Page 3 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

NO SEX WITH MY HUSBAND (PROBABLY)

ROXY

There are only three ways I wake up after a night like last night. Either still drunk, deeply aroused or emotionally unwell but wearing great lashes and with perfect tits.

Today, I’m all three .

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling fan like it’s personally responsible for my marriage. Chase’s T-shirt is soft against my skin and smells like him.

The itinerary I found under the sink after my shower last night is under my pillow, smug as hell.

And my thighs are still mad at me for not wrapping them around his waist, or his head, last night and ruining everything.

Rolling out of bed, I grab the scrunchie that dislodged in my turbulent slumber, Chase tried to get in bed beside me, and I shoved him out, so he laid out on the floor. I slept like shit without him beside me. I always do.

Pulling my hair back up, I head into the bathroom to brush my teeth before stomping toward the sounds in the kitchen like I’m headed into a legal deposition.

As I hit the hall, I smell bacon and vanilla and my coffee order—extra cinnamon, a splash of oat milk, and one pump vanilla syrup, topped with thick and creamy cold foam.

Rounding the corner, I stop in my tracks.

Of course, he’s there. Shirtless. Hair messy. The scruff on the lower half of his face instantly causes a reaction.

He’s casually flipping French toast on the griddle like he’s not the reason I’m contemplating committing a felony before 9AM.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says without turning.

Did he spy? I mean, I wore it to bed and technically it’s our room, but whatever.

“You’re in my kitchen.” I snap.

Uh, what? Since when do I give a shit about the kitchen? That’s his domain.

“This is technically our kitchen.” He casually replies.

“I claim full custody of the French toast and visitation rights to the bacon.”

He plates the food with zero fear and sips from his mug, my mug actually, the one that says, “Have a nice day” but has a raised middle finger on the bottom. He sees me looking and grins. “I love this mug.”

I glare. “I hope your eggs curdle.”

He slides a plate across the counter toward me.

“You’re welcome, babe. My shirt looks better on you.” His gaze rakes me from head to toe before slowly moving back up again.

Why is my husband so damn fine?

I want to jump him. Right now.

I also want to stab him with a butter knife.

Instead, I take a bite and moan as I chew.

It’s perfect. Of course, it is.

Sitting down on the stool across from him with the island between us, I look at him.

He blatantly stares back. We eat in silence. Except it’s not silent. It’s thick with what we almost did last night... what we still might do… what I want to do.

Add in the fact that I dreamed about his hands, and what I know they’re capable of doing to me all night, while he was on the floor beside me, and how we always seem to involve food in our foreplay, I can’t look at the syrup without blushing

“So,” Chase says, biting into a piece of bacon, “how’d you sleep?”

I smile sweetly, though I can’t stop staring at his mouth as he chews. “Like a woman who didn’t almost make a massive mistake.”

He nods. “Cool. I slept like a man whose wife made him sleep on the floor instead of curved around her with her ass on his dick.” I swallow and he smirks. “Remember that team-building exercise at the last couple’s thing where you dry humped my leg, and then, ran off with my favorite spoon?”

I blink. “I did not take the spoon.”

He holds it up. It’s his favorite spoon. He brings it everywhere. It’s silver… and bent.

Damnit, Chase.

Memories of exactly how it got that way flood my head and my nipples bead.

I curse. “I hate you.”

“Lies.” He winks.

Before I can respond, the door opens and the other couples flood in. It gets loud. Fast.

Three people make a beeline for me.

As soon as I can escape to the deck, I find Chase leaning against the railing, sipping orange juice like a damn sunrise fantasy.

“You’ve been busy,” I say, arms crossed.

He grins. “So have you. Heard you tell Miguel you were emotionally repressed. That’s hot.”

I ignore that. “They think we’re back together.”

His shrugs . “So… we’re never really not together, Rox. No matter what you say.”

My brows draw together. “Did you say something to them for them to come to that conclusion?”

“I mean... what’s the issue? We’re married and we are in fact,” he points at himself, and then, at me, “together.”

I blink. “ Chase! ”

He shrugs. “Non-issue. Moving on.”

“Why not just tell them we’re getting divorced?” I snap.

“Because we’re not.” He growls and sets his fists on the deck railing.

Okay, we’re not, but we are, but…

“Separated, then.” I frown.

“We’re not that either. You say we are. I say we’re not. And we both know I’m going home with you when we leave, so can we just… skip the rest, Roxy?” He asks.

“We are! I kicked you out!” I yell.

He leans in, “It’s not like you’ve never kicked me out before. You freak, you leave or tell me to. It never lasts. Because you love me . And I love you , Roxy West.”

And just like that, we’re too close.

