Busy days are the best days. They keep my mind on a schedule, and my body busy with anything other than Wyatt-filled thoughts. Brinley won’t be home until dinner, since Ana wanted to take her on a shopping spree. I had to remind the older woman that she doesnotneed any more stuffed animals. Wyatt’s house will be covered in them if she brings home another. I’m currently wearing my best bootcut jeans, a nice dark wash color to go with the black top I threw on. Since it’s freezing today, I opted for a fur lined leather jacket to throw over it, and left my long, wavy hair unbound.
I find Wyatt near the back of the house, head dipped beneath the hood of his black truck. He’s wearing a white shirt, jeans, and his typical work boots. His hands are covered in grease from whatever he’s working on beneath the hood. There’s absolutely zero reason why this look is so fucking hot. I suddenly wonder what my skin would look like covered in grease. If the black smeared on his large hands would smudge on my hips and face. If–
No.No.
“We need to talk.” I bite out before I get any more ideas about Wyatt and his dumb hands.
“Do we?” His tone is bored, and he barely glances my way as he twists something into place.
“About what happened at the wedding?” I state. That pulls him from the truck. He whips out a rag from the back of his pocket and wipes his hands on it. It takes all my willpower not to track the movement.
“The wedding?” He looks towards the sky, moving his head back and forth like he’s in deep thought. “Oh, right. The wedding.” He nods in confirmation. “You mean the night you got so jealous I had to make you come all over my hand?”
“That’s the one,” I spit through gritted teeth. If Wyatt Conway is one thing, it’s a cocky fucking asshole. “It can’t happen again,” I say, matter of fact.
He hums, throwing the rag down and prowling towards me. He stops when he’s maybe an arms-length away, tilting his head as he looks down at me. “Why’s that?”
“Because this isn’t real.” I snap, tilting my chin up. His eyes flare. But he turns his back to me before I can read into whatever the hell it’s supposed to mean.
“Fine.” He says the word like I just asked him if a sandwich from the diner for lunch sounded good, not like we’re talking about an intimate moment we sharedjustlast night. “Fine?” I can’t stop the rage creeping up my spine. “That’s all you have to say?”
I freeze when he takes a large step forward, and his hand comes up to swipe at the corner of my lip. Right where my beauty mark sits. I can feel the grease from his thumb smear across my skin, leaving behind what's sure to be a black fingerprint. “What else is there to say? I won’t touch you.” He leans in, lips brushing the spot between my jaw and ear. “Not until you ask me too, anyways. And youwillask me to. I’ll be waiting here when you do.”
Cocky. Fucking. Bastard.
He pulls away, picking something up from beneath the hood and disappearing. But I can’t let him have the last word. It’s not in my nature. So, I stroll towards him, drop a hand on the side of the inner panel near him, and lean in to whisper, “If I feel the need, I’ll look elsewhere.”
I turn, content that I’ve hit my mark—but there’s a clatter. Like he’s dropped something. And then there’s a sharp yank on my ponytail, and I find myself flat against Wyatt’s chest. I barely have time to gasp before my backside presses into his front, and every toned, lethal muscle of his digs into my skin. He wraps my hair around his fist. Once, twice. And tugs it, so that my head is tilted up, pressed against his sternum, and staring directly into his burning blue eyes. My own sting from the sharp grip, but I can’t help the moan that forces its way out of my throat.
“I fuckingdareyou.” Wyatt seethes. “Let another man touch you, Whitney, and I’ll bend you over my knee and spank your pretty little ass raw. You’ll be reminded of me every time you do something as simple as sit down.”
Fuck. He’s mad. Fuck. He’s hot. And fuck, this isnothow this conversation was supposed to go.
“Do you understand?” He growls the question against my ear, and I refrain from shuddering in pleasure.
“Yes, sir,” I mumble the nickname sarcastically. But we both know it’s idle. We both know that if he were to unbutton my jeans, tug aside my thong, and run a finger along that spot between my thighs, he’d find out just how willing I am for him.
I am so thoroughly fucked.
He lets me go with a slight shove, that kind and gentle hearted man I’ve gotten so used to seeing gone in an instant. This is Wyatt, the onewho’s fed up with my bullshit and strung so tight that one word from my lips may very well send him over the edge.
I don’t look his way as I leave, too worried I’ll open my mouth again and ask him to do everything he just promised. Moving in with him was stupid.
But marrying him just might send me to an early grave.
How I’m supposedto put on a welcoming face after dancing with the devil himself, I have no idea.
But I need to meet with Vivienne’s lawyer friend, and I promised Blake I’d come to this mom group. That’s exactly why I step inside the old cottage style building Blake used to call home. The “Clover-Hills Therapeutic Center” sign swings above my head as I enter, my eyes marveling at how much this place has changed over the course of two years.
It’s more open now. Walls have been taken down, and an addition added to accommodate for a larger crowd. It’s just as cozy as it was before, with the living room doubling as a check in and lounge spot. The simple fireplace is roaring with life, lighting the space up in hues of orange and red. The coffee table is scattered with magazines and used books. The kitchen is left mostly untouched, but now, a full family-style dining table replaces the previous kitchen island. Where Blake’s old room used to be, is an open area, with mirrors lining the back wall for yoga sessions. I’ve seen a flyer for it, and I’ve considered coming to check it out. For today, chairs are placed in a circle, a table full of food and snacks to the left, and a few women are milling about throughout.
“Hi! You’re Whitney, right?” I turn as an unfamiliar voice greets me. “I’m Amaya. Blake has told me so much about you.”
Amaya shoves her hand out, and I take it, allowing a small smile to grace my lips. “Nice to meet you.”
She’s beautiful, and her entire personality is so inviting. Maybe it’s her bright smile, or the way she speaks. Her skin is the color of warm cinnamon and sunlit bronze. Tight corkscrew curls frame her round face. She has tattoos, and lots of them. I can’t help but admire the work, especially the large Medusa that spans across her abdomen, poking out from beneath her cropped black shirt.
“Are you with the other moms?” I add, nervously glancing around. Maybe this was a bad idea. I’m really not the best when it comes to social situations like this.
