Chapter Nine
Chasm
An hour earlier...
I sat at the bar and watched her dance with her friends. Watched as she smiled and laughed. Her face relaxed, unburdened by the past, by the pain she lived with every day.
Pain I had caused.
My hand tightened on the glass when the man walked up behind her. When he put his hands on her hips, I clenched my jaw. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed—which wasn’t much when it came to Morgan—not to grab him by the back of the neck and throw him through the wall.
But when she walked away from him, and he followed, grabbing her hand, I lost it.
I’d just stood up when King’s old lady stepped up to him. She handed him his ass without ever lifting a finger. That was the power the club president’s old lady wielded. That was only one of the many instances that would put a target on her back.
I wouldn’t let Morgan endure that. I wouldn’t put her at risk that way. When Morgan went back to the table with Bailey, I followed the bastard outside.
I took my anger out on him.
And my guilt.
I left him lying in the parking lot unconscious and made my way to Morgan’s house. Picking the lock, I let myself in and looked around.
It was a nice home. It wasn’t large; two bedrooms, an open living room-kitchen combination.
Everywhere I looked, I saw my gorgeous wife.
Every aspect of this house was decorated with her touch.
From the soft green throw pillows a shade lighter than her eyes, to the art I didn’t understand that hung on the walls.
Morgan loved abstract art. She used to drag me to art galleries and try to explain what each piece meant. When I told her I couldn’t see what she saw, that it looked different to me, she said that was the point.
Art was subjective.
Interpretative.
I shuffled into the kitchen; my eyes fixed on the shelves along the wall. Dozens of jars labeled with what I thought were spices, and some were. Others were flowers and herbs.
She’d made her dreams come true.
Without me.
I ran a hand over a jar that read Arnica. A memory filled my mind. I’d come home from the clubhouse. Beaten and bruised from the ring.
Morgan gasped when she saw my face and dragged me into the bathroom. Pulling a jar of something she’d made, she sat me on the toilet and rubbed it into my face and shoulders.
“What is that?” I asked, spreading my legs so she could stand between them.
“It’s Arnica,” she replied, her voice clipped with irritation. She hated it when I was in the ring.
“It smells like potatoes.”
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “It’s infused with rosemary. Why do you equate everything with food?”
I pulled her closer until she straddled my lap.
“Not everything,” I muttered as I ran my nose against her neck, inhaling her skin.
She leaned back and pinned me with a look that let me know she didn’t appreciate me patronizing her. “You tell me I smell like cherries.”
I laughed. “It’s not my fault.”
She finished doctoring me up, and I had to admit, I’d felt better. Good enough to carry her to bed and make love to her for hours.
I walked down the hall and peered into the guest room. I leaned against the doorway and smiled. The walls were lined with shelves; dried herbs hung from the ceiling. And the table she used to mix her potions was covered in empty bowls and bottles of oil.
I stepped into her bedroom and froze.
Every other room in the house was filled with light and soft neutral colors. But in here, what she always called her sanctuary, were warm browns and tans.
They were the colors I preferred.
The bed wasn’t huge; I wasn’t even sure it was a queen. I smiled as I thought about how uncomfortable a man my size would be sleeping in that bed.
My heart expanded at the realization that she was sleeping alone.
I sat on the bed and picked up the discarded T-shirt. It was one of mine, worn thin from years of washing. I closed my eyes and held it against my nose, inhaling.
Cherries.
I dropped into the oversized chair in the corner. We’d had a similar one in the apartment in Little Rock. It sat in the corner, facing the bed, and I’d sit there and watch her as she played with herself. Stroking my cock as she got herself off.
Just thinking about the way she moaned, not caring if anyone could hear her, had me stiffening in my pants. I rubbed my dick through the material and waited for Morgan to come home.
An hour later she was stumbling into the house, and I was fucking hard.
She came into the bedroom and sat on the bed.
She hadn’t realized I was here, and I watched her take off her shoes.
This was the closest I’d been to my wife in seven fucking years.
She was more beautiful than ever. When her feet fell back to the floor, I cleared my throat.
Her head snapped in my direction and I growled, “You want to tell me why some asshole had his fucking hands on my wife?”
She blinked at me and shook her head. She pinched her elbow, and I knew what she was doing. Her mouth opened to say something but closed again when nothing came out.
“Morgan,” I hissed.
She closed her eyes tight and then they popped open. She stood up and said dismissively, “Go away. I don’t have time for a brain tumor.”
I grabbed her arm to stop her from walking away.
“What the fuck are you talking about, baby?”
“You’re not really here. You’re a hallucination, which means I probably have a brain tumor. And honestly, I’d rather just not know. I can’t take anymore.”
I pulled her against me and whispered, “I’m not a hallucination, baby.”
