Page 35 of Forgotten Romance

I straighten and glance over at my dresser. If my sweats are in there, I’ll change into them and ignore the way I want to fuck him. I’ll remember all the whys to the situation we’ve gotten ourselves into and forget the insanely sweet thing he did tonight.

If they’re not in there … I don’t think I’m strong enough to resist Davey wearing my clothes.

I flex my fists a couple of times, trying to convince myself this deal is stupid. If they’re in there or not, it’s not like I can just go and hit on my ex-husband.

We’re in two totally different places. He’s dated and slept around if his MyMatch profile is anything to go by, and I’m the forgotten ex who hasn’t gotten the memo.

But daaaamn, it’s been a long time. So long. If it was only one night, one hookup, would he be down for that? If he was getting it from me, casually, would he have to go out and find strange men while he’s in town?

I’m sure he has his options in all the cities he visits, but Kilborough is a small place, and I don’t want to be bumping into men who’ve sucked my husband’s dick.

It’s such a pretty dick.

The number of times we’ve been together is countless. I took it for granted, and where I could always count on another orgasm, now I struggle to even remember what he felt like against me, what he smelled like, how he sounded.

I crave it all again so much. The short visits home make these feelings manageable to resist, but it’s already been two weeks of life with him, and it’s not ending anytime soon. I’m one man, fighting for my life out here.

Fuck it.

With a decisiveness that doesn’t come easily to me, I cross my room to the dresser and tug open the drawer. All of my pants are folded sort of neatly, and I have to sort through the stacks twice before I’m sure.

They’re not here.

Those sweats he’s wearing are mine.

Heat flushes my face as I strip out of my clothes and grab my thinnest, sluttiest pair of sweats. They won’t keep me warm, but the kids will be asleep soon, and once that happens … I’m going to seduce my husband.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

Fuck.

I scramble into the pants and tug a pajama shirt on, not bothering to button up the front before going to answer it.

Of course, it’s Davey, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and a smirk on his lips.

“I thought you were taking a piss.”

“Wanted to get changed too.”

“Right …” His gaze trails down my torso, and I need to remind my dick that it’s nothing. Its time will come. “Just put Van to bed,” he murmurs. “Kiera crashed out on the couch.”

“That was fast.”

“Eh. It’s late, and Uncle Art wore them out today.” Davey turns to go. “I’ll put Kiera to bed, then we can watch?—”

I reach out and pinch the waist of his pants. Davey pauses, glancing down before looking back up at me.

“What are you doing?”

Honestly, I’m on autopilot. I have no fucking clue. “These mine?”

“Oh. Yeah. You know I like—” He cuts off and shrugs. “It’s never been a problem before.”

“And it’s not a problem now,” I croak.

If I’d been holding out hope for him buying the same pair and mine being, I dunno, in the wash or something, that doubt is gone now. He’s wearing my sweats. I made myself a deal.

Fuck, it’s hard to get the words out. Almost impossible to take that step. All I’d have to do is slip my thumb up, run it over his lower stomach, into that V I love so much.

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