Page 28 of Perdition (Unchained Hearts #4)

SEVENTEEN

His heart in his throat, his balls drawn up tight to his body, his lungs burning from shallow breaths, Frost pulled up to the house that used to be his home before he went and fucked that all up.

It was almost seven, and he knew Em usually got home from the shop by then, usually leaving the closing to her assistant manager, Maria.

Before all the bullshit had tainted his life—the troubled patch over, Sarah’s insidious attentions, and his unspoken fears and dissatisfaction compounding on one another—he would be home just before her, having left the business of the club to his, then, single VP, so that he could be at home with this wife and kids.

His family.

Now, not even eighteen months later, he was locked out of his house, on the outs with his kids, and probably headed toward castration by his own wife.

She cut down their tree, something that had been special and sacred between them; he didn’t think she’d have a problem cutting off his dick if she got riled enough.

And she had every reason to be riled; he’d really fucked up in every way possible. No, he hadn’t actually crossed that line with Sarah, but he was emotionally intelligent enough to know what limerence was, and he’d been there, done that, and was now wearing the tattered t-shirt.

After the club officers staged their intervention with him about inappropriate and increasingly dangerous relationship with Sarah and his carelessness with Em, he’d been arrogant, angry, stubborn, refusing to believe he’d done anything wrong.

And after Was had called him, concerned about what he was seeing on the doorbell camera, his son had called him out on it.

War was taking psychology courses, and he’d used that word—“limerence,” explaining to him that he was infatuated with Sarah.

That his thoughts were focused on her because she fulfilled a perceived need for something he felt he was missing.

In other words, he was so caught up in how young and carefree and strong he felt when he was around her, that he began to need her, to be around her in order to feel that satisfaction.

That momentary euphoria that felt good in the moment but then would wear off, requiring him to see her again to get that high once more.

The thing about limerence was it turned rational men into gaslighters

Liars.

Manipulators.

When it had all began, he’d had no malicious intent, he hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone, especially Em, but he’d been so caught up in that desperate need for validation, fulfillment, euphoric satiation that he’d become someone he’d never, in a million years, thought he’d become.

A betrayer.

And it had all started with making excuses for his behavior.

And that’s what Frost had been doing to his brothers, making excuses, getting defensive, trying to turn what they were saying around on them—that intervention in club Church being a fine example.

Then, there was the way he’d been treating Em, like she was being a bitch because she was angry at him for pulling away.

She had every right to be angry, to feel betrayed, because even though he’d never touched Sarah sexually, his mind and heart were trying to fit her into places in his soul that were Emily-shaped. Places that were made just for her.

His soulmate.

His other half.

His better half.

And to lose her…he couldn’t fucking contemplate it.

Checking his phone, he saw that Em had texted him the new key code for the front door. No doubt she’d change it the moment he was gone tonight.

And he would be leaving, because once everything was out on the table, there was no way Em was going to let him stay.

He just hoped that, eventually, he’d work his way back into their home.

And their bed.

Fuck, he missed his wife in every fucking way possible.

Keying in the new code, Frost entered the house and immediately recognized the sounds of the master shower running. The pipes in the house were only five years old, but the high water pressure made them groan when in use.

“Must’ve got off early,” he muttered to himself, just before realization made his breath catch and his eyes blow wide.

Em.

Sexy as fuck Emily.

In.

The.

Shower.

Naked.

Immediately, his cock hardened to the point of agony.

As it always did with thoughts of Emily in the shower.

Naked. Sliding soapy hands over her big, lush breasts, her erect nipples, down her belly, over her hips, over the globes of her plump, fuckable ass, down each of her long, thick, shapely legs—legs he needed wrapped around him like he needed his next breath.

And let him not forget how she’d slip those soapy fingers between the lips of her plump, pink pussy—bare and swollen and begging for his tongue.

No, his wife wasn’t the thin, firm-fleshed girl she’d been in her youth, before the twins were conceived, but he’d had more years with the fuller, curvier, supple body of his children’s mother than he’d had with that other version of her.

