Page 95 of Deceit

Our feelings are like silent films that actively play out sentences in our heads as closed captions.

And I think Emmy loves me almost as much as I do her.

I also can’t blame her somewhat for not saying it either, but it doesn’t settle how I want it to in my chest. How we won’t give in. How we’re our own worse enemy, and we can’t muster the courage to break through and be the first to announce it.

Opening my door, I pull Emmy against me and step inside.

This woman is mine.

I just have to figure out what tomorrow means.

I’m in Bishop’s arms before the bedroom door even slams closed. My legs are comfortably wrapped around his body, right above his hips, as he kisses me like he can’t be another second without.

I melt into his hard chest as his tongue takes over, muddling what I’m attempting to do here.

I’mtryingto find a way out of being in love with my husband. And Bishop’s lips are weapons of mass destruction against any means to do that.

My rationality stops working when we’re like this—memorized and enthralled in each other—because I crave us so badly that reality takes a seat in the trunk of my messy life.

Bishop anchors the both of us in the middle of the room where we’re each other’s lifelines and the only thing to hold on to from falling back into the rut of our relationship.

The only thing to touch, caress and breathe.

He gets me in ways that no one else has. And in others, he doesn’t.

The ones that yearn to be filled with love. To be aware that it exists in this world somewhere only for me. That it holds somewhere safe within his broody frame.

That it’s even possible.

Bishop’s meaty hand rakes through my hair and pulls, exposing my throat to the graze of his soft lips and wet tongue.

He sinks his teeth into my carotid artery just enough for me to feel the sharp edges, then lapses the marks with a soft brush of his unstable tongue.

“Fucking addicting as all shit,” he growls deeply into the crook of my neck. “I don’t know what to do with you, Emmy.”

I hum in agreement. I don’t know what he needs to do with me either.

Divorce me, don’t divorce me.

Put me out of my misery or love me like he’s going to lose me.

Bishop bends over and gently places me on the bed, never allowing our chests to break contact. His mouth moves over mine again, clamping onto my bottom lip and tugging teasingly down on it.

It’s enough for my eyes to flutter open to find him already regarding me.

The way his blue eyes glimmer into sentiments that sometimes I think get lodged in his throat.

I should accept him fully for who he is. Still, my heart yearns for absolution that he’s mine, truly and comprehensively without hesitation or a second thought.

I can’t force myself to bring my guard down because I recognize what’ll happen if he betrays me or doesn’t return the sentiment.

Our marriage is this blanket of lust and carnal itch for each other created with liquid courage, closeted emotions with excuses laced in between them.

I don’t know his reasoning on why he won’t go through with annulling our drunk night in Vegas, but I believe his pride is playing a role.

However, I can’t be that stupid to be aware of things going on from time to time between us and imagined them all.

I don’t think anyway.

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