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He knew from living with her before that she liked to keep things neat and tidy too. She wasn’t borderline OCD about it like Greyson, but she wasn’t a messy person. Which likely meant that living here, with the house in its current state, couldn’t be too pleasant for her. And all he wanted to do was make it a little less unpleasant. For both Olivia and Clara. He reached for his phone, placed within easy reach on the small table in front of the couch. He wasn’t sure what purpose it was meant to serve, footrest or coffee table. It seemed like a random thing to just plonk in the middle of the living room.
He checked the time on his phone—just after seven in the morning—and went through his messages. There was one from Harris.
Where are you? Nothing more than that, but the three words conveyed a level of concern that Greyson wasn’t sure he deserved. He felt like an ass for not telling his brother he wouldn’t be back last night. It would have been the considerate thing to do.
At Olivia’s place. I didn’t mean to worry you.
Not worried. His brother’s response was brisk and to the point, and Greyson felt curiously let down by it. Until his brother’s next message: Okay maybe a little worried. I was concerned you’d skipped out on me without paying your half of the rent.
Greyson’s lips tilted at the lame little joke. It was better than nothing.
I’m good for it.
What do you mean you’re at Libby’s? Why are you there? Are you saying you slept there?
I slept on the sofa. I think it did my back in.
Good. This time the unsympathetic reply startled a quick laugh out of Greyson. Anyway. Got to go. I have a coffee date.
Greyson didn’t bother to reply to that and put his phone back on the coffee table–footrest–hybrid thing. The other room was silent. He was thankful for that because Clara had cried three times last night, startling him out of a sound sleep every time. It must have been exhausting for Olivia. He didn’t know how she did it. She had not once lost her patience. Her sweet voice had remained soft and crooning each time, and Greyson had been filled with so much admiration for his lovely wife. She was an amazing mother. Kind, attentive, and loving. He had found himself wanting to relieve some of her burden. If things had been normal, maybe he would have rocked Clara to sleep or changed her nappy. Anything other than uselessly lying in the other room and listening to her cry.
He sat up and bit back a groan at the various aches and twinges that seemed to awaken with the movement of his body. Screw this crappy couch—it was a goddamned torture device.
He contemplated the closed door of Libby’s room again. She’d probably be up in an hour or so to get ready for work. Since she hadn’t explicitly stated that she wanted him gone before she woke up today, he was going to overlook the possibility that it might have been an unspoken expectation. He needed a shower to ease some of the aches from his body, and he wasn’t going all the way back to Harris’s place for that.
He quietly padded to the bathroom and contemplated the tub shower for a second. It was going to be cramped. The showerhead wasn’t tall enough to slot Greyson beneath it, but he’d have to make do. He wondered if there were any special tricks to the shower, like with the toilet and kitchen tap, but then shrugged and figured he’d soon find out.
He was wearing only the boxers he had slept in and quickly shoved them down and off. He checked the water, and thankfully it was hot and the water pressure perfect. He used her soap, and the familiar fragrance of vanilla and honeysuckle wafted in the steam and surrounded him. It smelled like Olivia, and it made him hard.
He groaned at the erection, his first in months. He hadn’t been aroused in so long. It was like his sex drive had died the day she’d walked out on him. Before that, during her pregnancy, even while he’d thought she’d cheated on him, he had seen her increasingly lush body and had wanted her. Every time he’d found himself in her presence, his cock had swelled and strained, forcing Greyson to will it away with the reminder that she’d betrayed him with someone else. Probably with Harris.
It had been as effective as a cold shower . . . but now, surrounded by what felt like her essence, nothing could deter this erection, and he fisted himself, pumping up and down for a few strokes before groaning again and swearing. He forced himself to let go. He wasn’t going to jack off in his wife’s shower like some creepy pervert.
