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I surge up and flip us both over, making her squeak, and Emery lands flat on her back with me poised above her, my knees penning her legs. I strap her hands to the pillow with my palms and lower my head, meaning to kiss her senseless, but I pause a hair's breadth from her lips.
"Again?" she asks. "I'm up for anything, you know that. On our first night together, I loved the way you woke me up in the middle of the night to make love to me one more time."
Everything inside me goes cold, as if someone has doused me with ice water. Make love. Why did she have to say that? A few minutes ago, I'd thought those same words, but lust had driven out any comprehension of what it meant.
It means nothing. It's a phrase people say, not a declaration of…anything.
"What's wrong?" she asks.
I leap up to kneel over her, step off the bed, and walk out of the room.
The door clicks shut behind me.
And I stumble down the hall into my bedroom, sagging against it as the latch snaps closed behind me. I do not love my wife. Thinking the phrase "making love" doesn't mean I have deeper feelings for Emery. She shouldn't want that, and if she does, she'll come to regret it.
But as I spend another restless night alone, those two words echo in my mind.
