Page 51 of Reckless Hands


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The bungalow which is situated on stilts over the water is out of this world. It’s perfect. I come from a life of luxury, but my luxury was stuck in my home. I didn’t travel much when I was younger, even now I don’t really go anywhere. And, yes, I like flashy things. I’m used to them, but I can live without expensive baubles. The clothes I wear usually come from the thrift shop. The only designer thing I own is something my father gave to me when I was thirteen. He said it was my mother’s, and now, it’s all I have left of either of them.

A king-size bed dominates the inside of the bungalow. It looks soft as a cloud. A two-seater couch sits in front of a wall of windows that opens out onto our deck, which juts out over the ocean. This is where Joey is currently sitting, with his feet hanging over the edge, a bottle of whatever his preferred poison is today sitting next to him, and probably a sour expression on his face. He hasn’t spoken to me since we arrived.

I get changed into a bikini, leaving my things all over the bed. I didn’t know what to pack, so I brought a few pieces of everything. When I walk out onto the deck, I stand directly next to Joey, but he doesn’t glance my way or even care that I’m standing there. He simply lifts his bottle to his lips and takes a long drink.

Fuck him.

I dive straight into the ocean, the water warm on my skin. And for a fraction of a second, I think about not coming up for air. I haven’t made this easy on him, but he hasn’t made this easy on me either.

How am I meant to open up to someone—to even grow to love him—when I want someone else at the same time? Sometimes the heart is a fickle bitch, and you just have to go with your head.

I surface, gasping for air, and then swim to the edge where his feet are dangling in the water. I stop just shy of touching him and glance up, but he’s already looking down at me, those icy blue eyes locked on me like he’s trying to work something out.

“Come for a swim.”

He shakes his head once, stands, then goes inside.

This can’t be how our vacation will be the whole time, can it? With him walking away every time I get close. Ignoring me every chance he gets.

Getting out of the water, I head inside to the bathroom, where I find him undressing, the shower already running. He glances up to see me behind him through the mirror. He’s gloriously naked. I’m not complaining, he’s incredibly nice to look at.

“Is this your plan?” I reach for the bottle of alcohol he brought in with him, lift it to my lips, and take a swig. “This needs to work between us, Joey, so stop fucking walking away from me and be a man.”

He grinds his teeth at the words be a man. They agitate him. Good! At least I know he has other feelings besides constant disapproval.

“You are my wife, correct?” he snips at me.

I nod and look down at the simple band on my finger. It’s nothing flashy, but it does its job of letting others know I’m his.

“I am,” I confirm, then peer back up at him with confusion written all over my face.

“So a good wife pleases her husband, wouldn’t you agree?” His gaze doesn’t drop as he stares at me, but mine does because I see a small movement, and I notice his cock is getting hard.

“Please?” I ask, hiding my irritation and playing along. “In what way would you like to be pleased, Joey?”

“Well, you see, I’m a bit old-fashioned. And my cock here…” he motions to his cock, which is very hard now, “… hasn’t had anyone’s lips or cunt wrapped around it since the day I walked into your bookstore and saw you fucking someone else. And I would say that’s a bit unfair to me, wouldn’t you? Considering you’ve had others?”

“That’s funny since you agreed to side pieces, and now you want traditional.”

“I’m allowed to change my mind,” is all he replies.

“Are you asking for sex, Joey?” Is it really so hard for him to just come out and say it? “If you want to fuck me, use your fucking words.”

He cracks his neck from side to side, then turns around and steps into the shower. His hands run through his curly hair, down his chest, then stop suddenly. When his eyes spring open again, they lock on me.

“This is our honeymoon, is it not? People fuck on their honeymoons.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to fuck me. You know… considering I’m not your type.”

“Fuck off, darling.” His tone is filled with venom but has an underlying sarcastic tone as well.

Would I be considered a good wife if I walked out of here, went to that fruit platter that’s sitting on the desk and grabbed the knife, then came back in here and just cut him? Then watched the blood fall to the floor as it mixes with the water on its way down the drain? Because the way this is going, that’s exactly what I want to do right now—cut him open and watch him bleed.

Instead, I put my big girl panties on—or so the saying goes—and I start to remove my bikini. He doesn’t notice because his eyes are closed, and his head is leaning against the wall as the hot water streams down his face. When I’m naked, I step in under the water, my front to his back, and he stiffens as he feels me behind him, but he doesn’t move away.

Maybe he should, considering my thoughts about him only a moment ago.

I take two heavy breaths in and out, and on the third, I lift my hands and touch his naked waist. His breathing picks up, but he remains still. Inching my hand around just a little bit farther, I explore his perfect body. I move upward, my fingers roaming along his washboard abs to his chest until I get to his neck. I give it a little squeeze and push my body fully against his so he can feel every inch of me from behind.

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