Page 6 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

COUPLES THERAPY, SWEATPANTS, AND ONE HELL OF A BLOW JOB ATTEMPT

ROXY

I wake up in Chase’s bed. We’re naked. Tangled together in sheets and limbs but surprisingly, I don’t have any regrets. Not even false one’s.

What I do have is full-blown crisis brewing behind my ribs and moisture pooling between my legs from the sight of his tattooed chest in front of my eyes and his morning wood waving “good morning” from the sheet barely covering his hips.

Last night wasn’t just me welcoming Chase back to my bed. It was us.

That’s so dangerous.

Shuffling out of the bathroom, still in my robe, I walk into the kitchen just as he’s flipping the last pancake and setting it onto a tray already stacked.

“Hey,” he says, softly, watching me.

“Morning,” I mumble and longingly gaze at the coffee pot.

He slides a plate toward me. “I put peanut butter on them. And the coffee just stopped brewing. You can grab the first cup.”

I pause.

He put peanut butter on my pancakes.

I only eat peanut butter on pancakes when I’m emotionally overwhelmed.

This sexy bitch.

The retreat itinerary says, “ Guided Intimacy Work ,” which is just a very fancy way of saying “Therapy with friends and Sasha’s kombucha-sipping ass as moderator.”

Everyone gathers on the patio.

Trent’s already uncomfortable.

Bree and Weston are holding hands, and wearing weirdly pained expressions, like they’re in a filmed funeral montage for television.

The hell? They clearly are not screwing each other’s brains out.

Sitting down, I cross my legs before sliding my sunglasses down to cover my eyes.

Chase sits next to me. His knee touches mine.

I don’t move. I also don’t breathe.

“Today,” Sasha says, “we’re going to do The Mirror Exercise . ”

Cue the ominous music in my brain.

“You’ll sit across from your partner, hold eye contact, and repeat the sentence, ‘What I’m afraid to tell you is…’ Fill in the blank. Five times. Each. Without laughing. Without looking away.”

Oh, awesome. This is flipping just great.

So, we’re just going to rip my soul out and use it as a drink coaster.

Fucking fantastic.

We go last because of course we do.

We can’t have done this shit in private. No, when it’s each couple’s turn, the rest of us are just listening in. Our insecurities are on full display, like entertainment.

Fuck you, Sasha.

Chase sits across from me with his eyes full of love.

Suddenly, I’m furious.

How dare he still look at me like I’m worth… everything.

He goes first. “What I’m afraid to tell you is... I still dream about our wedding night.” He says it calmly, no hesitation.

I blink.

Shit.

My turn. “What I’m afraid to tell you is... I think I love you more when you get angry, because you’re never angry. And you should be. It’s real.”

He tenses.

Well, he should be. I push him away and take him for granted all of the time. Because I’m scared he’s going to realize that he can do so much better than this train full of crazy where I’m the conductor and all of the passengers.

His voice is raw as he says, “What I’m afraid to tell you is... I’ve never taken off my ring. Not even once.”

He flips his hand. There it is. The one I bought him after we got married. Tungsten and sterling silver. It’s worn. Familiar. Still his. And he’s still mine.

I want to look away… but I don’t.

“My turn,” I whisper. “What I’m afraid to tell you is... I want you to come home. Every day. Every time I tell you to leave. I don’t want you to leave. I just don’t know how to do this.”

The circle is silent. So is my heartbeat which is insane because the organ responsible is about to jump out of my chest.

Damnit, Roxy.

I just said the most honest thing I’ve ever said out loud.

And he didn’t flinch.

Somehow, we make it through the rest of the session.

We don’t touch. We don’t talk. We just sit. And somehow, the silence is the closest thing to actual intimacy, not just primal and hot sex, we’ve had in ages.

CHASE

Later, I find her in the kitchen. Her back is turned toward the door.

Her hands are braced on the counter. Her fingers are gripping it so tightly her knuckles are white.

Her hair is twisted up and clipped which only draws my attention to her neck.

She’s wearing a tight sports bra as a shirt and black workout shorts that barely cover her ass.

They’re clearly designed to test a man’s self-control when his wife is the one wearing them.

I quickly grab a glass and fill it with water, gulping it down.

“I said some heavy shit out there,” I offer, trying to sound casual.

She doesn’t turn but her spine straightens. “Mmmmmm.”

“You said some, too.”

She shrugs.

I try to take a sip and realize I’ve drained the glass. Refilling it, I stare at the back of her neck.

