: Chapter 8

“So nothing happened?” Stacey asks as she tosses some underwear in a bag for me.

“Nothing,” I reply as I sift through some of my comfortable clothes, since Hudson seemed to have a variety of professional clothes for me. Although, I did pack some of my skirts because it seems like some of the things he picked out for me are on the prudish side. I mean, a dress that goes all the way down to my ankles? The nerve.

“Did you want something to happen?”

“I just wanted to make sure I didn’t do something stupid like…fart in my sleep.”

“God, the horror. Could you imagine?”

I shake my head. “I could not. I did wear his shirt to bed though and that felt amazing. Oh, and I changed in front of him, and he seemed to enjoy that. He saw my ass, Stacey.”

“Your ass?”

I nod with a smile. “My ass.”

“We have great asses.”

“We do, and I think he noticed because he cleared his throat.”

“Aw, telltale sign of him approving of your ass.”

“That’s what I thought,” I say.

“So overall, what would you rate the night?”

“Hmm.” I tap my chin. “I’d give the wedding a five, that nose kiss was a real downer. I’d give his house a ten out of ten. And then the sleep, well, maybe a six because I was too focused on the not farting.”

“Is that something you normally do?” she asks.

“I mean, not that I can recall, but I remember watching a TikTok about a girl who farted in bed while with a new love interest and he asked her to leave. It was humiliating on all accounts, and I just couldn’t fathom that happening, so I kept things tight. Anyway, overall I would rate it a seven.”

“Not bad for someone who got married to someone they don’t know.”

“I thought the same thing. Like the people who get married on that show, Married at First Sight or whatever it’s called, I lucked out big-time.”

“I think so.”

“What did you do last night?” We finish packing, and I bring my two suitcases over to the entryway of the house.

“I called Beth.”

“You did?” I ask, excited. “How was it?”

She shrugs, but there is a smile playing on her lips.

“From the twinkle in your eyes, I’m going to guess good.”

“Yeah, it was good.” Stacey takes a seat on the couch. “She’s really cool. We talked for two and a half hours, and then we both started yawning and figured we should get to bed.”

“Two and a half hours. Not sure I’ve ever talked to someone for that long in my life.”

“You’ve never had a real connection with another person.”

“It’s not my fault they’ve all been duds. Well, besides one. God, he was good.”

“There is more to relationships than sex, Sloane.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m aware. Just haven’t found anyone I care enough to listen to.”

And isn’t that the truth? I’ve always avoided close relationships. I lost my parents, then my grandma. In some ways, I lost Jude when he found Haisley. I know Stacey will eventually find someone to be with too. I haven’t ever opened myself up to the possibility of creating a close relationship because I figure it will hurt less when they leave.

She chuckles. “Well, that’s one way to put it.”

“So are you guys going to go out on a date?”

“I think so,” Stacey says while twirling her hair. “I’m trying to figure out when the appropriate time would be to text her. I don’t want to come off too desperate, but I also want her to know that I’m interested.”

“Uh, just text her. Don’t play games. I bet she’d love to hear from you this morning. And open with something smooth. Something like…I had to get coffee this morning. I didn’t sleep at all because I was thinking about you.”

“That’s lame.”

I scoff. “No, it’s not. I thought that was pretty clever.”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s lame.”

“Oh yeah, watch this.”

I pull my phone out and text Hudson.

Sloane: I had to drink a lot of coffee this morning. I didn’t sleep at all because I was thinking about you.

“Did you just send that to Hudson?” Stacey asks.

“Yes, now watch him eat from my hand. The man is going to fill up with so much pride, he’s going to regale me with his sleepless night as well. Now help me with these bags. I have to bring them to Bart.” But the moment I open the front door, Bart is standing there, waiting for me.

“I’ll take those, Mrs. Hopper,” he says, grabbing the bags from me.

“Oohh,” Stacey coos. “Mrs. Hopper has a nice ring to it.”

“Funny, because it makes me feel slightly pukey.”

“Really? Why? It’s not like it’s really real.”

“That’s the thing,” I say as I move back into the house. I call out to Bart, “Be right there.” Then I shut the door and grab Stacey by the arms. “He’s treating this like it’s real, and I’m trying to play along and act like I’m all cool and nonchalant about the whole thing, but I’m slowly dying inside.”

“What do you mean he’s treating it like it’s real?”

“We’re going out to dinner tonight.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” She waves me off. “You both need food, makes sense.”

