Page 150 of Too Far

I didn’t think it would be this difficult to spend the day alone with her.

My wife.

Nothing is wrong, per se. But when her phone pings with a text from one of the guys, or when I catch her looking out at the ocean, lost in thought and wearing an expression that’s far too peaceful to be associated with me, it scratches at the already raw wounds on my heart.

I’ve never employed more restraint than I did last night when I heard them.

The four of them.

Together.

On our wedding night.

Though it took all my self-control, I wouldn’t allow myself to be baited. To go where I’m not welcome. To intrude on the genuine intimacy they share.

It felt like a mockery of our marriage to listen to her scream for them as I sat upstairs, alone with my bourbon. But I stayed the course and refused to engage.

I’ve gotten it wrong with Josephine so many times. It took a ridiculous number of failures to get here, but now, I’m irrevocably determined to get this right.

My words are useless. The way I wielded them in the past ensured that. All I have left are my actions—the consideration I give, the care I provide, and now, the privacy I can erect as she sunbathes on a blanket in her unbuttoned flannel shirt and shorts.

“What did that umbrella do to you?” she teases, her hand raised to her forehead to shield the sun from her eyes.

I take her in and will my dick to stand down.

She’s so fucking pretty.

Toned legs and wide hips, her stomach curvy and soft as she lies flat on her back. Her breasts are perfect mounds, nipples clearly visible through the thin fabric of the crop top.

What I wouldn’t give to slide my tongue—or my cock—along the curves of her breasts.

Swallowing back the desire threatening to take control of me, I inspect our setup, then finally join her on the blanket we spread out for lunch.

“Just wanted to give us some privacy.”

“You built an entire umbrella barricade,” she counters with a grin.

Yeah. I did.

Four umbrellas strategically circle us, none positioned in a way that block out the sun, but all of them creating enough coverage that we have the illusion of isolation.

“We’ve only seen a dozen other people here today,” she reminds me, poking a finger into the side of my stomach.

I lurch back and bat at her hand.

She gasps. “Are you ticklish?”

Her eyes dance with mischief, and she’s scrambling to sit up before I can reply.

She comes at me, arms outstretched, and when she makes contact with my T-shirt, I hiss in response to the featherlight touches. When she digs in and tries to tickle me in earnest, I snatch her wrists.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Siren.”

She tugs against my hold halfheartedly. We both know it’s useless. I’ve got her trapped.

“Believe me, Cap. I never have a problem finishing,” she goads, hovering in my personal space until I release my hold on her.

This woman.