Page 94 of Filthy Little Regrets

“Thought I was holding you hostage.”

“Don’t argue with me,” she growls.

“But I like it when you get grumpy.” She flexes around me and I groan. “That’s not fair.”

“You are the last person who should be talking about fair,” she says, shaking her head.

I stop moving my fingers. “Are you going to answer the question?”

“Something I haven’t even told Rose?”

“Mm-hmm.” I want a piece of her that’s only for me.

“Okay,” she begins. “I guess...I haven’t told Rose how lonely I really am.”

She’s obviously touch starved, and she’s lived alone for years, just like me. Sure, I’m on the property, but every night, I end up in my home, alone, no one to share the evening with, no company. “It’s weird when you leave a party or even drinks with a friend, isn’t it? With other people”—I move over her clit—“they distract you from yourself, but when you get home, and you’re alone, that silence can be suffocating.” That’s probably why she likes her headphones so much.

Music takes up space.

She nods.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

“Okay,” she says, hesitant.

“Whenever we’re home together, no matter how late I might get home, we can watch shows or do whatever mindless thing you want together.”

“You want to . . . hang out with me?”

“Baby, you have no idea.” With my free hand, I guide both her arms over my shoulder, and she links her fingers behind my neck, back arching and breasts jutting into the air. “Magnificent.”

“Why do you always say stuff like that?”

“I’m asking the questions here,” I remind her, thrusting up.

“Yesss,” she rasps.

Pride fills my chest. “How many times have you wanted to knee me in the nuts?”

“Too many to count.”

I laugh. “Do you like chocolate?” I pump into her. Twenty questions is a long time to torture myself.

“Yes, that’s a dumb question.”

“Why did you pick red hair?” I ask, grinding deep inside of her, and my wife presses back, helping me reach that delicious spot.

“Red was my dad’s favorite color. Next question.”

“Cats or dogs?”

“Cats.”

“Rain or snow?”

“Rain,” she rasps, brushing her fingers through the hair on the back of my head.

“Do you like me?”

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