Page 55 of Wild Side
We shouldn’t be playing this game at all. But Tabitha and I seem to get a thrill out of going toe-to-toe, and at least we can fall back on newlywed antics if we get caught with our hands down each other’s pants.
“Friendly reminder that this marriage isfake,” she mutters, focusing just a little too hard on the table where our friends sit.
“Nothing fake about how wet you are right now.”
A low rumble of a laugh spills from her lips as she offers Rosie a smile from across the room before spinning to face me. Her movement pulls our hands from each other’s clothes, and with me now pressed up against the wall, she looks perfectly confident again.
Her hands glide up over my lapels again, just like they did during the ceremony. But where she looked like a deer in the headlights then, she looks like a wolf in the forest now.
“Poor husband.” She pouts dramatically. “Obsessed with a pussy he’ll never get.”
I smirk and arch a brow at her. “Is that so?”
She nods and smiles like the Cheshire cat as her thigh slips between mine. Her hip presses against my erection. “It’s okay.” She pushes onto tippy-toes and presses a kiss just beside my mouth. A fucking tease. “I promise to give you privacy while you consummate this marriage with your hand later tonight.”
With that, she turns and saunters away. And I’m left standing alone at my own wedding reception with a raging hard-on and a brain full of thoughts about my wife that I swear weren’t there mere days ago.
CHAPTER 21
TABITHA
I walktoward my house with a new husband trailing behind me and a ruined pair of panties beneath my dress. Though I’ll never give him the satisfaction of admitting it out loud.
Ford gave us a ride back from dinner, and it was so short that no one got a word in edgewise over Rosie raving about the food. Not gonna lie, I live for that kind of praise. Knowing that something I made—a menu I created—brought a friend so much joy brings a deep, satisfied hum to my bones. It’s the simple things that get me off.
Plus, all it took was one glance for me to see that while Rhys wasn’t battling the full erection he had earlier, the front of his pants was still lookingthick. He busted me staring at his lap, and I was grateful for the cover of darkness so he couldn’t see just how hot my cheeks flushed. Needless to say, I quickly found somethingveryinteresting out the window.
Oh, I’ve decided.
Just remembering the way the words came out—full of so much promise—had me crossing my legs to press down on an unwelcome throb.
I hadn’t set out to taunt him. He’s just so… smug. So sure of himself. So perfectly in control all the time that flustering himhas become my new favorite pastime. It’s in those moments that I get a glimpse of passion from him.
The low hum of the TV drifts from the living room, a sure sign that Cora, Ford’s daughter, is still awake after babysitting Milo for the night.
Reaching down, I hook a finger under each stiletto heel in turn—they’ve been trying to kill me all night long—and fling them into the front closet with a vengeful toss. When my bare feet hit the floor, I groan and let my eyes flutter shut.
“Sore feet?” Rhys’s deep timbre startles me.
“Jesus Christ. You’re like a massive ninja sneaking up behind me. It makes no sense.”
He’s about to respond when a cheerfulprow prow prownoise draws our attention. And there’s Cleocatra, gunning for Rhys like he’s her best friend. She presses her forehead against his slacks, her tail curling around his calf as she rubs herself against him like a stripper on a pole.
I giggle. “She loves you.”
“The feeling is not mutual,” he grumps, standing frozen as he stares down at her.
I bend at the waist and stroke the top of her head, getting a few purrs out of her, though she never stops circling Rhys. “Cleo,I’mthe one who rescued you. A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt.”
“Yeah, cat. Like Tabby instead.”
I roll my eyes. Disliking Cleocatra is impossible. Rhys is just…
I blink as I look back at myhusband. Rhys has a way of shutting everyone out. I’m not sure what it is, but something about the moment makes me wonder if the man I married even knows how to let someone love him.
He’s not overt in the ways he shows his affection. It’s all sullen acts of service or restrained thumb strokes to show support. And if I think too hard on it, it makes me sad. So, inan effort to escape the big, overwhelming man that I know little about, I pad through the foyer and into the living room.
Cora lounges on the couch with a sketch pad against her legs and a pencil in her hand while professional wrestling plays on the TV.