His mouth is a breath from mine. His hand settles on my hip. I can feel his next words in my soul before he says them aloud. “You want me to leave? For real. Say it. Right now. Just say the word, baby. I’ll tell them we’re broken. But you and I both know we’re not .”

Oh, Chase.

I step back like I’ve been burned because he’s right.

I hate it.

Marching back inside, I grab a sticky note pad from the kitchen drawer and scrawl a note in all caps.

RULE #1: NO SEX WITH MY HUSBAND.

Then, I slap it on the fridge, right next to the laminated itinerary taped there.

Chase walks in. He reads it. Smirking, he pulls out his phone and takes a photo. “Okay, Roxy. I’ll put it in my notes.”

I narrow my eyes. “I wrote it in bold, Chase.”

“I see that. Whatever you say, baby.” He chuckles and leans forward to quickly press his lips to mine. I gasp and he grins as he walks backwards out of the kitchen, his eyes locked on me the entire time.

Liar. He did not put it in his notes.

CHASE

Roxy is sitting across from me in a circle of throw pillows and broken boundaries. Soft music is playing. Incense is burning. Sasha, our friend and a licensed couple’s therapist, is instructing us all. “Connect with your partner’s energy through stillness.”

I’m currently trying not to connect with her nipples, visible through her tank top.

It’s not going great.

“We’re going to play a little game,” Sasha says, holding up a blindfold.

Roxy’s eyebrows lift so high they nearly leave her face.

“We’ll pair off, blindfold one partner, and let the other guide them in a basic task—pouring a glass of water, finding a specific object, folding a blanket…”

Miguel claps. “Sensory trust! I love this one.”

Sasha beams. “You’ll use only words. No touching. Let your voices lead. Let yourselves fall into one another. ”

Roxy whispers, “This sounds like a cult.”

I whisper back, “You’d be the hot one who sleeps with the leader and poisons the punch.”

She smiles. “You’d drink it anyway.”

Not wrong on that one, baby.

We pair up.

She crosses her arms defensively. It pushes her cleavage together and all I want to do is bury my face between it. “Who’s blindfolded first?” She asks, pulling me back from my mental visual stimulation.

“Trust me?” I ask.

“About as far as I can throw your hunky, tattooed ass.”

“So, impeccably. Awesome. … I’m up first, then. And the only tattoo on my ass is the one that says, ‘Property of Roxy.’”

Sliding the blindfold on, I sit back.

She clears her throat.

Sasha says, “Your task is to find the pink blanket on the couch.”

Easy peasy.

Or so I thought… until Roxy opens her mouth.

“Take three steps forward. No—stop. You walk like you’ve never used your hips before.”

“Is this guidance or a roast? And you know damn well I know how to use my hips.” I’m exasperated.

“Both. Turn right. Not your other right. Shut up and listen to me. God, can you even listen ?”

I bump into a table with my shin and yelp in pain.

“Oh my… are you injured?!” Her voice is concerned.

“Only emotionally.” I joke through the pain shooting through my shin.

“Good, now crouch. No, not like that! You look like you’re in labor. Just like squat. You go to the gym, Chase. You know how to squat!”

I crouch anyway and mutter, “I have balls and a giant dick. I can’t squat without crushing all of them.”

She snorts just as I feel fabric brush against my hand. “Yes, right there!”

I grab it. It’s soft.

“Got it!” I exclaim.

“Congratulations. You successfully found a pink blanket using zero core strength and absolutely no grace, regardless of the elephant trunk in your shorts.”

She’s talking about my dick.

Pulling off the blindfold, I grin at her. “You’re lucky I still think you’re hot when you’re mean. But you’re always mean, so I must think you’re an inferno.”

She bites her lip as she watches me, saying nothing.

She knows what it does to me when she does that.

Damn, witch.

Next round, we head into the kitchen, and we switch.

She ties her hair back and sits tall. Then, I blindfold her, whispering, “I’m stealing this later.”

She snickers, and says, “Ready when you are, stud ,” purposefully sexing up her voice.

Swallowing back the arousal I have at seeing her blindfolded, I concentrate on the task I was just given by Sasha. “Your task is to find the wooden spoon on the island.”

Roxy stands. She’s confident. Flawless. Gorgeous.

Focus, man. Focus.

“Step forward. Keep your arms out in front of you.”

“Like I’m pushing the universe away?” She flippantly says.

“Like you’re about to ruin my life.” I tease.

She smirks under the blindfold.

I guide her, slow. Gentle.

She moves like she trusts me impeccably. And that— that —nearly undoes me.

When she finally finds the spoon, her fingers wrap around it slow. Deliberate. She moves her hand along the handle, and I watch raptly.