Page 79 of Keep Me

I don’t feel the need to fill the space in my life with parties and strangers anymore. I don’t miss any of that, although if I’m being honest, I hope Sylvie and I can get to a place in our relationship where I can introduce her to that lifestyle.

She might be a stubborn hothead, but I bet she would submit to me beautifully. I’d love to make her mine, have her on her knees for me, completely at my control.

Coming in from the fields, I stand in the doorway of my home, and I listen for her. In the deep, endless quiet, I hear the faint clicking of something upstairs. So, I move toward the sound, walking quietly so I have a chance of taking her by surprise before she can put on her armor of contempt.

When I turn the corner toward the library, I pause in the doorway and watch Sylvie at the desk near the window. She’s typing frantically on the old typewriter she once broke into this house to see.

Her wild honey-colored curls are piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She’s wearing a long-sleeved flannel I recognize as my own, and her gray-sweatpant-covered legs are folded in front of her as she leans over the typewriter.

Honestly, I don’t know how I’m supposed to resist her when she looks like this.

I clear my throat to grab her attention. The clicking stops, and she turns toward me with a gasp.

“You jerk!” she snaps. “You scared the shit out of me!”

I chuckle to myself as I enter the room. “What are you working on, mo ghràidh?”

She’s stopped reacting with venom toward my terms ofendearment, ones I used to use with sarcasm, but no longer do.

“I was feeling inspired so I started working on a new story,” she replies, turning back to the typewriter.

“On that old thing? Don’t you have a laptop?”

She shrugs. “It’s oddly motivating. I think it’s the clicking noise. Was it bothering you?”

I shake my head. “Not at all.”

“Pity,” she says flatly, and I chuckle again.

“Can I read it?” I walk up next to where she’s sitting and lean against the table, crossing my boots in front of me.

“Absolutely not,” she replies.

“Why not? Is it about me?” I tease.

“Maybe.”

“So, it’s about a dashing Scotsman with a massive cock?” I respond with a lopsided grin.

She rolls her eyes. “More like an ugly brutish drunk who can’t hold his whisky.”

I feign a gasp. “I’m offended. Does he at least know how to please his woman?”

She can’t fight the smile this time. “He’s average.”

Standing from the table, I cage her in, placing my hands on either side of the desk and press my lips toward the back of her neck. “Well, I bet the heroine has never complained before.” Then, I kiss her tenderly below her ear, and I revel in the way her skin breaks out in goose bumps.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love fighting with my wife. I enjoy how easily I can push her buttons, and doing so has quickly turned into my favorite thing to do.

Right after making her moan and purr in my bed every night.

I’ve witnessed the pleasure of countless women in my time, but Sylvie is by far my favorite. Because she fights it. Even her own orgasms are hard-fought. It’s like she prefers to suffer, as if it’s programmed in her psyche. So if I have to devote every moment of my life to teaching her to indulge in her ownpleasure, I’ll do it.

“So, does your book require anyresearch?” I ask as I deepen my kisses down her neck. I tug back the collar of the shirt she’s wearing to pepper more kisses along her shoulder.

She lets out a pleased hum. “Not that kind of research.”

Her words sound bothered, but her tone gives me hope. The thing I love about Sylvie is that she’s always in the mood. I still laugh to myself every time I remember that morning she woke up to tell me wewouldn’tbe partaking in a physical relationship, but she has never pushed me away since.

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