Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TRIGGER
"Yes, just like that, sweetheart," I say as my cock throbs in need of release. It's been too damn long since a hand other than my own has stroked it. Her hands are sliding slowly down my chest.
"Is this what you want?" she whispers against my neck, her breath warm, her body pressed against mine in the darkness of our room.
I can't speak. I can only feel her fingers tracing the lines of my abdomen, her mouth on my jaw, my throat. My hand tangles in her dark-brown locks, her scent wraps around me, and I thrust against her hand.
"Don't stop," I pant. Except, when I squeeze my eyes shut, there's light around the edges, and the pleasure, her touch, her smell, it all starts to ebb. "No," I grind out. "Not again." Not another dream. This can't be a dream. It felt too real.
Then, as if the gods heard my plea, the warmth returns.
Soft warm curves envelop me, lips press against the side of my neck, soft and plush.
"Fuck yeah," I hiss, returning to the dream I never want to leave.
The one where my wife wants me back. The one where she finally lets herself have what she wants.
The one where she stops fighting me and gives in.
"Tell me what you need," she murmurs against my skin, and her voice is different—softer, vulnerable in a way she never allows herself to be when we're awake.
"You," I rasp, my hands sliding down her sides, feeling silk and skin. "Just you. Always you."
She shifts, straddling me now, and I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric between us. My hands grip her hips, and she rocks against me once, twice, drawing a groan from deep in my chest.
"Like this?" she asks, and there's something almost shy in her voice, like she's testing the waters of something forbidden.
"Exactly like that." My fingers dig into her thighs. "You're everything I want."
She leans down, her hair falling around us like a curtain, and finally her mouth finds mine. The kiss is hungry, desperate, all the tension we've been holding onto for weeks spilling out in one devastating moment. She tastes like honey and sin, and I'm drowning in it.
"I want you," she breathes against my lips. "I've wanted you since—"
"Since when?" I need to hear her say it.
Her eyes go dark with want, and her hand slides down between us. Then light starts creeping in again, the warmth beginning to fade.
"No," I grit out, trying to hold onto the dream. "Not yet. Please, not yet."
But the darkness is dissolving, and the last thing I feel is her body pressed against mine, real and solid.
Wait. My consciousness surfaces slowly as I cling to the remnants of the dream.
The warmth, her scent, the feel of her pressed against me.
It's all still there. For a blissful, disoriented moment, I think I'm still dreaming.
Then cool air hits the wetness that's seeped through my boxers, and my eyes flash open.
She's here, on my side of the bed, her body curved into mine as the pillow wall lies scattered across the floor like a broken promise.
I go completely still, my mind scrambling to piece together the fragments of the dream with reality. Fuck. It felt real because part of it was real.
I feel the moment her breathing changes, and I know she's awake. For a few agonizing seconds, neither of us moves. Then her fingers flex, freeing her hand from my boxers. She spreads her fingers, evidence of my arousal coating them, as awareness sets in.
Her eyes snap up to mine. "Did you..." Mortification covers her face. "Did I..." She sits up and pulls the covers around her, shielding herself from me like I'm some sort of beast. "Why didn't you stop me?"
The blame in her voice cuts deep. I don't like how she keeps me at a distance, how even after everything last night, the kisses, the admissions, agreeing to keep her name on the contract, and she still put that damn wall of pillows between us when she came to bed.
I'd come up late, after drinks with Dar and Santiago, to find her fast asleep on her side of the divide, like nothing had changed.
I try to remind myself that she is giving me more than she ever has, but that thought is hanging on by a thread.
This push and pull is fucking draining. She's looking at me right now, like I'm a fucking monster who took advantage of her, like I orchestrated this somehow.
"I was asleep," I defend. "Forgive me for not maintaining constant vigilance against my own wife."
"Don't call me that."
"It's what you are," I point out, and I can hear the edge creeping into my tone.
She flinches, and I hate that too. Hate that we're here, in this moment, taking steps backward when we'd finally moved forward.
