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Kendall scoffed. “Fingers? Krista, I had my damn thumb there. Not fingers.”
Well, it felt like fingers to her; big thick fingers stretching the inner ring of her ass. But before she could speak, Kendall was firing more words at her.
“So what is the real issue here, Krista? Me giving you head or pressing a thumb in your ass?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Both.”
Kendall stared at his wife, long and hard. “My bad for sticking my thumb in the beautiful ass that I love watching so much. And my bad for loving the way you taste, for loving my tongue inside of you; I got carried away. It won’t happen again,” Kendall said, tossing the covers off his body and swinging his toned legs over the edge of the bed. “But mighty funny that didn’t stop you,” he said over his shoulder at her as he stood, “from arching your back and getting wetter. And it didn’t stop you from coming all over my dick with my thumb in your ass.”
Krista frowned. “That doesn’t mean I wanted your damn fingers—no, excuse me, your thumb—there. I’m not with all that nasty, freaky shit.”
Freaky shit?
What the hell was so freaky about thumbing his wife’s ass?
Krista waited; obviously expecting him to say something, perhaps offer her an apology. Kendall didn’t respond. Hell, he couldn’t. He had to be seriously missing something. But he didn’t have the strength to question her for clarity, for understanding.
He’d heard enough. So there was nothing left for him to do except stare at Krista like he was finally seeing her for the first time, and he found himself wondering how the hell he’d be able to survive in this marriage the way things were between them, sexually, for another five, ten—hell, fifteen—years.
He couldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
And with that conclusion, came a rise of anger he hadn’t known lived inside him. He needed to get out, to get away from her, before he said something he’d regret later.
He loved Krista. God, he loved her. But he was slowly beginning to think, to feel, that that—love—might not be enough.
Krista stared at his bare back and eyed him as he moved toward the dresser and yanked out a pair of red and white swim trunks and then slipped them on, his bare ass and sticky dick suddenly disappearing.
“Where are you going?” she asked, stunned by the tension hovering in the air between them.
“For a swim?” His tone was sharp, and to the point. He grabbed a white wife beater and pulled it on over his head. “I need to clear my head.”
She blinked. “Now? Aren’t you going to shower, first?”
Kendall turned to face her. He clenched his jaw and looked his wife square in the eyes. He knew if he said something it wouldn’t be anything nice. And yet he didn’t want to walk out on her angry, either.
So
he simply walked over, leaned forward, and since she didn’t want his pussy-scented lips anywhere near hers, he planted a quick kiss on her forehead.
And then he walked out.
Krista stared at the bedroom door. Then with a sigh, she pressed her back against the headboard, the sheet wrapped tight around her. She stole a glance over at the now empty space where Kendall had been, the imprint of his body still freshly dented in the sheet.
What the hell?
Why was he so mad at her? It was her body. And her right to say what she liked and didn’t like. This wasn’t anything new. So why was that man acting like he was all of a sudden put off by it?
Krista didn’t realize that she had been tensed up until she heard the outer door slam shut and Kendall was gone. She breathed in and out and told herself that Kendall was overreacting, being a damn drama king—as usual, because he couldn’t have his damn way.
Still, she shoved her hands through her weave, trying to make sense of it all. And when she couldn’t come up with anything that made sense, she looked over at the window and pushed out a deep sigh.
The sun had finally risen and replaced the illuminated moon from the night before with the promise of bright skies and lots of sunshine, but, so far, Krista’s first day on Passion Island was starting off on the wrong damn foot.
Nine
The cuisine on the beautiful coral island was a hodgepodge of Tahitian and Fijian and French influences. And LaQuandra was sadly disappointed to see that there wasn’t a pancake or waffle in sight. She’d had her mind set on a buttery flapjack with a side of scrambled eggs—cooked hard, hash browns or home fries and some turkey bacon.
