Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Jules
Three years earlier
N aked Mick is breathtaking. Mick in a suit—spectacular. But Mick in snug jeans and a black T-shirt, a lock of hair draping over his forehead … pure dynamite to my ovaries. He might be a straitlaced accountant by day, but by night, he’s the bad boy I remember from the first time we met. And while he was acting out a role when he was undercover, there’s still an edge to him that beckons me closer.
He swaggers from the bar, completely oblivious to the appreciative glances of every woman, and even a few men, in the pub. His attention is for me only and doesn’t that warm me in all the right places.
He hands me a glass of wine. “They’re out of your favourite shiraz, so I got the cab sav. Hope that’s alright?”
“Perfect.”
He slides in next to me and sips his cola. We’ve snagged a prime spot against the wall near the stage, allowing me easy access to the dancefloor. The pub is packed with people eager to hear a local cover band belt out classics by Linkin Park.
I remember Claire’s wide-eyed horror when I asked her if she’d like to come. While we both love the eighties—I enjoy anything I can dance to—she’s never shared my love of nineties alternative rock. But Mick does. It was a welcome discovery.
After two years of marriage, I’ve only peeled the first layer off my steadfast husband. There’s so much more beneath his exterior than he lets on. But that’s okay. We have the rest of our lives to learn each other’s secrets and desires.
His mouth brushes against my ear. “What are you sniggering at?”
I turn and capture his lips. They’re sweet. Intoxicating. And later, they’ll be all mine without interruption since his parents have taken Riley for the night. “Just thinking about how much Claire would hate this.”
He laughs. “That’s cruel.”
“But true.”
The room darkens and smoke wafts up from the stage as strobe lights transform the stage and dance floor into a kaleidoscope. With a screech of guitars, the first song—‘Bleed it Out’—begins. It’s deafening, but oh so good. Even Mick bobs his head in time to the music. I peck his cheek, and then I’m out of my chair and on the floor, bopping and whirling to the addictive beat. It’s freeing. Like Mick, I’m dressed in jeans and a black top, but mine is a fitted lace number that gives me an hourglass silhouette.
I feel sexy as fuck. But it’s more than hormones. I feel powerful. Like I can do anything, be anything when I’m dancing. Unlike my ex-boyfriends, Mick doesn’t show any signs of jealousy. In fact, he gets off watching me have fun. The more extroverted I am, the quieter he becomes, but not in a belligerent way. It’s more of an ‘I’ve got your back’ kind of way.
I flop into my seat when the first set finishes, sweat dripping off me .
Mick wipes the moisture from my forehead and plants his lips on mine. “You reminded me of an Amazon out there.”
I scrape my teeth across the soft bristles on his chin. “I take it that’s a good thing?”
“You know it is.” He brushes damp hair off my face. “You’re a strong woman who always finds the positive in whatever life throws at you, Jules. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”
The adoration in his eyes is overwhelming. Suddenly, dancing isn’t as important as enjoying this precious time alone with my husband. So, I stay in my seat for the rest of the gig, my hand entwined with Mick’s and our feet tapping to the music.