Page 24

You’d think I’d want to stop, right? I should stop. But the thing is, I don’t want to stop. I’m afraid that if I do, this moment when we’re finally close and not arguing, the moment will be lost.
“Honey, if it hurts, we can stop.” Noah grunts against my collarbone when my back arches, allowing him to slide in deeper. He struggles to keep a hold of my slippery body. “Causing you pain isn’t exactly a turn-on for me.” I can tell he’s struggling. He wants to stop because it hurts me, but he doesn’t want to, if that makes sense.
I squirm, but then give up when I realize I can’t move because he’s holding onto me so tightly. I sneak a peek at him, and for a moment, I’m lost in a blissful vision of lust that I’m giving my husband such pleasure. His hair is matted to the side, water beading off him, but it’s the way his brow is furrowed, the gentle part of his lips and the way his chest is shaking with each movement. He’s enjoying this, and if it wasn’t for the burning and downright pain, I’d probably continue.
But all ass play must come to an end at some point, and the burning reaches an all-time high, and I think if I move it will get better. Honestly, I blame us trying to do this standing up. That’s where this all fell apart, but the biggest issue I see is that when you combine lube with water, it gets a whole hell of a lot slippery. It’s like a scene out ofChristmas Vacationwhen Clarke goes flying down the mountain on that metal lid and ends up in the next county.
While I attempt to adjust my footing, somehow the lube had gotten on the floor, squirted all over the place, and it’s basically a Slip-N-Slide because I slip, Noah falls backward and into the shower wall. Crashes right through it and onto the floor.
So that just happened….
You couldn’t have repeated that shit even if you wanted to. It was so awkward. And then I realize Noah is bleeding from his hand. It takes us a moment to comprehend what just happened, and Noah grabbing his junk to make sure it’s still attached. It is, by the way. Raising his hand, he looks at it and with the movement, the skin peels open, and blood gushes out.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I fight back tears as Noah’s gaze slides down the length of my body, but he says nothing to me. He looks… pissed.
My voice shakes when I whisper, “I think you need stitches.”
Noah draws in a deep breath, looking at me, then his hand. Getting his feet underneath of him, he stands. With a look of perplexity, he stares at the blood and the broken glass around him. While I want to make a snarky remark, scream about the blood and the fact that he’s cutting the shit out of his feet by walking on the shards, Noah walks over to the sink, a trail of blood in his wake. If anyone was to walk in here, they’d be looking for the body for sure. It looks like a crime scene.
Noah’s hunched over the bathroom sink, his hands gripping the edge of it. His jaw flexes as he bites his bottom lip. He’s staring straight ahead, refusing to look at me. I know why. He’s angry that it ended like this. That no matter what we do, something is always putting us apart.
Then, out of nowhere, he raises his hand and punches the mirror, like he can’t stand to look at the reflection looking back at him. With the same hand he’d cut with the shower door.
I yelp at the sound, unprepared for his tantrum. “Noah!” I gasp when I notice his hand is now splayed open from his wrist to his knuckles. Great. Just what we needed. He’s a mechanic and just fucked up his hand.
His eyes cut. “Get dressed,” he barks at me and wraps a towel around his hand. “I need stitches.”
Eight
Stitches for Bitches
(I hate the sight of blood. And everything else right now.)
Steppingover Sevi asleep in the hallway, I make my way downstairs. Actually, I stumble and am lucky I don’t fall down them. That nail gun I left out, if it had power to it, I’d probably shoot myself in the dick right now.
I wouldn’t, but it’s a valid thought.
In the kitchen looking over my hand, I’m regretting my decision thoroughly. Why’d I punch the mirror? This wasn’t how I imagined the night ending, but when you’re married and have kids, it’s a game of Russian roulette.
Have I ever told you how much I hate blood? I don’t like it. Makes me woozy. You know what’s worse? Having a fucking hard-on and not being able to do anything about it. Also, that hand that’s basically a bloody mess of jagged flesh, I use that hand to you know, so that’s not awesome.
Stomping my cranky ass downstairs, I reach for my cell phone on the counter and think about who we can call to watch the kids while Kelly takes me to the ER. There’s no way around it. Even if I didn’t need stitches when I fell against the shower, I definitely need them after punching the mirror.
Kelly comes downstairs, dressed in those stupid fucking leggings and watchful of my reaction to her. “Are you okay?” she asks timidly and then peeks down at my very angry cock barely hidden in my jeans.
At first, I don’t say anything. She doesn’t want to hear what I have to say.
“No, I’m not.” My eyes snap to hers, her flushed cheeks, her hair all over the place and in that moment, something inside me snaps. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep going like this, avoiding what’s really going on between us, but I also know, I need to fucking finish. It’s the only answer. Stepping toward her, she watches me, her brow pinched together.
“I uh, I didn’t mean to—” She doesn’t finish her sentence before I push her up against the counter with my towel covered hand.
Oh, stop. I didn’t do it in anger. Just wait.
I yank her leggings down to her ankles and bend her over the kitchen island. It’s hard to get my jeans undone with one hand, but when you’re desperate enough, you manage. Holding myself at her entrance, I press the head of my cock in and wait for an objection. She shivers in a way that tells me she has none. In the next movement, I enter her from behind before she has time to object. The moment I’m inside her, Kelly grips the countertop and lets out a moan of pleasure, her cheek pressed against the tile, her mouth parted in ecstasy. I’m fucking transfixed.
Neither of us says anything. Unless, of course, my heavy breathing and grunt every time I enter her and her soft pleas for me to continue count as saying something. It feels wrong, like we shouldn’t be doing this in our kitchen where our kids could easily find us, but I think I might be past the point of caring.