THREE
“I know it’s none of my business…” Elizabeth trails off, but I don’t need to hear more to know that she’s talking about my father and the contents of that disk drive in my safe.
I glare at Weston. It’s just the three of us at the door to my apartment since Nate and Trish left earlier, and Sabrina made her goodbyes in the living room so she could get a head start on cleanup.
Though Weston doesn’t usually excel at social cues, he seems to understand that my glare means Thank you for running to your wife with the details of our private conversation; why am I surprised? “I told you—we don’t keep secrets,” he says, with absolutely no apology in his tone.
“How the fuck did you even have time?”
“You and Sabrina were alone in the kitchen for forever,” he says defensively.
Before I can attack—because believe me, I’m about to—Elizabeth intervenes. “When you were gone so long, I wondered aloud if you guys might need help, and Weston filled me in.”
“I thought you might be filling Sabrina in,” he explains.
A tasteless joke along the lines of yes, I was filling Sabrina in flits through my mind, but I quickly let it pass because I’m not twelve.
But Weston can detect an immature thought from a mile away. “Ah, I see from your expression that whole scene went down another way. Should we fist bump?”
“I could bump my fist in your face,” I say without any hint of humor.
Weston’s smile fades, and Elizabeth steps between us, as though I would actually throw a punch. “Obviously this is a personal matter between you and Sabrina.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” but I’ve spoken too soon.
“...But you really should lay everything out on the table,” she continues, and now I want to punch her in the face. “Even if it’s not a secret that matters, per se, if you’re worried that it’s causing tension, then it is.”
Surprisingly, she’s right. Though probably not how she intends to be. The reason my father’s bullshit is an issue in my marriage is because I’m worried that it might be. Sabrina most likely doesn’t know anything. I just need to stop worrying about it, and the issue goes away.
Good. Because I need the bandwidth to deal with the other issue that poked its head out tonight. Which first requires getting rid of our guests. “Thank you, again, Elizabeth. Your insight is nonpareil.”
She scowls. “I’m pretty sure you’re being facetious, but I’m going to pretend you mean it. In case I don’t see you again before we leave town…” She leans in to give me a kiss on each cheek, in the European fashion that she’s adopted in her time overseas. When she’s finished, she puts a hand on my arm and nods toward the apartment behind me. “Take care of her.”
Does she not know me? “Sure. Will do.”
When she moves out of the way, Weston takes a step toward me, but I put a hand up. “I’m seeing you tomorrow in the office. Goodbyes can wait until then.” Hopefully, he won’t feel the need to copy the cheek kiss when his wife isn’t around. I don’t need another reason to want to hit him.
With the last of our guests on their way, I shut the door, lock it, and pause to take a breath. Switch gears. Prepare myself for the conversation that is about to be had. I don’t want to fight with Sabrina, but I have a distinct feeling that it might be inevitable. It’s part of the reason I haven’t broached the baby topic again these last six months. I wanted to give her space, sure—space in my own way, anyway—but also it’s the one thing in a very long time that I’ve wanted for myself.
And Sabrina’s thirty now. This isn’t something that can be put off forever.
I give myself a quick pep talk. Be calm. Be patient. Be understanding. Then I turn off the foyer light and head to the living room…
…where I find Sabrina asleep on the sofa.
Initially, I decide she’s faking. But her breaths are regular and deep, and then I wonder if she’s fallen asleep on purpose so that she can avoid this talk.
Then I decide I’m being a paranoid asshole. It was a long night, and she’d played hostess—a role she isn’t naturally suited for. And then I fucked her pretty roughly. Of course she’s worn out.
I walk around the sofa and scoop her up in my arms.
“Hey,” she says, blinking up at me. “What are you doing?”
“Carrying you to bed.”
“No, I can walk.” But she wraps her arm around my neck and lays her head on my shoulder.
I chuckle. “Sure you can.” The conversation will have to wait. Again.
And I’m not mad. Or disappointed, even, because I’m holding my beloved next to my heart, and for a long time, I’d thought that being in her life at all was an impossibility. I have her forever now, and this can wait a little longer.
I don’t set her down until we’ve reached the foot of our bed. In the darkness, I undress her and tuck her in. She’s barely awake, but when I start to leave, her dress in my hand, she calls out to me. “Where are you going?”
“To finish cleaning up.”
“Leave it.” She pulls the covers back in invitation. To sleep, not fuck. She’s tired, and she wants to be held. I know her cues better than anyone.
For whatever reason, I study her, naked in our bed, before responding. The moonlight and the shadows sharpen her features. Her nose looks more prominent. Her breasts look more full. She’s a goddess, and she’s mine, and my dick throbs like a caveman beating his chest. It’s hard not to want to ravage her, but I’ve learned how to tuck my wants away. They’re always present—I never figured out the trick to suppress them entirely—just, I don’t allow them to dominate me.
What dominates me is her—her wants, her needs, her love. She lets me master her because she trusts that I’ll put her first. And I do. Every time.
So I leave the mess, and I ignore my cock. I throw her dress on the armchair and add my own clothes to the pile, and I shrug off the impulse to at least take care of our laundry before getting in bed next to her.
She turns so we can spoon, and I pull her into me, her flesh against my flesh. I kiss her bare shoulder and her neck, then lay my head down on the pillow.
“I love you,” she whispers.
She’s asleep by the time I make the decision not to respond. She doesn’t need to hear I love her anyway. She already knows.
“It should definitely be a woman,” Sabrina says, and not for the first time in the million discussions we’ve had about expanding Reach. “This place is already overflowing with testosterone. If we’re bringing in new blood, it should be female.”
Although this is a stance she’s taken repeatedly, today the statement feels directed toward me. We’d gone to sleep in each other’s arms, and this morning we’d been cordial, but there was an unmistakable hint of animosity between us. It’s a funny thing I’ve learned having been married to her for almost two years now—it’s possible to be both madly in love and just plain mad at the same time.
I know why I’m irritated. I figure her irritation means she knows why I am too, and that she thinks it’s invalid. She might be a little pissed that I’d pushed her for the fuck in the kitchen. She loved it, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t resent it too. Considering how I’d used sex as a weapon, I can’t really blame her if she does.