I shake my head. “No, there was something about the tone of his voice, how he said we’ll be going to dinner, this was different. And he’s serious about me living with him and spending time with him. He calls me wife. Like he’s really into this.”

Stacey thinks about it for a second. “Maybe he’s, I don’t know, trying to get into the right frame of mind because you have to be married around businesspeople? Maybe this is like…practice so when you’re in the moment and you have to truly pull this off, it’s easier.”

I’m about to answer when my phone beeps with a text message.

Stacey and I stare at each other for a few seconds before she whispers, “I bet that’s him.”

“We know that’s him.”

“Then let’s see how he’s eating out of the palm of your hand as you put it.” She nudges me with her hand.

I lift my phone and unlock the screen. I read the text out loud to her.

Hudson: Then why did I see you sleeping several times throughout the night with your mouth open and drool on your pillow?

Stacey lets out a howl of a laugh as the insult pulses through me.

“I was not drooling,” I say as I text him back.

Sloane: Staring lovingly, I see. Hope you got your fill.

“Oh my God, I can’t breathe,” Stacey says, still laughing.

“It’s not funny.”

“Uh…it’s so fucking funny,” she says, gripping her stomach.

My phone dings with a message.

Hudson: For a lifetime.

And he says I’m the one with the attitude.

Sloane: If you got your fill, then no need to meet for dinner.

Hudson: Miss dinner and hand me back the check.

“Gah!” I gasp, staring down at the text.

“What?” Stacey asks while wiping her eyes.

“He’s being rude to me.”

“Rude? Or is he calling you on your bullshit?”

“Rude,” I say with a lift of my chin. “Absolutely rude.”

“Hello, Husband,” I say, arms crossed, staring at Hudson, who is wearing a forest-green suit and white button-up shirt. A far cry from the ugly brown that makes him look like a potato. Nope, this is tailored to fit every curve and contour of his tall, broad body.

“Why are you saying hello? We drove over together.”

“Yes, but you’re finally acknowledging me.”

“I was driving,” he says.

“But conversation never hurt anyone. I see you’re just carrying over your rudeness from earlier.”

He opens the door to the restaurant and presses his hand to my lower back, guiding me inside.

“How was I rude?”

“Uh, your text messages.”

He offers his name to the hostess, and she immediately guides us through the restaurant as he leans his head next to mine and whispers, “Don’t play with fire if you can’t handle the burn, Sloane.”

And then he pulls out my chair for me when we reach the table. I stare at him for a few seconds, studying those dangerous eyes before I take a seat and he scoots me in.

Unfortunately, he’s right. I played with fire this morning and got burned.

Learned a lesson though, that’s for damn sure. He might be a silent one, but he can be quick.

“Well, this place is nice,” I say as I place my napkin on my lap and take in the opulence of the restaurant.

I will say this, coming from a family who had absolutely nothing and then sliding into the world of the Hopper family, it’s been a bit of a shock. It started when we flew out to Bora Bora for Haisley and Jude’s wedding on a private jet. I had never flown before, let alone on a private airplane. Then we had a dream vacation on a remote island in bungalows that sat over the water. Everything was paid for; all we had to do was watch our brother get married and hang out with the family. It was honestly amazing.

And working for Hudson has had its perks. When I have to run errands for him, his driver drives me around. And let me tell you, not having to worry about parking in San Francisco, that’s a perk on its own.

And this restaurant. Yowza.

You don’t get through the front door unless you have a reservation. The tables are far enough apart from each other where you don’t overhear any conversation. The lighting is dim, the booths are high and private, and I swear you could get away with some fondling and no one would even know. Although the fanciness is rather high, so I’m not sure anyone would stoop to the level of fondling.

“It’s one of my favorite restaurants,” he says, not even attempting to look at the menu in front of us.

It’s one of those one-sheet menus with a few dishes on it. If you put fifty of these together, you would have the menu for The Cheesecake Factory.

“Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“I know the chef well. His food is well seasoned and expertly cooked, and the presentation is immaculate.”

Imagine living a life where “the presentation” is something you rate a restaurant on.

I prefer a good old sloppy breakfast thrown together on one plate at a diner.

This though, this is one of those places where they use a cloth to clean any stray drips or steam from the surface before shipping it out to the tables. And don’t get me started on the white gloves being worn by the waitstaff.

