Chapter 7
Jayne
The house is quiet when we get home.
The kids are asleep, the dishwasher hums softly in the kitchen, and the only light comes from the hallway lamp that Finn probably left on for us after he did the dishes.
I’m lucky to have kids like him and Mikaela.
They’re so conscientious and aware that we all live here and we all must contribute.
I never have to ask Finn to throw out the trash; he does it without being prompted.
I don’t have to tell Mikaela to clean up her things; she just does it.
I kick off my heels by the bedroom door, sighing as my toes finally touch the cool hardwood.
Rhys loosens his tie and exhales like he’s just finished a marathon.
“That went well,” he remarks.
His tone is careful, like I’m a wounded animal who may spring on him any minute if he says anything that’s just this side of polite.
He’s been doing this all night—walking a tight rope.
And that bitch Tory. Christ! The way she kept brushing against him and talking down to me.
“It did.” I slip off my earrings and put them on the dresser.
“Did you have a good time?”
There’s an edge to his voice that makes this conversation an inquisition. “Does it matter?” I throw over my shoulder as I step into the walk-in closet.
He follows me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Can you unzip me?” I prevaricate.
He does, his hands rigid with tension. “Jayne,” he murmurs, my name loaded with his question.
I meet his eyes, arms crossed. “It means that I don’t think you care if I had a good time or not as long as I was there with you for the sake of appearances.”
I wait for the blow-up, for him to say something hurtful, which is what he does when he gets defensive.
He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re mad.”
My arms drop. I am surprised at how calm he is. “Not mad.” I tilt my head and give him a wan smile. “Just…tired.”
He studies me for a moment. “Is this about Tory?” The words rush out of him like he wants them out in the open between us.
My hands roll into fists, nails digging into the soft flesh of my palms. A new fear is strangling me now. Is he having an affair? Is he going to tell me that now?
“Should it be?” I manage to ask.
He looks genuinely contrite. “Not at all. Not even a little bit. It’s…
I am…I was being an ass when we were arguing about you coming to the gala.
” He gives me a sheepish smile. “I…I wanted to provoke you. You seem jealous of her sometimes. But I promise, Jayne, she’s a colleague, a friend. That’s all.”
So, he’d noticed I was jealous, and instead of making me feel better about it, he decided to poke at me.
What an idiot!
I slip out of my dress, giving him my back. I hear the rustle of clothes as he undresses, too.
Marriage is strange. We share a life, a house, a bed. I’ve seen him naked more times than I can count. That’s supposed to be intimacy, isn’t it? So why is he still a million miles away?
I hang my dress and remove my bra. I throw it into the hamper and reach for the camisole that I sleep in. I put it on and turn to face him.
He’s in his boxers, and the butterflies in my stomach still stir, faint but alive. My husband is a good-looking man—truly sexy. Broad shoulders, abs, muscle in all the right places. No beer gut. There’s some gray in his hair now, and as unfair as it is, it only makes him look more distinguished.
When we first started dating, my friends used to call him pretty boy. Now, whenever I introduce him to someone new, they always say the same thing: Rhys is so handsome.
“Are you attracted to her?” I ask boldly.
The confusion on his face makes my knees buckle with relief. He has no clue what I’m talking about.
“Attracted to Tory?” he asks.
I swallow. Nod.
He chuckles. “Fuck no.”
“I…I don’t like how she touches you.”
He walks to me and cups my cheek. “I maintain professional distance, baby. Always.”
“She’s very pretty.”
“No one is as beautiful as my wife.”
There’s a beat of silence, thick and charged. We’re standing close now, closer than we’ve been in weeks.
“But I get it. I hated seeing you talk to Paul tonight.”
My eyebrows lift. “Paul?” I’m incredulous.
“He couldn’t take his eyes off of you.”
I blink, startled, then laugh. “Paul? He was just making conversation.”
“I know, but…I was jealous.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe, but it’s true.” There’s a glint in his eyes now. “Do you have any idea what you look like in that red dress? Every man in that room was looking at you.”