He preferred the mature, upgraded edition of the girl he’d met twenty-eight years ago.

That Em was young, inexperienced, na?ve.

The one he knew now, the woman she’d grown into, the queen she’d fought tooth and nail to become was worthy of every breath as praise, every heartbeat as adoration, every moment of pain as sacrifice.

To be with Em was to be blessed by the heavens.

And he’d forgotten that.

How could I forget that?

He was married to an exquisite, sensual goddess, and he’d taken her for granted.

He fucking loved every curve, valley, mark, and cock-hardening jiggle of his wife’s body. Adored it. Worshiped it. In all their years together, there’d never been another woman who could turn him on like she could. Sure, there were women like Sarah who’d tried and failed….

Did Sarah fail, though?

He hadn’t crossed the line with her, but he was smart enough to know that’s where it’d been heading before Em had forcefully “ectomied” his head from his ass by locking him out of his house, and tossing her property kutte like it meant nothing to belong to him. To belong to each other.

And she’d further shown him the error of his ways by cutting down their tree.

He still couldn’t wrap his mind nor his heart around that. Around the brutal finality of that action. What did it mean for her to, not just cut down, but also to intentionally dig up the roots, leaving nothing but the empty earth beneath a mound of cold, soulless dirt?

How could she have done something so devastating without a second thought?

You’re the one who told her it was just a fucking tree! You’re the one who made it seem like that tree, that place, those moments with her meant nothing.

So, she took you at your word, fucker!

The sounds of the bathroom shower turning off echoed through the achingly silent house, and he was immediately, once again, thinking of his naked wife.

Stepping out of the shower.

Wrapping a towel around her dripping wet body.

Fucking fuck!

He was starving for his wife, his mouth watering for her, to taste her, run his nose along her freshly washed skin and draw her scent into his body, press her back against the bed and ravage her mouth with his lips, while paying homage to her body with his trembling hands—but he couldn’t even put his hand on her shoulder without fearing she’d remove it for him.

This is your doing, asshole.

Fix it!

And he would…once she came out of the bedroom and they sat down to talk.

Yeah, he was being hopeful; hoping that she’d even let him sit down long enough to get a sentence out.

Be fair…at least she let you in the house.

True.

And…she’s giving you a chance, something you didn’t have yesterday.

True. Again.

His body and senses attuned to the house and woman in it, he immediately tensed at the sound of Emily screaming.

In a breath, he was running toward the master bedroom, pushing through the door, and coming to an abrupt stop at the sight of his wife, naked, glistening with water, pink fleshed, standing in the middle of the room.

She was leaning over, plump ass in the air, grasping her foot, and cursing under her breath.

“Goddamn frame!” she grumbled. “How many freaking times have I told him to?—”

“I’ll work on it later,” he said, his voice thick with thirst and hunger.

Em’s head shot up, her eyes widening in shock as she gasped.

As Frost watched, her expression slipped from fear to surprise to sadness then to anger—the full gamut of the wronged wife.

However, that far too quick flash of lust in her gaze—burning hot and fast like a magnesium flare—made him all the more aware of the current situation.

He was hard as fuck.

His wife was naked.

Needy.

And from the way she was pressing her thighs together, she was turned on.

He was an asshole, a piece of shit, but he was also so, so, so very good at pleasuring his woman.

Fuck, his woman was incredible, and she proved that in the next second when she straightened to her full height, pulled back her shoulders, which made those big, lush tits jiggle, and planted her fists on her hips, completely unbothered by her naked state.

She was more focused on him…just how he liked it.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” she demanded, her eyes flashing between anger and annoyance.

But he wondered who she was more annoyed at—him or herself.

She wanted him, he knew that, and he also knew she didn’t want to want him.

Not in that moment.

And probably not for a long while.

He couldn’t blame her for that.

Yeah, she’s not the emotionally disloyal moron in this relationship.

Wasn’t that the fucking truth.

“I just came in when I heard you screaming,” he answered, leaning against the doorframe with an ease he wasn’t really feeling.