“Ah yes, presentation is key,” I say just as he looks up at me, sensing my sarcasm.

This man has made it a point to avoid all eye contact with me up until we’ve reached this restaurant, and now all of a sudden he’s going to act like I exist?

All day he barely spoke to me in the office. And when we were in the car, I didn’t even know he realized there was a passenger on board. But here, now, he’s giving me the time of day with those sultry eyes.

It’s jarring.

Alarming.

Not something I’m used to because let’s call a spade a spade, my husband is hot.

Capital H, hot.

Like, wowza, this guy is not human.

I always thought he was incredibly handsome with his suit on, but with it off—let me bite my fist because holy moly, I was trembling last night.

All I kept thinking about as I tried to go to sleep was will he accidentally graze my breast? Sure, he was on the very edge of his side and there was no possible chance of any sort of midnight collision, but God, did I think about it. And I thought about what I would do too.

I would act all coy and be like, oops, was that my breast? And then slowly roll onto my back, my shirt would ride up, and then oops, he’d touch my bare hip. He’d grumble, I’d grumble, and then I’d turn again only to have him tear off my shirt and suck my⁠—

“Did you hear me?”

“Huh? What? I don’t know about forks.”

His brow creases. “I wasn’t talking about forks.”

“Oh, you weren’t?” I nervously laugh and then adjust my silverware. “What, uh, what were you talking about?”

“I asked if you wanted me to order for you.”

“Oh, uh, that’s not necessary.” I lift up the menu and my eyes focus in on the words that make absolutely no sense to me. “What does ‘confit’ mean?” I lower the menu back down and say, “Actually that sounds like a great idea. I trust you. As long as there are no raw tomatoes, then we’re golden.”

“Not a fan of tomatoes?” he asks.

“I mean, I like ketchup and spaghetti sauce and sun-dried tomatoes, but if you keep them raw…” I shiver. “Vile.”

“That’s pretty harsh.”

“It’s the truth.”

Our server steps up to our table, and I watch as Hudson studies the wine list and orders some fancy wine I’ve never heard of—praying it’s white—and then he continues with what I want to say is sea bass but couldn’t be sure. He rambled about a lot of things, and I was so caught up in watching his lips that I got distracted.

Dinner should be a fun surprise.

“So,” I say when the server leaves. “How was your day?”

“You were there,” he says. “You should know.”

“Was I really though?” I ask. “Sure, I was in the vicinity of your day, but I wasn’t really in the room. So I wouldn’t know how your day went exactly. Seemed pretty smooth, no big fires that you had to put out, right?”

“Right,” he says softly, not elaborating.

“Okay, so should we say an average day?”

He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt. “I told Hardy about the wedding.”

Did you just hear that?

The sound of something getting the life sucked out of it?

Yeah, that was my right nipple shriveling into dust.

Why? Because Hardy is attached to the company. Who else is attached to the company? My brother. And the more people who know about the wedding, the more likely Jude will find out.

“You…you told your brother?”

“I did.” He lightly nods.

“Okay, sure, because you know, congratulations are in order.” I nervously twist my hands together in my lap. “Did he, uh, did he say that he was going to get us a wedding gift? Because a coffee maker would be aces.”

“He did not.”

“Sure, sure. Shame though because we could really use⁠—”

“He was pissed, Sloane.”

“Ah, yes. Not surprised by that reaction. Now, was he madder at you or at me, just so I can gauge how to be around him?”

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I was trying to be polite. I know he’s pissed at you.”

“Correct,” he answers.

“Well, did you, uh, did you tell him not to share the news?”

“I did,” he answers. “He said he’ll be telling Everly because he tells her everything.”

“Respectful. Just like I should tell you everything since you’re my husband. Which reminds me, I’ve been keeping a secret. You know the green drink I was getting you in the morning? It was just a Naked Juice that I kept pouring into the same to-go cup. I found that if I skipped the stop at the juice bar, I could get ten minutes of extra sleep.” When he just stares at me, I say, “I’m realizing in this moment that revealing that might not have been the best timing.” I motion to him. “Please, carry on.”

I catch the flare of his nostrils, but to his credit, he doesn’t say anything—which might have been great timing in reality because I’m not getting a lecture. Also, the green drink I did get him the other day, the one without sugar, that was from the actual juice bar. Given the situation, I thought the stop was appropriate.

“He believes it was the wrong move and that if your brother finds out, I’m dead.”

