Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
“Roman,” I breathe, taking a step backward and bumping into the hot stove. It makes me jump forward and into his chest, and my face flushes. His arms come around me, steadying me, and my heart stutters.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, baby. But you know I can’t resist you in these shorts,” he says, his voice deep as his hand slides down my back to squeeze my ass cheek covered in the soft five-dollar Walmart shorts I own in every color. “And the apron? You’re just asking for it.” He bites his full bottom lip.
Okay, the apron, I admit, is pretty with its bright floral pattern and is super sexy the way it cinches in my waist. While I did put it on to protect my white tank from bubbling spaghetti sauce, looking cute for my husband was also high on the priority list when I saw it hanging on the back of the pantry door as I grabbed the box of noodles off a shelf. The vixen inside me still wants to entice the delicious man I married, wants him to be unable to keep his hands off me. Even when another part of me—most likely my broken heart and trust that feel extra raw tonight after my session with Doc—flinches whenever he comes near.
Even though it’s been eight full months since that awful night, I’m still unused to his taking initiative at home. For a whole year before I found the texts, his physical affection came very sparingly outside of Club Alias. He’d blamed it on being tired from working so much, and since I too was pretty exhausted from my own job, I didn’t put much thought into it. We made it a point to have a monthly date night at the club, where we’d pack in hours of intimacy and countless orgasms in a private playroom, but besides that, we barely touched. A quick kiss goodnight after watching TV in bed before we’d flip on opposite sides and fall asleep. I had chalked it up to being a normal life circumstance, just how marriage naturally progresses. I even at one point felt sorry for couples who didn’t have a Club Alias situation in their life to guarantee intimacy once a month, one night on a calendar page to look forward to. My world revolved around that one night. I lived and breathed by counting down the days until that circled date, when I’d get my fix of my husband. My Dom.
But after New Year’s…. A week had gone by before I was consolable enough to hear bits and pieces of his explanation for what he did. Even then, I couldn’t absorb half of what he said. I don’t know if I was in shock, too traumatized, or what, but I did hear the part where he admitted the guilt he felt talking to another woman was a big part of what kept him from being more affectionate. And ever since then, he’s been doing an impressive job of showing his love for me through his touch. It was something I expressed I’d been missing for too long in response to him begging me to tell him what he could do to help me forgive him.
“What’s for dinner?” he asks, bending down to place a kiss on the side of my neck, making me shiver, and I grab my phone to pause the audiobook still playing before I lose my place in the story.
“Spaghetti and meat sauce with garlic bread,” I reply, setting the cell back on the counter. “Shit! The garlic bread.” I turn around, snatching the oven mitt off the hook before yanking open the door and pulling the baking sheet out. “That’s what I was checking on when you scared the bejeezus out of me.” Thankfully, the individual slices of toast aren’t burnt.
“Why so jumpy?” Roman asks, but before I can reply, I hear a door snick open.
“Knock, knock,” a male voice comes from the front door of our home, seconds before I hear heavy footfalls that eventually enter the kitchen. “Got enough of that grub for me too?”
I look over my shoulder to smile brightly at Bram, Roman’s VP at his company. After so many years of them building the software company from the ground up, working from sun up to sun down, we’re completely used to him making himself at home. He’s single and bought the house next door, so he comes over for a home-cooked meal a few times a week.
“Don’t I always?” I ask as the two men tap knuckles. It’s true. I normally make enough for the three of us, and on the nights he doesn’t pop in, I just turn the leftovers into a meal for Roman to take to work with him for lunch the next day.