I leaned in and kissed her lips. Lips I hadn’t tasted in too fucking long. She reached for my chest, and I held her hands. I wasn’t ready for her to see what I was hiding.
“Jude,” she whimpered.
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” I whispered, desperate for her forgiveness.
My hands moved to her head, sliding through her hair, and I held her in place as I took her mouth.
Seven years without her.
Seven years of lost time.
Seven years of me being so fucking stupid.
Her hands went to my belt, and she quickly undid my pants, reaching in and squeezing my cock. My groan was swallowed by her mouth.
“Fuck, Morgan, I’ve missed you so damn much.”
“I’ve missed you, Jude. Why did you leave?”
It was a question I couldn’t answer—not yet. I grabbed her hands, wrapped them around my neck, and lifted her off the floor, pressing her against the wall.
There would be plenty of time to talk later. Right now, I needed to feel her wrapped around my dick. Needed to slide into her warm, wet pussy.
My fingers brushed against her pussy. “You’re so wet for me, baby.”
I ripped her panties off her body while I kissed up her neck. She grabbed my hair and pulled my lips back to hers. I pressed my body against hers as my fingers played with her.
“Come for me, Morgan. Come on my fingers and I’ll give you my cock.”
She cried out my name when she came, and I quickly lined myself up at her entrance, watching her face as I pushed inside.
“Fuck, baby, you feel so good.”
I pulled back, achingly slowly, before slamming home. Over and over, I thrust into her pussy.
My pussy.
My wife.
I dug my fingers into her hips, knowing there would be bruises tomorrow. I didn’t care. I had my woman in my arms, my dick in her cunt, and nothing would stop me from coming inside her.
“I’m not gonna last, baby. It’s been too fucking long.” Seven goddamn years. “Come for me, Morgan. Let me feel you squeeze my cock. Show me how much you missed me being inside you.”
“Yes,” she cried out, whimpering my name over and over as I fucked her. As I reminded her who I was. Who she was to me.
She was my fucking wife.
“That’s it, baby. I can feel you clamping down on me.”
I slid my hand between us, circling her clit and pushing her over the edge. She stiffened in my arms, and I felt her cum cover my dick, felt her pussy lock onto my cock. A few more thrusts and I came, roaring out her name.
My head pressed to her shoulder as I tried to catch my breath. As I tried to harness the emotions running through me. The guilt, the fear, the absolute perfect fucking love.
She wiggled her legs, and I let her feet drop to the floor, my dick sliding out of her, leaving me feeling cold and as empty as she was now.
Her hands moved to my waist and went under my shirt before I could stop her. Her fingers swept over the damaged skin before she pushed me back.
“Morgan,” I rasped.
She grabbed my shirt and lifted it. Her eyes focused on my stomach, my scars. I pulled her hands away, letting my shirt fall back down, covering the damaged skin. I stepped back and pulled my pants up as she reached for me. Guilt washed over me at the hurt on her face.
“Morgan,” I whispered.
“What... how...?” Her words were broken; her face filled with confusion.
I was so focused on her face that I didn’t see the fist until it smashed into my nose. She spun away before I could stop her, leaving the bedroom. I followed her to the front door and pushed it closed before she could leave.
“Morgan, let me explain.”
She spun around. I’d expected tears; I’d expected anger. What I didn’t expect was a knee to my balls.
“YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD!”
Hitting the floor, I doubled over in pain so excruciating that I thought I was dying all over again. But it was nothing compared to the feeling that had roared in my chest when that asshole put his hands on my wife.
Nothing compared to the pain I saw in her eyes when she realized who I was. That I was alive. That I’d lied to her. Left her alone to grieve our son.
I deserved the broken nose and the broken balls. But I prayed she’d let me explain. Let me grovel and beg for her forgiveness.
I hadn’t lied to Justin when I told him I’d planned to leave tomorrow morning. I’d watched her for a week. Made sure she wasn’t in danger. Told myself she was better off without me.
But when I saw David’s hands on her, something snapped. And when her lips were on mine... when I tasted her again after so many years of living without... the hole in my soul filled in.
Morgan was the love of my life.
My reason for living.
My truly better half.
I couldn’t walk away again. I couldn’t go back to Arkansas and pretend my life was better without her in it. The truth was, I didn’t have a life without her in it.
For seven goddamn years, I’d been existing. I might not have died, like I’d led her to believe, but my life ended the day that warehouse exploded. The day I made the decision to leave my wife and let her move on without me.
Only, she hadn’t moved on.
She didn’t find someone new, get married, or have more children. She wasn’t really living any more than I was. She might not have known it, but she was waiting for me. It might take some serious reparations, but Morgan Delany-Peterson wasn’t just my wife.
She was my fucking life.