Chapter 16
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
JULIE
Three months since the funeral. Three months of watching him disappear into work and phone calls and Devon's needs.
Three months of perfunctory kisses on the top of my head, distracted touches, conversations that feel like they're happening through glass. He’s pushing me away.
Sometimes in subtle ways. Sometimes in ways that are not at all subtle and are instead borderline cruel.
There’s a distance between us. An invisible wall that's thick, bulletproof, and impenetrable. Something I can’t seem to get around.
I know he's grieving. I know he's under impossible pressure.
The company, the estate, Devon's trauma.
He's holding everything together as best he can, but I can see the cracks forming.
For all of that, the thing he isn’t trying to prop up is this marriage. We haven't even had sex in months. And that started before the accident.
So tonight, I'm waiting for him. I'm wearing the black lace lingerie he bought me for our first anniversary. The bra is sheer enough to show my nipples, the panties barely there. I've left the bedside lamp on, soft light pooling across the sheets.
It's past midnight when Asher finally comes upstairs. I've been lying in bed for the last hour, listening to him move around downstairs. The clink of a glass. The sound of the refrigerator opening and closing. The low murmur of his voice on another phone call.
When he opens the bedroom door, he stops. His eyes find me immediately, and something flickers across his face. "What the fuck are you doing?" His voice is flat.
That's not a great start. I sit up slightly, letting the sheet fall away. "I'm thinking I'd like to touch my husband. And be touched by him."
He stands there for a long moment, his hand still on the doorknob. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and I can smell the faint scent of whiskey on him. Not drunk. But not sober, either.
"I’m not going to make love or be tender," he says finally. His voice is cold, distant. "It would be nothing more than a fuck."
The words land like a slap. There's no tenderness in them. No connection. Just raw need stripped of everything else. I force myself not to flinch. "Okay."
“Fine. But remember, you said this was okay.” He closes the door behind him and crosses the room.
When he reaches the bed, he doesn't ease into it.
He just grabs my face and kisses me hard, his mouth hungry and demanding.
Sharp. His tongue pushes past my lips, and I taste whiskey and something bitter underneath.
I kiss him back, my hands finding his shoulders, pulling him closer. This is what I wanted. Connection. Heat. Something to bridge the distance between us.
He pushes me back onto the bed, his body covering mine. His hands are everywhere, rough and urgent. He pulls at the straps of my bra, yanking them down my shoulders. His mouth moves to my neck, biting, sucking. Not gentle. Not careful.
I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair. His hand slides down my stomach, over the lace of my panties. He presses hard against me, and I gasp.
"You want this?" he asks against my throat.
Honestly, no. But I need to blast him out of whatever fugue state he's in. And I'm hoping connecting through sex, through fucking, will help.
"Yes."
He hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties and rips them. The fabric tears easily, and he tosses the ruined lace aside. He spits on his fingers and then slides them between my legs, rough and insistent.
He's not being tender. He's not being careful. But I asked for this.
He pulls his shirt off, then his jeans. When he's naked, he positions himself between my legs. The fact that I’m not wet would be a real problem if he hadn’t used saliva. Still, I know this is going to be uncomfortable.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider. He's hard, and when he presses against me, I feel the heat of him.
"Asher," I whisper. “I love you.”
He doesn’t respond. For a moment, there is only silence. Then he just pushes forward, and I feel him start to enter me.
And then he stops. His body goes rigid. His breathing changes. And I feel it immediately. The shift. The loss of hardness.
"Fuck," he mutters. He pulls back, his hand going to himself. "Fuck."
My first thought is that I’m relieved. Not being wet enough isn’t going to be a problem. My second thought is that maybe this gives us time to slow down and build up the way we should. I sit up slightly, reaching for him. "It's okay. We can still get there."
"It's not fucking okay, Julie. Jesus Christ." His voice is sharp, defensive. He moves away from me, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to me. "This is a fucking nightmare."
"You're stressed. You're exhausted. It happens."
"It doesn't happen to me." He runs both hands through his hair, his shoulders tight. "I'm sorry. I just... I'm tired. Work has been insane. The board is breathing down my neck about the transition, and I haven't slept more than four hours a night in weeks."
I move closer, putting my hand on his back. "I know. We don't have to do this tonight."
“That’s probably for the best.”
"We can cuddle," I say softly.
He shakes his head. "No. Let’s just go to sleep.”
I get up, go to the bathroom, and pull on a soft cotton shirt and sleep shorts before going back to bed. Asher’s already there, facing away from me. I climb into the bed on my side and try to process what just happened. Something has fundamentally changed with my husband.
Sometimes I wonder if he even likes me at all anymore.