Page 246 of Accidental Husband
"Ooh, good loophole."
"I'd still be good at making you come." My gaze goes right to her thighs. Fuck, it's distracting having her in this position. In this state of undress. But there's no way I'm letting someone else do this.
"That is true. But, I, uh…" She clears her throat. "I have other means." She holds up her right hand. "Plus the toys. God, the toys." She shakes her headyou're ridiculous.
It's true. I am ridiculous. I've bought her a lot of toys. But it's not like she's shrugged them off.
We use them together all the time.
She uses them alone all the time.
When I'm lucky, she sends me pictures (or video) of her solo activities.
And I'm already hard.
Fuck, I need to concentrate. I take a deep breath. Recite the Angels line up. Think about the Dodgers World Series win. Could anything more despicable happen?
Jules hasn't stopped bragging.
The boys in blue could go a hundred years without making the play offs, and Jules would still be bragging about their World Series win.
She's adorable when she does it.
God, the way her cheeks flush and her eyes light up. The way she shakes with energy—
Shit, this isn't working. I need to think about something that isn't sexy. Which means I need to think about something besides my wife.
Even when she annoys me or hurts me or frustrates me, I want her. I want my hands on her. I want her lips on mine. I want her skin against mine.
Not just because she's gorgeous. Or because I love the sound of her groan. Or because I love the way she says my name.
Because I need her. All of her.
This is a big deal. She's letting me mark her skin. She's letting me mark her scars.
After we celebrated our marriage properly, we had a long, uncomfortable talk about what it meant for her to try. For both of us to be honest.
She bitch-slapped me with the truth. Made it clear I needed to give her space. Stay out of her healing. Never, ever make it about me and how it hurt when she lied or hid things from me.
It did. It still does. But I don't put that on her anymore.
It wasn't easy. She tried to white knuckle her way through quitting for a while. She'd slip up, hate herself for it, lock me out.
I got mad. Hurt. Angry. I thought I kept it to myself. I thought I dealt with it on my own. But she could tell. She could feel it radiating from my pores.
I guess that's what happens when you love someone with every molecule of your being. You can't hide shit from them.
We went to couples counseling.
I know, I couldn't believe it. I had no interest in spilling my guts to a stranger. But it helped. We built better boundaries. Learned how to process shit before we jumped. Learned how to really communicate with each other.
Then I started seeing someone on my own. I sorted out a lot of shit about my need to protect Jules, my inability to communicate verbally, my parents.
I still ignore my dad's calls, but I finally replied to one of my mom's letters. We're talking now. Well, we're getting there.
Jules started seeing someone too. It helped, but it wasn't a magic bullet. She started talking to her therapist. Finding other coping methods. Jogging or writing in her journal or scribbling lyrics on her skin (I don't know why it works, but it does).
One day, she woke up, and she realized she hadn't cut in a month.
