Page 29 of Perdition (Unchained Hearts #4)

“Don’t meet her defensiveness by getting defensive, Dad.

I know you’ll want to growl back like some cornered dog when she lashes out at you, but don’t.

Take the lashing. You’ve earned that punishment.

When she goes left, go right. When she gets aggressive or tries to push you or force you to act, don’t do it.

Like putty thrown against a wall, take the impact and deal. ”

War’s words flowed through his mind.

Like putty against a wall….

And he was fucking putty at the vision before him—his pissed off, turned on wife.

Em lifted her chin haughtily. “That doesn’t give you the right to come in here—I’m naked, Frost!”

Ignoring how she used his road name instead of his actual name at home, in their bedroom, he bit back a groan, not even bothering to hide the fact he was eating up every glorious inch of her bare body with his ravenous gaze.

“I can see that, baby,” he drawled thickly, then swallowed.

He couldn’t remember a time before when he’d been this hard, this painfully needy for his wife’s body.

Sure, he’d been gone for months at a time during deployments, but there was a difference between lack of intimacy because of distance—something that couldn’t be changed, and lack of intimacy because he’d been an idiot.

He was gagging for even a single touch from his wife. For the intimacy he’d been missing for months.

How was that even possible, to go months without worshipping Em?

Being inside of Em? Hearing Em’s moans of pleasure, the way she’d whimper his name when his cock hit that one spot perfectly?

The way her breath would catch once the orgasm began to build, and her pussy would grip him tighter, pulse around him faster and harder as he pounded into her moist heat?

Em gasped, pointing a finger at him. “Oh no you don’t!” she practically hissed. “I know that look! There is no way we’re having sex right now! I am so freaking pissed at you?—”

“Angry sex is the best kind of sex, baby,” he purred, stepping into the bedroom for the first time in weeks. He promised himself, right then, he’d never go that long without stepping over that threshold again.

He would fix what he broke.

He would prove to Em that he was still the man she loved, the man who didn’t deserve her but still needed her, and would do anything to prove it to her.

He would show her that she was the only one he wanted, the only one he’d ever touched and would touch—if she gave him the chance.

Wait—no! He needed to be putty!

Putty against the wall! Take the impact and deal!

Right now, he was a fucking nail gun—hard as iron and ready to penetrate.

Swallowing, he took a step back, his balls aching like a bitch with the movement.

He raised his hands placatingly, and cajoled, “You’re right, though.”

At those words, Em’s mouth dropped open.

Not too soon after that, though, her mouth slammed closed, and her eyes narrowed at him.

“What’s you’re angle here, Frost? Rush in on me naked, get me all worked up, fuck me to get me compliant, and then what?

” She threw her arms into the air, which—for the love of God!

—made those luscious tits bounce just the way he liked.

Her nipples, he noticed, were erect, begging for his mouth.

He always liked the way her nipples and areolas seemed to grow darker with her desire—from blush pink to a cinnamon, from sweetness to spice.

Just like his woman.

He groaned, fighting the urge to readjust the writhing jungle anaconda in his jeans.

“No angle, baby. I’d just come in when I heard you scream, and I was worried something was wrong. I might be the asshole, baby, but I can’t shut off my need to protect you.”

She rolled her eyes, snorting. “Right. Protect me.” How do you protect me from you?

He could hear what she hadn’t said but probably wanted to.

She was holding it all in, waiting to unleash it on him.

And he’d take every drop of her anger if it meant emptying her of it so she could heal.

Turning away from him, she grabbed her ratty, lilac-colored cotton bathrobe from the bed, and slid it on. The robe had been a present from the twins six birthdays ago.

It was one of those luxury robes from some department store catalog, and Em had adored it on sight.

She wore it every day—through morning coffee and oatmeal stains, to cleaning bloody boo-boos, to tears and snot and puke.

That robe had been through many things with Em, and it was worn so thin in some places, he could see her pink skin through the fabric.

She tied the robe closed with practiced ease then pinned him with her gaze.

He felt like pouting like a baby when she covered all the beautiful naked skin, but he didn’t growl or snap or bite—though Em loved a good bite once in a while—like he wanted to.

Instead, he cleared his throat and waited for her to speak again, because he knew his woman had a lot to say, and he would do anything she wanted him to do, even if it meant standing there in silence until she deigned to speak to him.

Finally, she broke the tense silence. “You know what? Wait for me in the living room. I can’t deal with you in here,” she commanded sharply, her gaze flicking to the bed then back to him, like she was remembering what they’d done there.

Again, she pressed her thighs together, which only made him want to make use of that bed.

Putty against the wall!

He obeyed his wife’s edict, spinning on his boot heels to stride right back down the hallway to sit on the couch facing the large flatscreen TV hanging on the far wall between the two living room windows. It was a present to himself last year.

He was ashamed to say he hadn’t used it much in that time.

He’d been gone. Working. Too busy. Caught up. Putting off going home.

Fuck if he could understand why.

Hanging his head, he waited, listening to the ticking of the grandmother clock on the wall.

Four hundred and nineteen ticks later, Em emerged from the bedroom, her movements unsure, her bravado from earlier missing.

She was still determined, if that look in her eyes told him anything, but the wariness, the fear of pain, that apprehension that tightened her beloved features told him that she was genuinely unsure if she’d come out of the conversation intact.

Fuck.

This was his doing.

His wife, the woman he loved, didn’t trust that he wouldn’t hurt her.

Because he already had.

Putty against the wall….

Remaining seated as to not crowd her, he waited for her to sit on the loveseat across and to the left of where he was sitting.

Frost couldn’t take his eyes off her; she’d changed out of the robe.

She was wearing a pair of his old gray sweats and a gray sweatshirt—sans bra.

Her feet were bare, her hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and her cheeks were still rosy from her shower.

His gaze caught and followed the path of a water droplet that had fallen from a curl of her hair and slid languidly down her neck.

God, he wanted to catch that with his tongue.

He knew it would taste of her, a taste he missed like his own soul.

She was tense, her hands clasped in her lap, her body held as tight as a bowstring.

Finally, she filled the heavy silence, the whole of him attuned to her voice, unwilling to miss a single word or emotion or movement.

“I need to know what happened, Frost,” she said, her voice trembling. “I need you to tell me because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep going with the worries, the what ifs, the whys, and the anger—so much anger….”

She raised a shaking hand to press against her chest, as if she was keeping her heart from escaping…or to protect it from what was coming.

Fuck, she was scared of his answer.

And he was scared, too.

Because, in that moment, he was more aware of what he had to lose than he’d ever been.

In the desert, downrange of enemies, his life and death flashing before his eyes in a firefight had nothing on the way his heart was pounding like it was racing for survival.

Right then, sitting across from his wife, knowing, dreading that their marriage, their future, his every good thing he ever had or wanted was slipping through his fingers?

Terrified.