Page 106 of The Homemaker

He kisses me, gripping the back of my legs and lifting me onto the vanity. It’s a punishing kiss just like his hands sliding to my ass, squeezing tightly, pressing my bare core firmly against the bulge in his jeans.

God, I want him so badly I could cry.

He kisses my jaw, and I drop the bottle of pills then grip the edge of the vanity, shamelessly rocking my pelvis to grind against him.

“I hate her so much,” I say with a tight voice between labored breaths.

His mouth curls into a grin as he nips at my neck, keeping a bruising grip on my ass. “You don’t.” He thrusts his hips into me. “But I fucking love how hard you’re trying to.”

He’s right. I don’t hate Blair, but I want to because then I don’t have to hate myself so much. I’m afraid it’s too late to save my soul or his.

A nauseous feeling kills the butterflies in my tummy and extinguishes the burning need in my veins when I think about Blair wanting make-up sex later, or Murphy needing to get off after our two close encounters today.

I shove him away, hop off the vanity, and retrieve the pills from the floor. Then I peer up at him as if everything is his fault even though it’s probably mine. “If I make breakfast in the morning and hear Mr. Morrison say one word about how loud you and Blair were, I’m going to piss in your coffee.”

He lifts one eyebrow.

“Understood?” I double down.

Murphy slowly brings his pointer and middle finger to his temple in a tiny salute.

I roll my lips together to keep from grinning at his gesture.

But seriously, please don’t have sex with her!

That plea stays in my head because it’s an unfair and unrealistic request, which is quite fitting for the fantasy world I like to live in with Murphy. My brain has reverted to childish behavior with its fingers shoved in its ears while chanting, “lalalalala.”

Chapter Forty

Murphy

Choices suck. Avoid them at all costs.

When we were young,my parents would take me and my sister to Dairy Queen every Saturday during the summer. My sister was boring as hell, always getting a vanilla crunch cone. But I stewed over my decision. Banana split or peanut buster parfait? Mom would roll her eyes and tell me to hurry up because people were waiting in line behind us. Dad would invariably jump in and order one so I could order the other and we’d share. He’d say, “Life is short, buddy. Why choose?”

He lied.

Life isn’tthatshort. And since then, I’ve discovered the hard way why choices must be made.

I just never imagined I’d stew over love. Actually, I’m notsure stewing is the right word. I’ve backed myself into a corner, and I will not get out of it unscathed.

“Still in the doghouse?” Hunter asks as we practice on his putting green next to the pickleball court.

“Yep.” I tap the ball into the hole.

“You should buy her something. Nothing cliché like flowers or jewelry. It has to be something that feels well-thought-out, like a Chihuahua or a new car.”

I chuckle, scratching the back of my head as he makes a long putt from the edge of the green. “I’ll uh … keep that in mind. Thanks.”

“Everything you said to her was probably true. But you need a little more tact.”

“Like you?”

He smirks, tossing another ball onto the green. “When you’ve been married as long as I have, you can get away with more.”

“Like hiring a homemaker?”

“Alice is a dream. I hope this guy she’s dating doesn’t try to marry her anytime soon.”