I press my lips together, because yes, that is far too correct. Hudson will be hung by his balls. “Very true, which is why he’s not going to find out. We won’t be married for very long, and we won’t even be here, in San Francisco, for very long either. Aren’t we going to London soon? Do you want me to book those tickets? Because I can.”

“In a week,” he answers. “Until then, we need to lie low.”

“Right, so going out to dinner at an intimate restaurant is a total no-go,” I say, glancing around the quiet restaurant, where tables are lit up by a single lamp.

“You realize you don’t always have to lean on sarcasm to have a conversation.”

“I do realize that, but unfortunately for the both of us, that’s not how my brain works, especially when I’m nervous. I would just accept that 80 percent of what comes out of my mouth is going to be pure shit.”

“Great,” he says on a sigh.

“Hey, consider yourself lucky.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I’ll keep you on your toes, so you might never know what’s going to come out of my mouth.”

“That’s not something to feel lucky about,” he says. “That’s the exact opposite.”

“Ehh, agree to disagree.”

“Okay, what’s in this sauce? Because if we were not in public, I would be licking this dinner off my plate like a freaking rabid dog.” I lick my fork and glance over at Hudson, who has a not-so-pleased expression tugging on those thick, scary eyebrows of his. “What?” I ask.

“Can you act more civil?”

“Civil?” I ask, sitting up straight. “Shit, am I supposed to be sipping my wine with my pinky out?”

“Sloane,” he chastises.

“Yes?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. The pinky question is a solid one.”

“I’m talking about you licking your fork.”

“Oh,” I say, staring down at my fork. “I was just cleaning it off. Am I not supposed to be licking it? Because… Oh…hold on.” A smile crosses over my lips. “Is it turning you on?”

He dabs his mouth with his napkin and shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

I nudge his leg with my foot under the table. “Liar,” I say. “It was. It was turning you on.”

“It was not. It’s just…inappropriate behavior.”

“Are you afraid I’m going to turn on the people around us?” I look around the dining area. “Oh, I just caught a gentleman looking at me.”

“Who?” Hudson says with such possessiveness that it makes me chuckle.

“I’m just kidding. Settle down, jealousy.”

“That’s not funny,” he says, positioning his silverware in that fancy way that tells the server that he’s done with his meal. Probably something he learned in finishing school. Not sure he ever went, but I would be surprised if he didn’t, or if he at least didn’t have a tutor that taught him all the proper ways to poise yourself in public when you have the last name Hopper.

“Do you ever think anything is funny?”

“I do.”

“Uh-huh, do you ever think I’m funny?”

“No,” he answers while taking a sip of his wine.

“You know, that’s hurtful.”

“Say something funny and maybe I’ll laugh.”

“Challenge accepted.” I take the last bite of my sea bass and then set my fork down. “You know, you were a different person in Bora Bora.”

“Yeah, so were you,” he says. “You barely said two words on that trip, and now it’s like I can’t get you to be quiet.”

“Ever consider that it was intimidating to go on a trip with a family I didn’t know and having to be on my best behavior for my brother? Not to mention, it was the first time we’d ever been on vacation? We were just trying to fade into the background and enjoy ourselves.”

He swirls his wine in his glass. “What about when you first started working for me? You were different then too.”

“Because I was trying to impress. I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize my job.”

“And when did that change? Because I fired you over that mouth of yours.”

“You called me young. It’s a trigger for me because Jude has always babied us, and I hate it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for the way he protected me and Stacey, but I’ve hated the way he hasn’t trusted our instincts. He’s constantly hovering. I understand him wanting to protect us, but we’re adults now, and he hasn’t quite come to terms with that. Given the way I had to grow up pretty quickly, skipping out on a childhood most get to enjoy, the term ‘young’ aggravates me.”

He slowly nods but doesn’t say anything. Not sure if he’s trying to take it all in or if he doesn’t care, but either way, the nonanswer grates on me. I opened up; a reaction would be good, especially if we’re supposed to be taking this husband-and-wife thing seriously.

“What about you?” I ask. “Why are you different? In Bora Bora you were more carefree. Now, for a lack of better words, it seems like you have a stick up your ass.”

“Life was different then,” he answers.

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s not very husbandly. I thought we were supposed to share everything with each other.”

“Sharing everything was never in the contract.”

“Okay, so then what do I need to know, Hudson?” I ask, not liking this one-sided situationship.

