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“Noura,” a warm, poisonous voice poured over the voice.

We’d only interacted once, but I knew instantly who it was. I didn’t say her name. I couldn’t bear to. My eyes were on my husband, who was sending me a questioning look as I said, “Why are you calling me?”

Her delighted laugh was mocking. “A few reasons. But mostly, I didn’t want you to forget about me. Your husband hasn’t. He never stays away from me for long. And don’t take it too personal that he’ll never grow fond of you. His heart’s just not in it. It’s always been occupied elsewhere.”

“He’s fond enough,” I said stiffly. Every word she said was a dagger to the heart. It was little consolation that that was so obviously her intention.

“Don’t let him fool you. He can fuck like a prize stallion, but he’ll always hate you for the simple reason that his father picked you out.”

I was studying my husband’s curious face as she spoke, but I was still listening critically, and I caught the fault lines in what she was trying to convey. She believed her own words. She needed to believe them. And they were wrong. I smiled. At last I had the upper hand. I didn’t hold onto it. Impulsively, I played the hand instantly. “Who told you that? Pasco didn’t pick me out.”

She sucked in a breath audibly through the phone, a ragged, desperate sound.

I’d shaken her; I knew it in my bones.

“Liar,” she hissed back.

I just shook my head. Banks had moved closer and clearly caught some of the gravity of what was happening from my end of the conversation. His brows were drawn together, storm clouds in his storm gray eyes.

“Banks chose me,” I said firmly. “His father had nothing to do with that. Don’t believe me? Ask Banks yourself.” I handed him the phone and left to change.

Of course that wasn’t the end of it. I wanted it to be. I wanted to pretend I’d never spoken to Fatima, never heard her words, never knew she existed, but Banks just had to bring it up again.

We were being driven back to the hotel in one the family cars, sitting farther apart than we had since our unspoken truce had begun.

“I’m sorry she bothered you,” Banks said stiffly, not looking at me. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

“Me too,” I said quietly.

He wasn’t finished. “But please don’t provoke her like that. In fact don’t speak to her at all. If she calls, just hang up or hand the phone to me.”

I felt like he’d slapped me in the face but I responded like a pro. “As you wish.”

BANKS

It wasn’t getting better. I’d thought the reason I was becoming obsessed was that the sporadic, addictive bits of contact we had were leaving me too hungry for more. I’d thought if I took a few concentrated weeks to fuck her out of my system, that would nip it in the bud, but it’d had backfired in a big way. My craving for her was getting much, much worse. Not just for her body, either, which was the most worrisome thing of all.

I craved her company as well. Night and day. Waking and asleep, I wanted her next to me, breathing the same air, responding to my every action.

But back to her body. I was insatiable for it. I went to sleep spent and woke up hard again. I told myself that’s why I had to keep her close, but it didn’t explain why I had to hold her while we slept, like I was afraid she’d slip away.

Afraid. That was a funny word, but fear filled me with every bit of emotion she woke up inside me. What did I fear, though? Not her, not anymore. Not her intentions or motivations. The fear came from inside, from the fact that the more good I realized she was, the more I knew I didn’t deserve her. I’d bought her, but I hadn’t earned her.

I was as filthy as she was innocent. The things I’d done in just the first month after our marriage were beyond the pale.

It made the hair rise on the back of my neck just to think about. Had I changed so much since then that I was disgusted by my own behavior now?

In short, yes. Now that I knew her, I regretted everything I’d done to resist her.

And what if she found out? God, the thought was horrifying, because it was altogether feasible. Fatima was just the type of ex to make sure she’d find out at least some of it.

She shifted onto her back in her sleep, but she didn’t stir. It was enough. She was naked, nothing but a sheet covering her. I took it off. The shades were open, the city light filtering in enough that I could make out delicious little details of her sleeping form. She shivered at being uncovered, her pert breasts pebbling up. I stroked her, throat to naval, and she curved into my hand. Even then she didn’t stir. I rubbed between her legs, watching her sleeping face. Her mouth went slack, eyes still closed. She was wet. I pushed a finger inside her, feeling her. Her body responded, but even that didn’t wake her.

I must’ve really worn her out. The thought didn’t bother me. On the contrary, it didn’t even slow me down.

I mounted her, shoving in with one smooth, tight glide. That woke her up. She moaned as her beautiful eyes popped open. I kissed her, pumping in and out.

What had I done? How had I allowed myself to get sucked in this deep?