I climb out of bed, the delicious soreness between my legs forgotten and make my way to the bathroom. Tucker is right on my heels, his penis looking just as sad and pathetic as he does.
“Heidi, that’s not what I’m saying. This . . . thing . . . it’s not healthy. You’re acting out sexually because you refuse to confront what’s really troubling you. And knowing what I know . . . seeing what he had done to you . . . I can’t perpetuate some violent fantasy that you need to reenact in a quest for control. I can’t do that to you, baby. I love you, don’t you see that? I love you so much, Bunny. I’d rather die than hurt you. Just the thought of inflicting pain on you makes me sick.”
I cross my arms over my bare breasts. “That’s all you think this is. Residual effects from my attack? Is it inflicting pain that makes you sick or the fact that I want it?”
Ignoring my questions, Tucker offers his hand, and musters up a reassuring smile. I ignore both. “Come on, let’s go back to bed. It’s been a long week for both of us. We’re probably just both exhausted and on edge.”
“You’re right. I will. But first, I need you to leave.”
He frowns, dropping his hand. “Leave?”
“Yes. You refuse to fuck me, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to fuck myself. In private.”
Shock slaps him in the face so hard that it turns bright red. I step forward so that he has to step back and don’t stop until his bare feet hit the carpet of the bedroom. Then I slam the door, locking it behind me, before sliding down against it.
I sit on the bathroom floor for forty-five minutes, the sounds of my sobs muffled by the running faucet. By the time I climb into bed, Tucker is already fast asleep, blissfully ignorant to my discontent. Some things never change.
Chapter Fifteen
It’s late when I wake up, but I feel like I haven’t slept in days. My head is weighted with lead, my mouth is lined with wool, and my eyelids have been fused together with Krazy Glue. Still, I know I’m alone without even having to reach out and touch Tucker’s pillow, his body merely a faint, warm memory on the palm of my hand. However, there’s a white notecard, ink-stained with his messy chicken scratch.
Heidi,
Got called in early and didn’t want to wake you.
About last night . . .
I think we should talk.
Dinner tonight?
Just the words last night nearly cause me to break into hives. I can’t forget the look of sheer disgust and horror on Tuck’s face when I asked him to squeeze my throat as I climaxed. He had been so accommodating to what I wanted—thrusting deeper, harder. Touching me in a way that he had never done before. I thought maybe . . . maybe last weekend had changed him. I mean, to let another man sleep with your wife while you watch and pleasure yourself is pretty damn progressive. And it’s not like he just let it happen. He wanted it. Just as much as I did. Maybe even more.
And the things he was saying to Ransom . . . the way he was instructing him . . .
“Taste her . . . Taste how fucking good her pussy is.”
“That’s right. Fuck her hard. Harder.”
“Pull her hair.”
“Slap her ass. Again . . . slap it again. This time make it hurt.”
All things I’ve wanted him to do with me. Things he’s refused me at every single turn.
So over the years, I just stopped asking. I stopped fantasizing. Which led to me resenting every fucking gentle caress and tender kiss. That’s what he needed. That’s the only way he could love me—as if I were a fragile, little paper doll. He was afraid he would rip me in two. And I wanted him to do just that.
Break me. Destroy me. Wreck me.
Love me.
Tucker could’ve loved me through all the madness. And I would have known that he cared for me beyond the boundaries of his own inhibitions. Isn’t that what love and sacrifice are all about? Isn’t that marriage? Putting your own selfish needs aside for the happiness of the person you vowed to devote your life to?
Don’t get me wrong—Tucker is an amazing husband. He’s patient, kind, and supportive. He’s a great provider and I know he’d be an incredible father, if we ever cross that bridge. I trust him with my life, and I can go to sleep every night knowing that he is dreaming of me and only me. I don’t have to doubt him or question his love for me. I feel it in his touch, see it reflected in those eyes as blue as the ocean. See it curl around his full lips to shape a smile so warm it could have been carved from the sun.
I know my husband loves me. But when I am forced to stifle who I truly am and what I want—what I need—is love enough? Can I live another ten years like this? Can I spend a lifetime with a man who only chooses to know the part of me that is deemed pretty and decent?
Even after I’ve prepped, primped, and plummeted into the late morning crowd at Starbucks, the same questions still replay in an endless loop of confused frustration. I grab a nonfat frappe and find a vacant stool at the bar that faces the street. It’s busy today, and if anything can get me out of my head long enough to find some perspective, it’s people watching. That’s what I love about New York. Even when you’re by yourself, you’re never really alone.
However, after a good half hour, I still can’t wrap my head around the state of my marriage. I can’t understand Tucker’s motivations for last weekend if we were still going to have a sex life that was about as dry and stale as day-old toast. I mean, he’s a wonderful lover . . . to someone else. There’s nothing wrong with his equipment and his mouth and hands have made my legs shake for days. But it’s not enough to fill the emptiness. Not enough to feel completely satisfied behind the sacred doors of our bedroom.
I fish out my cell phone and stare at it a good thirty seconds before sliding a thumb over the Unlock icon. My finger hovers over a name in my contacts for twice as long before I bite the bullet and press Call.
I told myself I wouldn’t do this—my marital problems are for me to deal with and nobody else. Tucker and I had struggles long before we made the mistake of involving another party. Going down this road could only further complicate things. And how do I know it’s safe? Hell, how do I know I won’t look like a total freak?
Only one way to find out.
“Drake,” that gruff baritone sounds over the receiver.
“Take the bass out of your voice, JD. I’m not calling to bitch you out . . . for now.”
“Surprise, surprise. So . . . what can I do for you, Heidi?”
“I have . . . a few questions. And I need to know that it will stay between you, me, and the phone, or I will fly to Arizona, cut off your balls, and serve them with Riku’s Béarnaise and a side salad. Got it?”
He laughs without so much as a hint of discomfort. To tell you the truth, Justice Drake is probably the only person who can tolerate my silver tongue, so I keep it extra sharp just for him. I think he actually likes it. When people pay you to be a merciless asshole five days a week, maybe it’s nice to be in the hot seat for a change.
“Questions, huh?” I can almost hear the smile in his voice. Can almost imagine those denim blue eyes dancing with intrigue and his lips slinking into a wicked grin. “You have my undivided attention. And my word.”
“Good. Because this . . . this is off the record. So I better not find any notes in your fucking client list. And I damn sure better not find out that it’s the topic of pillow talk with Ally. I swear to you, Drake. I will end you if this gets out.”