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We reach Whiskey Tavern and go inside; the bitter scent of alcohol and dozens of perfume fragrances reach me at once. It’s dark, the music is loud, the conversations louder. The place is packed with locals, some in work clothes, others dressed for a night out, even though it’s Tuesday. Painfully aware that North is hot on our heels, I keep my attention forward and allow Tanya to guide me through the packed establishment, wedging us into a small opening at the end of the bar. She yells her drink order to the bartender, then turns to me questioningly.
“Seltzer with a splash of cranberry, please,” I call over the din.
Thankfully, Tanya doesn’t comment on my non-alcoholic beverage choice. But she does immediately recognize several people at the bar she knows from the neighborhood. I’m glad, actually, when she turns to reminisce about the old days with them, because I’m the furthest thing from good company right now. And I’m even less capable of carrying on a conversation when I feel North nearby. Watching me from the opposite end of the bar. Several men have commandeered him, to talk about fighting, I’m sure.
But the entire time he talks, his eyes are glued to me.
On my nipples, which have turned to tight peaks.
I sip my drink and try to reason with my hormones, but they’re in a state of panic without North to cater to their every whim. My panties are damp, thanks to my husband’s unwavering regard, and there is something about the bar environment that makes me feel sexy and anonymous. Though his hands are the only ones I want on my sensitive skin. No one else’s. Not ever. And while there might be a few interested male glances being thrown my way, no one in this neighborhood has a death wish. They know who I belong to.
A moment later, that truth becomes even more obvious when North excuses himself from the group of men and cuts through the crowd in my direction, the flex in his jaw signaling his determination. To do…what, though?
North
Every minute of this is murdering me.
Killing me slowly, torturously.
I need my wife. I need her so bad.
My heart is stricken and useless. At least it has been for the last four days. It’s awake right now, wailing inside of my chest, ricocheting between my stomach and jugular. I’m lovesick. Bereft. There is no reason to travel from one minute to the next unless I have her to live for. So I can’t stay away. She needs space and I physically cannot give it to her, my desire to be close to her is so demanding. Impossible to reason with. And now?
Well. Now I quite simply have to fuck her raw.
Every man in this place wants what’s mine. They watch her pass like hungry wolves, sensing trouble in paradise. Wondering if they’ll finally get to shoot their shot with my Gracie. Never. Never. I almost roar the word into the crowded space as I make my way toward her, watching her awareness grow with every step I take in her direction.
When we were eighteen, right before the first time we had sex, we agreed on something. I decide when and where we make love. I needed to have her trust, her permission, but I’ve seldom needed to call on that rule, since we’re always so mutually eager to be intimate.
I’m calling on it now.
Making demands on her body might be a mistake right now, but I’m too fucked up and heartsick to acknowledge the risk. My body just requires hers. I require my wife to keep breathing—that’s just a fact. North and Grace. Grace and North.
One can’t function without the other.
I’ll remind her of that. I’ll appease this demanding hunger of my body, even if she won’t let me appease the agony in my heart.
I reach Grace through the mass of people and look down into her beautiful face, those tortured blue eyes, and I swallow roughly. Jesus. Four days away and it’s like seeing her for the first time all over again. Her presence is like a freight train plowing into my chest. Christ, she’s so fucking gorgeous. How is this my wife? I ache to say those words out loud, but she’s closed off to me, her mouth in a stubborn line, chin set. She’s come here tonight with the express intention of making me miserable—and it’s working. So instead of telling her I’m sorry, that I love her and she’s beautiful, my words are edged with irritation.
Frustration. Pent-up lust. Jealousy. Possessiveness.
“Answer a question for me, Gracie. Why the hell would you come out in this tight little skirt, huh?” I say the sharp words beside her ear, so she’ll hear me above the noise, my fingertips dragging down the side of the thin garment in question, fisting it roughly at the hem. “When girls dress like this, they want to meet someone. But you’ve already met me, baby. I put a ring on that finger and a child in your belly. As I see it, that means you should be at home. Or at the very least wearing something that advertises a little less of those thighs. We both know they’re never going to open for anyone but me.”