“What you already know.”

“Uh-huh.” I lean back in my chair. “Well, I don’t know very much.”

“Exactly,” he says just as the server stops by our table.

“How was everything?” he asks.

“Wonderful,” Hudson says. “We’ll take the check.”

“Right away,” he answers as he motions for someone else to come pick up our plates.

We spend the rest of the time in the restaurant in silence while he pays the bill and our table is cleared.

It’s silent.

Tense.

And it’s obvious that he wants to pretend this marriage is real without doing the work to make it seem real. He can call me wife all he wants, but that’s not going to bridge the gap of creating a relationship where we can make this deal work and make it work well.

When he’s done, we both stand from the table, and I grab my purse while Hudson waits for me. Once I have everything, he surprises me by placing his hand on my lower back once again and guiding me through the restaurant. For anyone else, it’s a subtle touch that I’m sure is not thought of twice, but to me, it feels like he’s palming a scorching-hot pressure point. A move that is sending my mind into a tailspin because I can feel just how large his hand is against my back, the length of his fingers, the pressure of his touch.

There’s a hint of protection, of possessiveness.

He leads me to the valet, where he hands the man working the podium our ticket. As we wait, Hudson lowers his hand from my back, and I miss the feel of him—that is until he reaches down and takes my hand in his. My eyes flit between the connection and back up at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Holding my wife’s hand,” he says as he looks straight ahead, his posture tall, not an ounce of uncertainty to be found.

“I see that, but why?”

His eyes meet mine and he says, “You’re my wife, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Then that means I hold your hand.”

“Uh-huh, yup, I understand that, but what I don’t understand is⁠—”

He leans close to my ear, his lips nearly caressing my skin. “We’re going to be in London together, married, in front of people that matter. Consider this practice.”

“Right,” I say as he moves away and I’m able to catch my breath. So he’s good with this kind of show of being married but not talking. “Got it.”

When his car pulls up in front of us, he opens the door for me and helps me in before tipping the valet and joining me. He pulls out onto the road and holds the steering wheel with one hand while he slips his other hand so casually onto my thigh that, to him, it seems like second nature.

To me, umm…not so much.

Every muscle inside me starts twitching from the feel of his warm palm on my thigh. My stomach twirls and somersaults. My inner thighs tremble. And for a brief second, I consider lifting my long-ass dress up and letting him actually touch my skin.

While we drive through the streets of San Francisco, the dark night lit up by streetlamps, I have a million questions I want to ask him. So many about him, about his intentions, if he’s ever thought about me the way I’ve thought about him, but I hold back because I know he won’t answer them. Like I said, he’s not the same man he once was. He’s different.

He’s subdued.

Focused.

Uninterested in conversation.

So instead, I stare out the window while he holds on to me, and I revel in the moment.

“You know, usually your assistant does tasks for you, but it seems as though you have your driver do things for you now,” I say as I observe every last article of clothing of mine hung or folded in Hudson’s closet.

“Corinne, my housekeeper, put away your clothes.”

I open a drawer where I see my underwear and bras lined up neatly. Well, thank God for Corinne, because here I thought Bart was folding my thongs. Not sure I’d be able to look him in the eye.

I move past my pajamas and snag one of Hudson’s shirts again because they smell amazing and are comfortable. Teeth already brushed, I go to the bathroom and change out of the long dress I don’t ever plan on wearing again. I deposit my dirty clothes in the hamper and then walk into the bedroom, where I see Hudson, shirtless and looking through his phone while lying in bed.

The man never stops.

I move to my side of the bed and then stop short when I see my vibrator casually placed on my nightstand. Nothing discreet about it.

Yup, thank God Corinne unpacked.

I pick it up and open the nightstand drawer where I place it, something Corinne could have done, but you know, we’re not going to be mad at her; she might have been worried that I might not know where she put it.

When I slip under the covers, Hudson sets his phone down on his charger and adjusts his pillow. “Don’t use that when I’m around.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, turning toward him.

“Your vibrator—don’t use it when I’m around.”

“Uh…do you really think I’m about to just pull it out and get myself off while I’m next to you in bed?”

“You’re too unpredictable. I have no damn idea.”

“Well, I won’t,” I say, feeling insulted. “And just for the record, if I wanted to get myself off in front of you, I would, because I’m your wife, and I have no shame in it.”

“If my wife wants to get off, then she asks me,” he says, looking all kinds of tense and irritated.