Wisps of dark hair are curling around it and I try not to imagine how it would feel if I pressed my mouth there and said everything I’m still too afraid to say.

I want to say it all. I mean it.

I’m just not sure she’s ready to hear it.

“You gonna talk to me, Rox?” I ask.

She finally turns around. Her dark eyes are like storm clouds. Her arms are crossed over her chest. Her lips are full and red, but not from her usual retro lipstick, from her biting and picking at them. Her cheeks are flushed.

“I’ve been talking to you for three and a half years. You just don’t listen.”

That’s not fair. And it’s not true. The only time she ever talks to me is when she’s yelling. Other than that, she never talks to me about anything real.

She’s kept so much of herself from me. She’s been so scared that I’d leave her at any moment that she never listens to me when I tell her over and over and over that I’m not going anywhere.

I wouldn’t. Hell, if I’d wanted to, I could have actually left any of the hundreds of times she kicked me out.

But I’m here.

I’m fighting for us and hoping that she’ll finally fight her fears, too.

Instead of saying any of my thoughts aloud, I simply nod. “Okay, I’m listening now.”

She lifts a brow. “Why though?” She sighs.

Exhaling, I grab the back of my neck, squeeze it, and say, “I’m still here, Rox. We’re still married. And I’m still absolutely obsessed with you.”

She tenses.

I step closer to her. She retreats until her back hits the cabinets. My hands settle on the counter beside hers, my arms boxing her in… but I don’t touch her. I don’t have to.

Our bodies remember the rest.

“You think we can be fixed ?” she whispers.

Leaning in, I breathe into her ear. “We’re not broken, baby. But yeah, I think that we’re worth fighting for.”

“You wanna start over?” She breathlessly asks.

I lean in and suck on her lobe while still not touching her with anything other than my lips on her ear.

She shivers and a moan escapes her. Her back arches and her chest brushes against mine.

My voice is gravelly as I say, “As many times as it takes. But I’m really hoping this is the last time we do this dance and that it ends with you on top of the counter again. ”

Her breath hitches but she doesn’t move.

She doesn’t dip under my arm and race anywhere but here.

Reaching out, I grab a bowl of buttercream frosting off the counter, and dip one finger into it.

Scooping some of the deliciousness I made first thing this morning out, I purposefully drag it across her bottom lip. “Still have a sweet tooth, Roxy West?”

Roxy West. That’s your name. You have my name, wife of mine.

She glares at me, but her pupils dilate. Then, she slowly licks her lips. “Still a cocky as fuck pain in my ass, Chase West?”

“I got your crazy ass to marry me after three weeks of knowing you. Cocky is my love language, baby.”

She smiles and my entire being reacts. When Roxy smiles at me like that, one of two things is about to happen.

One- She’s about to rock my damn world.

Or two- She’s about to try to kick me out of her life… again.

I step back just enough to breathe. She steps forward like we’re dancing. And just like that, we’re kissing.

No, not kissing . Clashing. Our mouths are fighting. Our teeth are hitting. Our tongues are desperate.

I easily lift her onto the counter. She wraps her legs around my waist. Gripping her thighs, I pull her hips into mine. She angles her head to deepen our kiss and claws at my hair, practically ripping it out by the roots.

Sliding my hands over her sides and her stomach, I cup her breasts through her top.

She arches into them and her nipples peak harder under my palms. I slide one hand inside, fighting against the restrictive fabric determined to stop me.

I succeed and flick my thumb over her nipple.

She moans into my mouth, and then, she covers my trapped hand with hers and pulls her head back.

Her eyes are wide and burning with passion as she says, “Let me.”

Uh, what? Come again?

Let you what?

I blink, trying to get my voice to work. “Let you what?” I question.

She slides off the counter with my hand still trapped. It pulls and I wince, but I forget all about it as she shoves me against the cabinets and drops to her knees.

She tugs at my waistband and my cock slaps her in the face.

She chuckles, “Excited much?” But she takes me into her mouth.

I get lightheaded as I look down at her, her lips parted around my cock as she moves her head, sliding me out to the tip before engulfing me until I hit the back of her throat.

She’s blowing me and I’m fisting her hair and guiding her head while I fuck her mouth.

She continues to work me over, moaning and really working over my cock. It’s so good that my knees are quaking.

The kitchen door opens. I see it but Roxy doesn’t hear it.

Miguel walks in holding a yoga mat under his armpit and a container of chia pudding in his hand. He sees us as he’s about to take a bite and he drops everything to the floor.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry. Oh no.”

Roxy turns her head, releasing me so quickly that her teeth scrape along my shaft.