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Dragging her gaze back to my face, my wife brushes that stray curl from her blue eyes, and the humongous diamond on her ring finger catches the lights shining through the windows. “Is everything okay?” she asks, pausing long enough to bring the wine glass to her lips. “I was worried when you didn’t text me back.”

Rage, hurt, and lust collide in my gut. I don’t know whether to shout at her, strangle her, or throw her down and fuck my anger away. My throbbing dick votes for the third option, though Jules’ face is the one flashing in my mind.

I’m seriously fucked in the head, and it’s all Monica’s fault. The need to conquer is a life-force inside me. I span the distance between us until I’m close enough to detect the heat of her body.

“Why wouldn’t everything be okay?” I say, my voice teetering on a lethal edge as I cup a hand around her chin, holding her with enough strength to set her on alert without hurting her. “I missed my wife, is all.”

Her eyes widen, shooting disbelief at me, as if she picked up on my sloppy deceit. “I missed you too.”

Liar.

I loosen the sash on her robe, and a small part of me revels in the breathless gasp that puffs off her sinful lips. Her generous tits spill into view, and I imprison a nipple between my thumb and forefinger, fighting the urge to pinch until she cries out in pain—until her knees buckle and she begs for forgiveness in the same breath she begs to take my cock in her mouth.

“Cash, stop.” Shock washes over her features at my bold moves. I can’t remember the last time I rolled her pretty nipples between my fingers, let alone manhandled her.

“I can’t touch you?” A low growl emanates from the back of my throat, and I flex my fingers around her jaw.

“I’m not in the mood.” Even as she denies it, she thrusts her tits toward me.

“Your body begs to differ.”

“You should’ve told me you were coming home,” she says before nibbling on her lower lip—a move she knows drives me crazy.

“I wanted to surprise you.” And catch her in the act.

“Well, I was too worried about you. Now I have a migraine.”

Her treachery freezes my veins, but it’s a contradiction to the flames bursting alive on my skin. I’m all mixed up—a cocktail of fire and ice over this woman. Sex with her was amazing before we got married, but she did a turnabout shortly after the ink dried on the goddamn paper.

“Let me go, Cash.”

Instead of dropping my hand like I normally would in the face of her rejection, I scowl at her. My chest is rising and falling too rapidly. I increase the pressure on her nipple, but it’s negligible; just enough to make her wince without pulling away.

“You lethimtouch you. You let him do a helluva lot more than touch you.”

Her eyes go wide, and I have to give her credit because she smooths her expression in the next instant.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, stumbling out of my grasp.

“Don’t play stupid.” I cross my arms, otherwise, I might wrap my hands around her slender neck. “Tell me you didn’t think you could fuck another guy in our bed and get away with it.”

“How can you even think that of me?” Her tone is indignant, and if I hadn’t seen the evidence for myself, I might fall for her lie, because she’s that good of an actress.

“You sure as hell haven’t been fucking me, so who’s the lucky asshole, Monica?”

“No one!”

I withdraw my phone and enter the code to unlock it. Bringing up the photo of her with some unknown guy—because that fucker’s face is in complete shadow—I thrust it into her line of sight. “Pictures don’t lie.”

With a tilt of her chin, she stares down at the photo. “That’s you and me, Cash.” Now she’s glaring at me. “And I don’t appreciate you taking photos of us having sex. It’s tacky.”

“You haven’t let me touch you in months, so don’t even try it.” I stalk forward, hating how she doesn’t back down. “Do you want a divorce? Is that it?” I cringe to think of the fallout. Not only will it break my heart, but the dissolution of our marriage won’t be a private matter. Instead, it’ll be messy and in the public eye, bringing bad publicity to the merged companies of our families.

“No,” she says with a shake of her head. “A divorce is out of the question anyway.”

Her casual dismissal sucker punches me. She’s standing before me, a stoic shadow of herself, telling me she doesn’t want to end this. But it’s not because she loves me—her tone implies that much.

“The guy you’re fucking. Do you love him?” My question hangs between us, going unanswered as I study this woman who’s become a stranger. She should be begging for forgiveness. Instead, her mouth forms a stubborn line that’s all too familiar.