CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EMMA
The house is too quiet.
Which is ridiculous, because on any other night I would sell a kidney for this level of silence. But tonight? Tonight Emma is out for their monthly girls night.
And I am alone with three sleeping children and my own thoughts.
Dangerous combination.
I load the dishwasher like a man who has something to prove. No ulterior motive. No scoreboard. Just… doing it. I wipe down the counters. I even clean the hob.
Look at me. Domestic hero. No sexual bribery attached. I check the baby monitor.
Ruby is starfished across her bed, mouth open, drooling like she’s run a marathon in her sleep.
Sophie is upside down. Of course she is.
Oscar is snoring softly, clutching that stupid dinosaur.
I lean on the kitchen counter and exhale.
This used to be the point where I’d sit down and binge some crap on Netflix.
Instead, I open Instagram. Rowan’s story pops up immediately.
I shouldn’t. I do.
There she is.
Front and centre. On the dance floor. Black dress. Backless. Hair down.
Jesus Christ.
I actually sit down.
She’s laughing, head thrown back, eyes bright, hands in the air as Spice Girls blasts in the background.
And I swear to God, I can feel the air leave my lungs.
That’s my wife.
Other men are looking at her. Not subtle glances either. Full-on staring.
I watch the clip again.
And again.
There’s something about the way she’s moving, not for anyone else. Not trying too hard. Just… alive.
And that hits me harder than anything.
Because for a long time, she hasn’t looked like that at home.
Not like that. Not light.Not loose.
I zoom in slightly.
A farmer-looking bloke behind the bar is grinning at her.
I pause.
Zoom further.
Okay, calm down. It’s Rowan. I know Rowan. I’ve known him for years.
Still. My jaw tightens.
She looks… confident.
Like she knows she’s being watched. Like she doesn’t care. And something feral and proud rises in my chest at the same time.
That’s mine. She chose me.
After all the chaos. After the roommate phase. After the near-misses.
Me.
I exit the story before I spiral into imagining some bloke buying her a drink.
Instead, I text her.
Dan: You look unreal tonight.
I stare at the typing bar for a second.
Too much?
Too casual?
Sod it.
Dan: Also I miss you.
Dan: Also come home soon before I start texting you things that will get me in trouble with the girls.
I toss my phone onto the counter like I’m not immediately waiting for the reply.
I pour myself a whisky.
One ice cube.
I am not twenty-two anymore. The house creaks. I wander into the living room and sit on the sofa. The same sofa we nearly…
Nope. Don’t think about that.
My phone buzzes.
I grab it too fast.
Emma: Behave.
Emma: Or don’t.
Emma: I’m wearing black lacy underwear again.
I actually laugh out loud. “Jesus, Emma.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. She hasn’t flirted like that in years. Not like this. Not playful. Not daring.
And suddenly I’m picturing her walking through that pub, shoulders back, legs in those ridiculous gold heels, black lacy underwear under her tiny black dress.
Men looking.
Her not shrinking.
Not apologising.
And I realise something uncomfortable. I used to be scared of that version of her.
Scared she’d outgrow me. Scared she’d realise she could do better.
That someone smoother, richer, less tired could walk into a room and take her.
Which is probably why I defaulted to jokes.
To chores. To safe territory. Because wanting her that much feels risky. It always has.
I pick up my phone again.
Dan: Black lacey underwear is dangerous. You know that Em.
Dan: Walk home carefully.
Dan: Then do whatever you want to me.
I smirk.
Then I stop.
Because there’s something else sitting under the teasing. I open our chat again.
Dan: You look happy.
Dan: I love seeing you like that.
I hover. Then hit send. No innuendo. No expectation. Just truth.
Upstairs, Ruby coughs lightly through the monitor. I glance at the screen. Still asleep. Good.
I lean forward, elbows on knees.
When we were slipping, really slipping, nights like this used to make me anxious. I’d imagine her remembering what it felt like to be wanted without responsibility attached. To be light. To be free. And I’d sit here convincing myself I’d already lost something.
Tonight feels different. Because she’s not out escaping me. She’s out glowing. And I’m not scared she won’t come back. I know she will.
I hear the front door around midnight. Followed by the click of heels being kicked off.
I don’t move from the sofa.
I want to see her walk in.
She steps into the living room, hair messy, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Still glowing. Still electric.
She stops when she sees me.
“Why are you awake?” she whispers.
I shrug. “Wanted to make sure my wife got home safe.”
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling.
“How was it?” I ask.
She hesitates. Then grins slowly.
“Chaotic.”
“Did anyone hit on you?”
She narrows her eyes. “Maybe.”
My jaw tightens instinctively.
She laughs.
“I ignored them.”
Relief hits embarrassingly fast.
She walks toward me. Stops right in front of where I’m sitting. And without breaking eye contact, she reaches behind her back and lowers the zip of her dress.
The dress loosens slightly at the shoulders.
“You said something about doing what I want to you?” she murmurs.
“I also said walk safely.”
She steps closer. “I’m home now.”
I slide a hand to her waist, slow enough that she can step back if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
“You were watching Rowan’s story, weren’t you,” she says softly.
“Maybe.”
She studies me. “Did it make you jealous?”
I’m honest. “A little.”
She smiles. “Good.”
And then she kisses me. Not frantic. Not rushed. Just sure. Then before I know it, she’s tying her hair above her head, getting down on her knees and taking every inch of my cock into her gorgeous, strawberry coloured lips.
And fuck, I am the luckiest man alive.