Page 78 of Desperate Games

Then it’s on to a chocolate cake that’s dark and rich and paired with homemade vanilla bean gelato. Andy moans after each bite.

I linger on her instead of dessert, but I have some anyway, because she likes the idea of sharing.

By the time we get home, my wife insists on helping Callie with her bath, which is a blessing in disguise because my hands are itching.

Not for work. Not for a weapon. Not for anything that used to center me.

For her.

So I brew myself an espresso. Decaf, because I don’t need the buzz.

My nerves are already on fire from watching her all night in that silk blouse and those wide-leg pants.

Classy as hell, but somehow sinful too, hugging the curve of her ass, flowing over the swell of her belly.

She looked like sex in motion—my wife, my obsession, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I walk to Callie’s room when I hear the soft hum of Andy’s voice.

Peeking in, I see her perched on the edge of the bed, golden hair falling forward, reading aloud from a picture book.

Callie’s already fighting sleep, eyelids heavy, fists curled in the blanket.

My chest aches at the sight.

I step in quietly, lean down, and kiss my little girl’s head.

Andy doesn’t miss a beat, finishing the story with that soft cadence that makes Callie’s little body go slack with sleep.

And then it’s my turn to do the dad thing—tucking her in, clicking on the night-light, checking the window latch before pulling the door almost closed.

It feels good. Normal.

Like maybe I can give her the life she deserves.

After that, Andy goes to shower and I head for the security room. Double check the alarm system. Scroll through the feeds.

Sigma employees man the gates. All clear.

Exactly why I bought this house in an exclusive community—to keep them safe. My girls.

I even buzz the guards, confirming with a quick word that all is quiet outside.

Only then do I let myself head toward the bedroom.

And I’m hoping, praying, that Andy’s already in bed.

Because if she’s waiting up? If she’s in some little nightgown or even one of those oversized shirts she favors, glowing with that stubborn, effortless beauty—God help me, I’ll lose every ounce of control.

I want to take her. Claim her again. Make her body remember exactly who she belongs to.

But I know we need time. Time for my plan to work. For her to fall for me, not just tolerate me.

For her to realize this life—our life—is the only one that fits.

So, I grit my teeth and tell myself I’ll wait.

Even though every nerve in my body is begging me to forget patience and crawl into bed with my wife and take her like the monster I sometimes think I am.