My mouth twitches, and I can’t help the surge of pleasure at his words.
“You were jealous.”
He leans in, nuzzles my neck. Goosebumps erupt on my arms. “Yeah.”
The confession is almost boyish.
I soften.
I remember this version of him, the one who used to wait outside my dorm in the cold just to walk me home and snarled at any guy who showed me even a little attention.
Suddenly, he picks me up, bridal style. I let out a laugh.
“What are you doing?”
His lips curl into a smirk. “Taking my wife to bed where I intend to ravish her.”
“Is that what you intend to do?” I purr.
I know this man so well. The sexy one. The one who makes love to me like I’m a goddess. My friends complain about waning sexual interest and mediocre familiar sex, but for me, it’s always been good, when we do it that is.
It’s slowed down in the past year.
No surprise there. It’s hard to make love when you want to bludgeon your husband with a heavy object.
No negativity, Jayne. Just enjoy this. Enjoy him.
He drops me on our bed and crawls up my body, his hands roaming over my curves. He lifts my camisole and pulls it off.
“So, fucking perfect.” His thumbs brush over my nipples, teasing them.
His lips claim mine in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue, a bruising, possessive claim that leaves me breathless.
I wrap my arms around him, touching his strong back when he starts to suckle, first gently and then biting softly until I’m squirming. I rub myself against him, my panties and his shorts separating us.
“I want you,” he growls, his voice rough with lust.
He kneels between my legs, his hands sliding up my thighs to grip my hips. His thumbs hook into the waistband of my panties, and with a single tug, they’re gone, leaving me spread open and exposed.
He cups me. “Your cunt is so wet, Jayne.”
He leans down, his tongue darting out to taste me, lapping at my folds.
I whimper.
I love how he eats me out.
His tongue is relentless, flicking my clit with expert precision, fucking me with his mouth until I’m trembling on the edge of orgasm.
He pulls back, leaving me gasping and desperate, my hands clawing at the sheets.
“Not yet.” His eyes are dark with lust. “You’re gonna take every inch of me first. Then you can come.”
He stands, stripping off his boxers, freeing his cock. It’s thick and throbbing, the tip swollen and leaking precum.
My eyes widen at the sight, my mouth waters as I reach for him. He bats my hand away. “You’ll get it, baby.” His voice drips with promise. “But first, you’re gonna beg.”
I roll my eyes at that.
He winks at me.
It’s always been like this between us. Hot and playful. Fun and pleasure.
He positions himself at my entrance, the tip of his cock teasing my folds, rubbing against my clit in maddening circles.
My hips buck against him, desperate for relief. “Come inside,” I whisper.
He plunges into me with a single, brutal thrust.
His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as he pounds into me. He makes love with a ferocity that steals my breath away.
I cry out as my walls clench around him.
“Baby,” he snarls, his voice rough with need. “Fuck, baby. So good. Always so good.”
His pace quickens, driving us closer and closer to the edge.
I cry out softly when I come, spasming around him. Rhys follows me.
We collapse together, our bodies slick with sweat, our breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Rhys presses a kiss to my forehead, his hands cradling my face with a tenderness that belies the wildness of our lovemaking.
“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “Always have. Always will.”
“I love you, too.”
After, we lie tangled in the dark, breathing the same air. His hand rests on my stomach, thumb tracing idle circles.
He’s quiet for a long time before he says, “Sometimes I think I’m going to fail.”
My chest tightens. “Fail what?”
He stares at the ceiling. “Being head of Cardio. The politics, the pressure, the constant grind. It’s like I’m holding my breath all the time, waiting for something to go wrong.”
His voice is raw. Right now, he’s not the arrogant surgeon, not the man with the God complex. Just Rhys. The boy who wanted to matter.
My heart clenches at his vulnerability.
“You won’t fail,” I whisper.
He turns his head toward me, eyes tired. “You really think that?”
“I know it.”
He leans over to kiss me again, soft, grateful.
For a while, we lie quietly, holding each other, feeling loved.