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Then, and only then, had she looked up at me, and asked, “What is it? I’m in the middle of a book.”
She couldn’t cook for shit, and we’d started ordering in as a result, but she was very good at making cocktails—something her father had wanted her to learn. Although, they weren’t froufrou cocktails, which made sense, I guess. That he’d had her mixing drinks for his colleagues made me wonder if she’d overheard anything about those business deals, and wondering if her vow of loyalty to me, promised in blood, would extend to her telling me about anything she might have heard.
I got the feeling that, if I treated her well, she’d mold herself around me, morphing into exactly what I needed, and while the idea appealed, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. Or needed.
Until now, I’d wanted to be single, and there wasn’t much she could do to help me on that score, was there?
I wanted sex on the regular, and not sex that a virgin would be okay with either. Her face was finally almost healed up, but I’d made a vow to myself, no bloodshed required, that until the last fucking bruise had disappeared from her pretty face, I wouldn’t even kiss her.
That vow was wearing on me.
Hard.
Especially when she came to bed wearing sleep shorts and camisoles that weren’t enticing at all, yet somehow were sexier for it.
This current getup was teasing my morning wood something fierce—blue and white striped shorts that reminded me of men’s boxers, and a bright white cami that had a little lace at the deep V between her tits.
The notion that I wanted her to sleep in my boxers was an irritating one.
How did you ask your wife to do that?
To wear your shit?
And considering I hated sharing anything, did I even want to get into that?
Even if the prospect of seeing her in my stuff did things to my cock that a woman wearing thigh highs and leather stilettos didn’t manage.
With a grunt, I rolled my head away from the sight of her and stared back up at the ceiling. Even though she didn’t require much management, was neat enough to appease even me, she was still there.
Sharing my space.
Breathing the same air as me.
And it was weird.
Because I didn’t mind it.
Eying the slice on my palm again, the irritating desire to slip our hands together, to unite the slits once more, flittered through me.
I wanted the scar to be a nasty one.
I wanted to see it every fucking day, wanted her to see it too, and be reminded of the weird ass night of our wedding, when two strangers had taken several steps toward knowing one another.
Wondering when I’d turned into a pansy, I rolled off the bed and slouched out into the hall.
Not for the first time, I stared at the sofa, irritated by what Inessa must think every time she sat on it, and came to a decision.
The place needed overhauling.
New bed, new sofa…in fact, I needed to make a list of every place I’d fucked someone.
At the moment, I intended to give her all my loyalty. Until that changed, I decided that this was a prudent step.
I didn’t really give a shit about that whole ‘happy wife, happy life’ crap, but—and it was a massive but—I figured making her happy would take us down a path I actually wanted to take.
The prospect of being tied to a woman who wouldn’t flinch when I returned home with a bullet wound, of bringing an enemy back without her being goggle-eyed at the sight, was infinitely appealing.
A woman who knew the score, a woman who’d been raised in the life and who got it without wanting to pass out or puke every time shit got real.
