Page 131 of The Reluctant Wife

I frown. "You sound like… you’ve had a lot of experience with this."

He hesitates, then slowly nods. "I have."

My heart sinks. An ugly feeling squeezes my chest. "How many women have you slept with?"

He frowns. "What does that have to do with anything?"

It shouldn’t. Really. Not when I only just met him. But I’m so attracted to him. The more I get to know him, the more I like him. And my instinct says I have a future with him, so… Yes. I want to know. And yes, I’m very, very jealous. That feeling in my chest tightens.

"You wanted to talk, didn’t you?" I tip up my head. "Well, this is your chance, talk."

He drags his fingers through his hair, then sighs. "I’m not a monk, and as you can tell"—he points at his still erect penis—"I have an appetite."

"No kidding," I say dryly.

"I’m not going to apologize for my past. I have been with women," he says softly.

Of course, he has.I know it. I knew it before he said it. I knew it as soon as I saw him. You don’t get to look like ad for GQ, and Country Living, and Sports Illustrated without having women fawning over you. But I’m a possessive bitch. I’ve always hated the idea of sharing the man I’m going to end up with, with anyone else. I also know that’s an irrational hope. Doesn’t stop that jealousy in my chest from growing harder. I glance around, then snatch up my blouse and pull it on.

"What are you doing?" He frowns.

"Getting dressed." I pull on my skirt. My panties are on the ground, so I leave them for now. I slide off the bed to stand with the length of the mattress between us.

"How many women, Tyler?"

A frustrated look comes into his eyes. "That was in my past, Cilla, you… You are my present. And my future."

"Future?" I blink.

"You don’t think, given this"—he gestures to the space between us—"this incredible connection between us, I’m going to let you go, do you?"

Pleasure pinches my nerve-endings, but it’s immediately tempered by this wariness knocking at the edges of my subconscious mind. "How many, Ty?" I ask again.

He stares at me steadily, then walks over to his clothes and pulls on his boxers, hiding that glorious, XXL-sized, baseball bat-shaped column he calls his penis…

And a part of me mourns it. My pussy is both regretful and slightly relieved. Okay, only one percent relieved, because secretly, I trusted what he said. He’d have made sure I came a few more times and that I was soaking wet. And while I’d have had to stretch to take him inside me, considering women have pushed out babies, I’d have probably accommodated him, ultimately. No doubt I’d have had the biggest orgasm of them all when we fucked.

So… Yeah, I’m more than a little disappointed. But I also know this conversation is very important. Especially if, as we both sense, there’s a future here for us. Not something I’ve felt with anyone else before.

He pulls on his pants, and damn, I wish I'd had the chance to feel him skin-to-skin, naked first—only, that would've meant there’d have been no way I could've stopped us from fucking. He shrugs on his shirt, but thankfully, he doesn’t button it, soflashes of that very impressive, drool-worthy, pecs of his remain visible.

He walks around and holds out his hand. I glance at it, then up at his face. There’s resignation and understanding, and lust and…more than a tinge of tenderness.Tenderness.It’s what I associate most with this man, along with that dominant, bossy, take-charge attitude I’ve found so hot from the very first time he opened his mouth and ordered me around. There’s no question of refusing him. I slide my hand into his.

He relaxes. I realize then, he was worried I’d refuse him. As if I could? I still want him. But he was right; this thing between us is serious enough that I also want to get to know him better.

"Come on, let’s get something to drink."

Priscilla

"You’ve got to stop feeding me like this." I chew another forkful of the pasta, savoring the creamy, complex textures of the dish. Turns out, he was hungry. So, he wanted, not only to have a drink, but also to eat dinner.

I didn’t demur when he began to whip up what turned out be an Aglio Olio e Pepperoncino—Pasta with olive oil, parmesan cheese, cream and pepper, in very little time.

After pulling on my blouse and skirt, I was content to sit at the counter and watch his graceful movements around the kitchen. I was right. The man can cook. And given how clean the space is, he must have a very efficient housekeeper, too. For someone who‘s so keen to jump into bed with him, I have so many questions.

He pours us both a glass of white wine; it's clean and dry on the palate. I may have left home at eighteen, but my tastes werealready refined by then. Enough to appreciate the kind of quality ingredients which only money can buy.

"I love taking care of you." He takes a sip of his wine and places the glass down.

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