Page 61 of Perdition
“Angry sex is the best kind of sex, baby,” he purred, stepping into the bedroom for the first time in weeks. He promised himself, right then, he’d never go that long without stepping over that threshold again.
He would fix what he broke.
He would prove to Em that he was still the man she loved, the man who didn’t deserve her but still needed her, and would do anything to prove it to her.
He would show her that she was the only one he wanted, the only one he’d ever touched and would touch—if she gave him the chance.
Wait—no! He needed to be putty!
Putty against the wall! Take the impact and deal!
Right now, he was a fucking nail gun—hard as iron and ready to penetrate.
Swallowing, he took a step back, his balls aching like a bitch with the movement.
He raised his hands placatingly, and cajoled, “You’re right, though.”
At those words, Em’s mouth dropped open.
Not too soon after that, though, her mouth slammed closed, and her eyes narrowed at him.
“What’s you’re angle here, Frost? Rush in on me naked, get me all worked up, fuck me to get me compliant, and then what?” She threw her arms into the air, which—for the love ofGod!—made those luscious tits bounce just the way he liked. Her nipples, he noticed, were erect, begging for his mouth. He always liked the way her nipples and areolas seemed to grow darker with her desire—from blush pink to a cinnamon, from sweetness to spice.
Just like his woman.
He groaned, fighting the urge to readjust the writhing jungle anaconda in his jeans.
“No angle, baby. I’d just come in when I heard you scream, and I was worried something was wrong. I might be the asshole, baby, but I can’t shut off my need to protect you.”
She rolled her eyes, snorting. “Right. Protect me.”How do you protect me from you?
He could hear what she hadn’t said but probably wanted to.
She was holding it all in, waiting to unleash it on him.
And he’d take every drop of her anger if it meant emptying her of it so she could heal.
Turning away from him, she grabbed her ratty, lilac-colored cotton bathrobe from the bed, and slid it on. The robe had been a present from the twins six birthdays ago.
It was one of those luxury robes from some department store catalog, and Em had adored it on sight. She wore it every day—through morning coffee and oatmeal stains, to cleaning bloody boo-boos, to tears and snot and puke. That robe had been through many things with Em, and it was worn so thin in some places, he could see her pink skin through the fabric.
She tied the robe closed with practiced ease then pinned him with her gaze.
He felt like pouting like a baby when she covered all the beautiful naked skin, but he didn’t growl or snap or bite—though Em loved a good bite once in a while—like he wanted to. Instead, he cleared his throat and waited for her to speak again, because he knew his woman had a lot to say, and he would do anything she wanted him to do, even if it meant standing there in silence until she deigned to speak to him.
Finally, she broke the tense silence. “You know what? Wait for me in the living room. I can’t deal with you in here,” she commanded sharply, her gaze flicking to the bed then back to him, like she was remembering what they’d done there.
Again, she pressed her thighs together, which only made him want to make use of that bed.
Putty against the wall!
He obeyed his wife’s edict, spinning on his boot heels to stride right back down the hallway to sit on the couch facing the large flatscreen TV hanging on the far wall between the two living room windows. It was a present to himself last year.
He was ashamed to say he hadn’t used it much in that time.
He’d been gone. Working. Too busy. Caught up. Putting off going home.
Fuck if he could understand why.
