Page 170 of Perfect Satisfaction

Contrary to something my wife once said about closet space, in truth, size matters only when it comes to a person’s heart.

I’m damn lucky my wife has an enormous one.

For the record, I promise that no matter where we live, I’ll build her a huge closet.

—StellaNova

Much later that night,after I’ve stripped off her ballgown, shoes, and the excuse for panties she had on underneath, Sula flings back the covers. I lace my fingers behind my head and watch her gloriously naked body as she picks her way over our clothes and makes her way into her office. Curious, I call, “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.” Her back is to me, so I admire the way her legs shift her heart-shaped ass. She makes her way back over to the side of the bed and lays a little jewel-encrusted frame in my hands. “Go ahead. Open it.”

I do, and that’s when I realize there’s nothing left to hide. No walls stand between us.

On one side of the frame is our wedding photo. On the other is a more recent snapshot of her, Brendan, and Joshua Basset—the three of them sharing a moment around an enormous Christmas tree.

I study the color photo of the three siblings intently and pick out the similarities. “You share the shape of each other’s eyes.”

“He and Brendan share a jawline.”

“But you and Brendan have the same smile.”

Musing, she points out, “Despite what you said, I think JB and I share the same cheeks.”

“Tell me about this?” I lift the little case.

“It was a way for me to carry all the men I love around with me in secret,” she admits quietly.

I study the frame—at the protective way JB has his arm hooked around Sula’s shoulders and ask, “Was it like Brendan? Did he tell you it was all right for me to know?”

“Not yet.”

My lips part. “You broke your vow.”

“He apparently broke his to Liza first.” Sula sniffs before telling me what happened at the ball, but there’s no bitterness in the way she talks about Liza. She’s simply pissed that her brother is a hypocrite. “I refuse to let my happiness reside on the decisions of men. It’s my risk as much as it’s his.”

Setting the frame on the end table, I pull Sula over my body and murmur, “You’re exceptional at calculating risk.”

Arms already twining about me, she purrs, “I’m so glad you noticed.”

Hours later, she stirs from the bed again.

I groan. “Why can’t you stay put, woman?”

“One last thing.” This time her stop is her jewelry chest. She fiddles for a few moments and comes back to my side of the bed.

I should have been paying attention to what her arms and fingers were doing instead of admiring the smoothness of her back, the shape of her legs. Now I can’t find air. The red ruby that was in her nose has disappeared. In its place is the tiny diamond made from her mother’s ring. It’s the diamond she used as a wedding band the day we got married in Vegas.

I curl up and bury my head in my hands, undone. “Sula.”

She pushes me back and straddles my legs. My shoulders still heaving with the force of my sobs. “I thought it would make you happy.”

I fall back and pull her body on top of mine. “You’re what makes me happy.”

For the rest of the night, we communicate with our bodies. Saying no more than a breathless “I love you.”

Sometimes, words aren’t what’s needed.

CHAPTEREIGHTY-FIVE