Page 35 of The Devious Husband

She chuckles and pushes her hair behind her ear. “You just have to ask, Xavier. While I don’t have time to cook every day, occasionally making something you love isn’t much to ask of your wife, provided you’re willing to return the favor.”

I stare at her in disbelief, my heart racing wildly. “I love the sound of that,” I admit.

“Of me cooking?”

“Of you calling yourself my wife.”

She looks away and rises to her feet in a rush, but the smile she tries to hide speaks volumes. “Leave it,” I tell her as she reaches for our plates, rising from my seat. She looks up at me, and I smirk as I grab her wrist and pull her against me. “Tell me, Kitten… this dinner date, is this you deciding to stop running?”

She places her hand against my chest, her expression betraying a hint of insecurity. “What if it is?”

I look into her eyes as I thread my hand into her hair and tilt her face. “Then I’m going to kiss you, Sierra. No provocation, no tempting you into biting me just so I can feel your lips against mine?—”

Sierra rises to her tiptoes and cuts me off with a kiss, and I moan as I pull her closer, my hands roaming over her body as I step forward, forcing her back, until I’ve got her pressed against the wall. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

She moves her hand up from my nape, until the tips of her fingers lightly thread over my scalp. “No more waiting,” she breathes against me, her body moving against mine sinfully.

“No more waiting,” I agree as I lift her up against the wall, and her skirt rides up as she wraps her legs around me. She moans when I drive my cock into her, her grip on my hair tightening as her lips find mine again.

“Xavier,” she whispers, only for my blood to run cold when an alarm sounds through our house. I pull away from my wife and gently lower her to the floor, my stomach turning. “What’s that?” she asks, looking around.

I brush her hair out of her face gently, regret unlike anything I’ve ever known rushing through me. Is this a reminder that someone like me doesn’t get to be with someone like her? Is it fate intervening to show me that my past will never loosen its hold on me?

“I need to go,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Thirty-Two

Xavier

“I took care of it,” I tell Elijah as I pull up in front of my house, my clothes and hands stained with blood that isn’t mine, my mind numb.

“You made a mess,” he complains, the sounds of keystrokes in the background telling me he’s already dealing with the aftermath. “Couldn’t you have handled matters in a cleaner way?”

I walk into my house, weary to the bone. Images of everything that transpired keep rushing through my head, and I almost wish I could go back for another round, that I hadn’t permanently put an end to that asshole’s suffering.

“I didn’t have the patience for it.” I’ve yet to tell Elijah what exactly happened, and it’s best he never finds out. “You would’ve been a lot more brutal.”

“I wouldn’t have left evidence everywhere,” he retorts. “This is going to require one hell of a cleanup crew.”

“I don’t care, Elijah. It was worth it, trust me.”

I pause when I notice Sierra standing in the doorway to our dressing room, pure horror written all over her face as she takes in the blood I’m drenched in. “I need to go,” I tell Elijah, before ending the call.

Sierra takes a step toward me, but I walk past her and into the bathroom, my stomach turning. Why is she still awake at four in the morning? Fuck. She was never supposed to see me like this. My sweet wife was never supposed to find out that I’m not just the businessman she thinks I am, but there’s no way of undoing what she just saw.

I stand underneath the shower until the water finally runs clear and try my best to scrub off every last drop of blood, but there’s no washing away the darkness of my soul. I knew I wasn’t good enough for her, that she was too pure for me, too innocent, and for years, that knowledge was sufficient to keep me away from her. When did that change? When did I become so selfish that I pulled someone like her into the shadows?

I’m coated in self-loathing as I walk back into our dressing room wearing nothing but a towel, and Sierra tightens her grip on the first aid kit she’s holding. “Are you hurt?” she asks, her voice soft.

I wish I were. At least then, it wouldn’t have been so obvious that the blood on my clothes wasn’t mine. “No.”

She steps forward and kneels in front of me, her eyes zeroing in on my bruised knuckles. “Go to bed, Sierra,” I tell her when she reaches for my hand. “I’m not myself tonight. You shouldn’t be around me right now.”

I don’t have it in me to pretend tonight. I’m tired, broken, and desperate for just a fraction of her affection. I’d lose myself in her if I could, even if it’s only for a few moments.

“No,” she says as she begins to disinfect and bandage my knuckles. “I’m your wife, Xavier. Let me help you.”

I thread my hand through her hair and stare at her, taking in her angelic beauty, her gorgeous emerald eyes. She’s a fucking vision, and I’m not even remotely worthy of her. I’d forgotten, over the years. Our rivalry allowed me to escape my reality, gave me purpose, pushed me to be better — but for what? At the end of the day, I’m still a thug dressed up in expensive suits, and she’s damn near royalty.

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