Page 32

AIDEN

I do watch the video. I watch it and let rage trickle through me like lava. Emory looks like she’s trying not to cry when she confronts Harrison. Her gaze flicks to the onlookers like she’s asking for help. Not a single person does anything.

“Fuck.” I slick a hand through my wet hair as I tip my head up to the shower’s spray.

I can’t stop thinking about how upset she looked on camera, how horrible the comments were.

I thought about them while Tristan and I hunted through the stillhouse storage today for anything we could find on Old Kingdom.

I thought about them while sailing this morning.

I want to punch something, but I’m not about to break my hand on the blue tile wall of the shower.

“Fuck,” I say again, louder. No one would dare treat her like that when she’s with me, and if I’d been there, I would have intervened.

Would I have, though?

Or do I just want to think I would?

Would I have judged Emory like everyone else did?

No. I do the right thing, even when it’s difficult.

I take an angry swipe of bodywash and soap my stomach.

Tristan was right. I could see the walls going up behind Emory’s eyes in that video.

When it was finished and she stalked out of the room, her shoulders were tight and her chin was lifted.

It’s the same look I’ve seen on her a hundred times with me.

We made progress the other night, but only because I pushed her. I have to keep doing it. Because what she told me about Malcolm’s conversation with her—I mutter another curse into the steamy shower air. If he’s sniffing around, our ruse needs to be ironclad.

If only I weren’t losing it over my wife.

The cursing, the anger, the need . None of this is me.

It’s all a direct result of wanting her.

This morning, during sparring, I couldn’t stop stealing glances at her, and half the time she was looking back at me.

It feels like high school again, wondering if she’s noticing me, that ever-present awareness of her simmering under my skin.

Tristan kept shooting me weird looks, and I can’t blame him.

I feel like I’m coming out of my skin every time we’re in the same room together.

I blindly fumble for the bodywash again, then slick it over my skin. Amber and flowers. Not my bodywash. Hers. The one I never touch because the scent makes me hard. Without fail. It smells like the crease of her shoulder when she trembled under my mouth.

I’m already thickening under the spray.

I shouldn’t. But as I turn the shower pressure higher and glance at the door to make sure it’s closed, I already know I’m going to.

How many times have I done this and thought about her?

A hundred?

A thousand?

I’m an idiot. Why couldn’t I want someone else? Wanting literally anyone else would be better than wanting her.

I swore I wouldn’t do this anymore.

I’ve sworn her off so many times. I’m tired. So fucking tired.

I lean heavily against the wall. Maybe this is a good thing. I’m fully hard, and I give myself a lazy stroke, sparks already zipping up my spine. Yeah, this is a good thing. I’ll do this and maybe I’ll get her out of my head.

No messing around with her, right? Jerking off is a pressure release valve, nothing more. It’s healthy.

I let my lids drift shut and I imagine sliding my hand over her bare back like I did at the event last weekend.

I imagine pressing her up against me, letting her feel how hard I am for her, watching desire make those pretty blue eyes go hazy.

I imagine I’m the one dancing with her and the crush of bodies pushes her closer to me, until I’m pulsing against her with every sway of our bodies and her breaths are panting like they did in the garden.

God, her skin felt good. Silky soft, with pieces to grab.

I fucking love those pieces. The way her waist becomes her hip, but not without a dangerous dip inward.

I shudder and press my fingers to the tile.

If I had her, I’d fucking worship her . She’d be so wet when I finally let her have all of me. Images come in flashes as I stroke.

Pulling down my briefs while she’s on my lap. Pushing into her bare. Watching her face as she bites her lip and takes every inch.

Fuck, I’m close. I tighten my grip and will myself to last a little longer. If this is the last time I do this, I want to make it good.

I tug, groaning, and then bite my hand. It’s a wonder she hasn’t seen the teeth marks from all the times I’ve done this.

It’s her, always her, always fucking her, with those big eyes and that pretty mouth and those freckles I wish she wouldn’t hide under makeup.

And those tits. God. My breath shudders out.

Her tits are fantastic. High and small and the perfect size to suck into my mouth.

I bet she has perfect nipples too. I bet she’d like it if I bit them. I bet she’d beg.

I’d fucking beg.

If I had her under me, I’d do whatever she wanted so I could keep her there.

Pleasure streaks through me.

The crease of her thigh where I grabbed her in the garden. The softness of her skin. The way she soaked my hand when all I’d done was kiss her. I take more bodywash and press my head to the tile.

I’m so fucking close. I could come so fast like this.

She’s perfect. She’s the fantasy I’ve had since I was eighteen. I screw my eyes shut and imagine her leaning over me, giving me that smirky little smile she thinks I hate. She’s wearing that lipstick from the other night, and I smear it with my thumb as her smile grows.

God, that’s good.

Fuck, I’m so turned on.

I imagine smearing that lipstick on my dick and refusing to let her have a taste.

She doesn’t need to go down on me. I don’t care.

I just want her any way I can have her. I wouldn’t even need her to touch me.

I’m so close. Lust fogs my brain and I sink into the pleasurable haze.

Just once. I want her just once. I barely got a taste.

Why did I agree not to touch her? I could make it so good for us. If only I could—

I push into my hand. I’ll be done in two seconds like this. I squeeze, feeling like I’m going to combust. Her name on my lips, her body in my head—

“Aiden, are you in there? I need to—oh.”

I freeze, hand on my dick, and stare directly into the shocked gaze of my wife.