her eyes. But I know they’re there.
Her ponytail is askew, fanning strands of long hair over the sofa cushion. I look at her face, her parted lips, the arch of her throat. Her breasts move with each breath. My prick hardens again. Her T-shirt has ridden up to expose the skin of her torso, pale and smooth.
I shift and wince as my erection grows thick against my thigh. I grab it and squeeze, feeling that familiar pull in my groin.
I tug a quilt over Liv, turn off the TV, and return to the bedroom. Close the door.
I stretch out on the bed and rub my dick through my pajama pants. Can’t help hoping Liv wakes up and comes into the bedroom. I want her mouth on mine, want to curl my fingers in her hair while she wraps her hand around my cock… Christ.
The images flash through my brain as I tug my erection out and start to stroke it. Urgency tightens my nerves. All I have to do is think of her—full, round tits bouncing in time to my thrusts, her lips parted and face flushed, the grip of her * around my shaft.
Pressure builds. I work my cock faster, driving myself toward release. My heart pounds. I imagine pressing my hands to Liv’s damp thighs, spreading her wider, sinking into her tight, wet heat.
I can hear her moaning my name, begging, pulling her legs up so she can feel every thrust, so she can take me deep. “Dean, fuck me harder… yes, just like that… oh, God… I’m going to come… I feel it… oh!”
I tighten my hand on my shaft and rub my thumb over the head. My spine tenses as the pressure snaps. I groan, semen spurting over my stomach as I imagine shooting deep inside Liv while she squirms beneath me and strains toward another orgasm.
I fucking love watching her come. Her whole body shakes, she wraps her legs around me, and digs her fingers into my back. Her throaty, little cries fire my blood all over again.
My wife.
I stroke my cock until the final pulses ebb. My breath is ragged. I grab a few tissues and wipe the dampness off, then stare at the ceiling.
Not long ago I’d have thought nothing of waking Liv up by rubbing her breasts or kissing her. She’d open her eyes and fall right into me, her mouth seeking mine. Instead, she’s asleep in the other room and I’m in here jacking off.
The last of the pleasure fades. Guilt pushes its way back in.
I should have told her years ago about my first marriage. Of course I know that. Numerous times I almost did. Then she’d turn her warm, brown gaze on me, her “You’re my hero” look that broke my heart in two, and the confession disintegrated in my throat.
What if I told her and that look changed? What if she wondered how much I was to blame for the disastrous marriage? What if she questioned my ability to deal with conflict? To solve problems? To fix things?
What if she thought I was weak, hadn’t treated Helen right, hadn’t done as much as I could have? What if she wondered what was wrong with me?
The questions knotted my brain until I’d finally shoved it all down and told myself to forget it. To focus on Liv, make our relationship a haven of warmth and safety. To love and protect her. To keep anything from hurting her more than she already had been.
That was all I wanted. It’s all I still want.
But I’m failing. I have no fucking idea how to fix what’s gone wrong in our marriage. I have no idea if my wife will ever again look at me the way she used to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dean
November 21
his one is Cruella de Vil. The Queen of Hearts. Poison Ivy. Maleficent.”
That was when I knew I could fall hard for her, this girl with the long, dark hair who named her houseplants after villains.
The girl who tried to make something good out of something wicked. Who made me want to know her as much as I just wanted her.
I watch Liv as she plucks dried leaves from the hibiscus beside the window and checks the soil. She hasn’t named her plants since we got married. I haven’t realized that before. Now she says, “My amaryllis needs water,” or “My violets bloomed.”
Liv goes into the kitchen and returns with a small watering can. She waters all the plants, then opens the curtain to let in the first rays of sun.
“What happened to Cruella de Vil?” I ask.
“Cruella de Vil?”
“You haven’t named your plants since we got married.”
“Oh.” She looks faintly surprised by the comment. “No, I guess I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
Liv shrugs and tips the watering can over the last plant.
“After we got married, I didn’t need to make something good anymore,” she says, heading back to the kitchen. “I’d already found it.”
I drop the newspaper onto the coffee table. Try to stifle the bitter shame and guilt.
“I’m working at the bookstore until six.” Liv pauses in the kitchen doorway. “Do you want me to pick up anything for dinner?”
“No. I can grab something on the way home.”