“Oh yeah? So if I told you, Mr. Nose Kisser, I was horny and needed desperately to come, you would do that for me?”

His lips purse and he doesn’t respond.

“That’s what I thought. Please save the lectures. I don’t plan on letting you in on the pure pleasure of seeing how I can please myself. That’s sacred to me and only the luckiest of people get to be involved. Like…ahh, like Devin.”

“Who the fuck is Devin?” he asks as I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling.

“Uh, we talked about this. The one guy who made me orgasm. I told you about him. You know, maybe when this farce is all said and done, I’ll give him a call. I’ll need the release after whatever hell you’re going to put me through.”

I can practically hear his teeth grinding, and I love every second of it. I know I shouldn’t be poking the bear, but the audacity of this man.

When he talks to me, he insults.

When I talk to him, he doesn’t answer.

I would say this marriage is off to a rocky start.

“He worked hard,” I say. “Really hard, because he knew how good I was at giving head, so he wanted to return the favor and, God, was it good.”

“Enough,” Hudson says, which makes me smile. So he doesn’t see me, I turn away from him and snuggle into my pillow.

“Sheesh, and here I thought we were sharing everything.”

“You’re goading me.”

“How am I goading you? The only way it would be goading is if you felt the same away about me.” I glance over my shoulder. “And I think we both know you’d never admit to having an attraction toward me, not even a hint. Unless…” I flip around to face him now and come face-to-face, unaware that he was looking in my direction. I gulp for a second when his eyes light up under the moonlit room. “Um, unless you do find me attractive.”

“I find you annoying.”

See? Insults!

“And too young.”

I hold up my finger. “No, don’t do that, don’t use my trigger word. You should know better by now.”

“It’s fucking true,” he says.

“Okay, so if I weren’t eighteen years your junior⁠—”

“Thirteen,” he says with an edge to his voice.

“Okay, if I weren’t thirteen years your junior, are you telling me that you wouldn’t care, and you’d lift my shirt up and over my head right now and have your way with me?”

“It’s my shirt to begin with…and no.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re Jude’s sister.”

“Which makes me off-limits. What if I weren’t his sister?”

“I’m not playing this game with you, Sloane. There’s a multitude of reasons why this will never happen. Those just being a few.”

“But none of them are because you’re not attracted to me.”

His jaw clenches, but his eyes never falter as they stay locked on mine.

“Interesting,” I say. “Well, good to know where you stand. Now if you don’t mind, I think I might use my vibrator now.” I turn and reach for it when his hand quickly wraps around my waist and stops me. He pulls me in close to his body, my back to his heated chest.

He whispers into my ear and says, “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

I can feel my heartbeat in my throat.

He’s so close, my body pressed against his.

His lips nearly tickling my ear.

His hand splayed across my stomach.

“You’re…you’re not being a very good husband,” I say, my voice shaking. “Happy wife, happy life.”

“You’re not being a very good wife, tempting your husband like this.”

“Maybe if my husband weren’t such a stuck-up snob, I wouldn’t need to tempt him.”

“What do you want from me?” he asks, his thumb gliding over my stomach. The intensity in his voice is anything but teasing.

Hell, I feel like if I say the wrong thing, I very well might get spanked. Although that’s not a bad thing.

“I want you to not be an asshole,” I answer.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole. I’m under a great deal of stress.”

“And I’ve told you, let me help you ease that stress,” I say, shifting my ass so I press directly into his crotch.

“Don’t,” he says, his grip on me growing tighter. “Just…fuck, don’t.” And there it is—a microcrack in his otherwise strong facade.

That break in his voice.

That stutter in his sentence.

A part of me wants to push him, to see how far he’d let me go, but the other part of me, the one where I see this man struggling, knows that maybe if I push too far, he’ll shut down altogether. And I don’t want that. He’s already teetering on barely talking to me. I don’t want to make it worse.

So I let out a deep breath and quietly say, “Sorry.”

Then I lift his arm off me and scoot away, toward my side of the bed. I keep my back toward him to avoid any awkwardness. And for a moment, as I get comfortable, I half expect him to pull me back toward him, to wrap his arm around me, but when he doesn’t and just turns away, I know it’s for the best.

This isn’t over though. I need to find a way to make that connection with him. Because if we’re going to sell this marriage, then I need to be more comfortable with him than just on the physical side. I need to be mentally there too.