"How long?" she asks, unable to look at me. "How long were you awake before...before you…"
I'm off the bed, unable to sit still with the accusation she's throwing at me. I pace to the side of the bed, running both hands through my hair, trying to breathe through the frustration building in my chest.
"Jesus, Asha." I turn to face her. "You think I, what?
Laid there and let you…" I break off, shaking my head.
"I woke up maybe ten seconds before you did.
I was dreaming, and our bodies…" I gesture helplessly between us.
"We're married. We've been sleeping in the same bed for two weeks, and if you touch me, I'm going to react. "
"You should have stopped me the second you realized—"
"I barely realized what was happening before you woke up!
" My voice rises, and I have to force myself to stay calm.
I don't want to fight. "You crossed to my side of the bed, Asha.
You. I didn't pull you over here. I didn't touch you first. I was asleep on my side, where I've stayed every single night, respecting your precious pillow wall. "
She looks away, her jaw tight. "I know. I just—"
"Just what? Needed someone to blame?" The words come out harsh.
"I'm trying here. I'm trying so damn hard to give you space, to let you set the pace, to be patient while you work through everything.
But you can't keep doing this. You can't kiss me like you did last night, agree to tie yourself to me in business, and then treat me like I'm taking something from you every time we get close. "
"I'm not."
"You are, and that's fine. You can hate me the way you always have, hate our situation—fuck, hate all of it—but I never agreed to hating you.
I never could because I never have." The words hang between us, and her lips part like she might refute it, but no sound comes out.
I grab the towel from the chair, my movements sharp. "I'm taking a shower."
I don't wait for her response. I can't. Instead, I let the bathroom door click shut behind me with finality and flip on the cold water before ripping off my boxers.
The cold water does absolutely nothing. I brace my hands against the tile, letting the spray beat down on my neck, my shoulders, but all I can feel is the weight of her body against mine.
All I can smell is jasmine. All I can hear is her voice from the dream, I want you.
"Fuck," I mutter, my forehead pressed against the cool tile.
I switch the water to hot and reach down, because what's the point of pretending anymore? My hand wraps around myself, and I'm already so close it's pathetic. A few strokes and I'll be done, and maybe then I can think clearly. Maybe then I can face her without wanting to…
The bathroom door opens, and my hand freezes.
"Leave," I grind out, but the shower door opens, and she is there in her silk nighty that leaves little to the imagination. But it's not her body that has my chest tightening; it's the look in her eyes, the one that mirrors mine.
"I'm not letting you do this alone," she says, and her voice trembles slightly. "Not when I started it."
"Get out," I rasp, but it comes out weak because it's the last thing I want. But I can't be another one of her mistakes. Not with this.
"No." She steps closer to the shower's edge, and I can see her pulse racing in her throat. "You said you never hated me."
"I meant it."
"Then let me finish what I started." Her eyes drop, taking in my hand still wrapped around myself. "Please."
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Yes, I do." She reaches for the hem of her nightgown. "I'm done pretending I don't want this."
The nightgown hits the floor, and my brain short-circuits. God, I've imagined this so many times, but nothing prepared me for the reality of her standing here, bare and vulnerable. The curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the way her hair frames her face. She's devastating.
"Last chance," I manage, my voice barely recognizable. "If you come in here, I'm not going to be able to stop."
"Good," she says and steps into the shower.
The water soaks her immediately, plastering her hair to her shoulders, running in rivulets down her body between her full breasts, over the plane of her stomach, following the curve of her thighs.
She's close enough to touch now, close enough that I can see the goosebumps rising on her skin despite the steam.
Close enough that I can count each breath she takes.
"I didn't cross that pillow wall by accident," she says quietly, and there's something raw in her voice, something honest that makes my chest tight. "I woke up on your side because it's where I want to be, because I'm tired of fighting what I feel."
"What do you feel?" I need to hear her say it. Need the words.
"Like I'm going insane." Her hand reaches out, fingers trailing down my chest, leaving fire in their wake. "Like every night in that bed is torture. Like I married my enemy and somehow fell for him anyway."
I catch her wrist, my thumb pressing against her racing pulse. "You don't fall for people you hate."