Page 7 of Keeping What's Mine

CHAPTER FOUR

EVERETT

I’m getting to her. I know I am.

I am, in fact, being a sneaky, manipulative son of a bitch. I strip my shirt off whenever I can, just so she can see. I do nice things for her. I wear the jeans she used to like, the ones that are old and soft and cling to my ass. I show off my strength.

I do these things because I know she still likes looking at me. I can tell from the way she stares at my when she thinks I’m not looking. I can tell from the way her nipples go tight under her shirt, and the way her hips sway when she walks past me.

I square my conscience by claiming it’s all in a good cause.

I want her back. I am keeping what’s mine, dammit.

I’ll do anything to keep her.

Including, I confess, moving to godforsaken California. Which I’m pretty sure I’d hate.

But I made the wrong decision six years ago. I was all caught up in the selfish macho shit about Flora being my wife, and I forgot that her dreams were just as important as mine. And damn, but I’ve paid for it.

I know she’s grieving for her aunt. Miss Zinnia was a wonderful woman, and she loved Flora like crazy.

But I’m Flora’s family, too.

I just have to remind her.

She feels the tension between us, too, and it’s not all animosity. There’s a lot of the old animal magnetism there. I can barely manage not to touch my girl, and at times I think she wants to touch me, too.

But I can be patient.

We’ve gotten through this past week without argument. She’s trying to avoid me, but I keep not letting her. She’s trying to keep our conversation light, but I keep hinting at the old love between us, and doing the things that always used to mean a lot to her.

One thing I haven’t done is tell her how much I admire what she’s done in the tech sector. Women are still less respected in that industry, and yet I know she’s excelled. I’ve kept myself informed on her career.

I mean, damn, if a woman leaves you for her career when you tell her you want her to stay home and have babies instead, that’s a pretty good indication that you’re a shitty husband. I was a shitty husband.

I have no intention of continuing to be that. And I have to tell her how I feel—if I can get her to listen to me.

So I go on restoring Miss Zinnia’s house, yanking out the worn or damaged pieces, smoothing over the holes, putting up new drywall and installing a bathroom upstairs, right next to the room that I sleep in…all the things this old house needs.

I cook breakfast for both of us most days. For lunch, we scrounge sandwiches on our own or eat leftovers, and we don’t often find ourselves doing it at the same time. I cook dinner pretty often, too. I don’t mind; I like to take raw ingredients and make a satisfying meal out of them. It’s a little like construction, except with food.

Flora seems to enjoy my food.

I try not to think about her sleeping in the room next to mine. I have such vivid memories of the things we used to do together, whether it was cuddling in front of the TV or making love in our bed, her warm and pliant body open to me. I keep reminding myself that I haven’t earned her trust back yet.

But it’s hard.

And I mean really hard, right now. Because she’s in the shower, and I remember all the times that we showered together. I remember the silky feel of her skin, slick with soap and her arousal. I remember the taste of her mouth and the feel of her taut nipples against my chest. I remember the noises she makes when she comes. I remember the incredible sensation of being sheathed in her body, buried so deep that when she breathed I could feel it in my own body.

I showed off a little too much out in the yard after dinner, taking off my shirt and trimming the clematis vines that are trying to grow wild. I trained them up on a trellis so they’ll continue to grow in the right direction. Sure, it needed to be done, but it didn’t strictly need to be done shirtless. Or while wearing that pair of jeans that threatens to drop off my hipbones because they’re a little too big.

And Flora noticed. I noticed her noticing. I rushed through my shower, and now I’m in bed, trying not to go fling open the bathroom door and join her under the water.

Flora makes a sound in the shower that reminds me of her orgasm noises, and my cock gets even harder. I try rolling over to lie on it, but that’s even worse because it’s too close to missionary position, and my stupid dick wants to fuck the mattress.

I don’t want to fuck the mattress. I want my Flora.

Patience, I remind myself.

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