Page 112 of This Woman Forever

“No eggs,” she yells at the closed doors.

And it becomes clear. She’s got the hump because she can’t have eggs?

“You okay?” I ask calmly, hoping she’ll syphon some off me and bring it down a notch or twenty. All over eggs?

“I can eat eggs,” she shouts. I beg to differ. Just ask the World Wide Web. “What’s the new code?”

“Excuse me?” If she asks nicely, I might share. But she doesn’t look like she’s in the mood for nice this morning. Fine by me. It just means she’s going nowhere. Again, fine by me.

“You heard,” she snaps, blindly hitting the keypad as she drills holes into me with her blazing glare.

“Yes, I heard.” Is there any need for this? It’s a complete overreaction. I’m not accepting it. “But I’m giving you a chance to retract that tone.”

She momentarily looks taken aback. I don’t know why. My wife needs to understand that if she’s unreasonable, I will call her out. If she talks to me like I’m a petulant child, I will call her out.

Quickly gathering herself, she deflates with a sigh and comes to me. Oh good. She’s seen reason. I don’t want to leave on bad terms. I don’t want us to leave each other at all, no surprises there.

Coming close, she leans up, and I dip, ready to catch her lips and her apology.

I can smell her breath. Her skin. Her... rage?

“Fuck... off,” she whispers quietly.

I jerk like I’ve just stuck my fingers in a live socket. What the ever-loving fuck? My ears bleeding, I watch her march away, pushing through the door into the stairwell with a bang. “Over eggs?” I gasp, feeling at my stubble. Jesus, that’s one small thing on a list I got fed up of reading. I know Ava won’t read it, so it’s down to me, which means it’s also down to me to share the information I learn. “Pray for me,” I say to myself, laughing under my breath when the elevator dings and the doors slide open.

Praying, bro.

I step inside and hope the thirteen flights Ava has to descend will be enough time for her to calm the fuck down. Clive looks up from his desk when I step out, his old face expressing his question before he asks it.

“No Mrs. Ward this morning, Mr. Ward?”

“She’s taking the scenic route,” I say, going to the stairwell door and waiting for her. I suppose this is one of the things she was talking about. Levels of smothering. Ava’s a smart woman. She must know pregnant women can’t eat eggs. She doesn’t want the eggs. She just doesn’t want me to tell her that she can’t have the fucking eggs.

The second the door opens, I move forward and walk her back into the stairwell, getting her up against the closest wall. She’s gasping for breath. Her cheeks are red. Her forehead’s damp.

“You’re not getting an apology fuck,” she breathes, her look an endearing mix of lust and pure filth. Her heart isn’t only hammering from overexertion now.

Close.

Contact.

“Mouth,” I say calmly.

“No, you’re not—” I cover her mouth with mine, slipping my tongue past her lips and sweeping wide, swallowing down her defiance, and she’s with me, grabbing my suit, climbing me like a fucking tree. Oh, she’s delightfully receptive. It makes her sulks laughable.

“Stubborn woman,” I whisper, nibbling at her lobe. “Someone’s gagging for it.” And it won’t hurt to remind her that no matter what, I can take her from zero to one hundred on the horny scale with one kiss and one touch. “Shall I make you scream in the stairwell, Ava?” I ask, smiling as she clings to me, silently begging me for it. Insatiable. Why does she fight it? I’ve got to admit, though. I do enjoy proving to her who has the power.

“Yes,” she gasps.

My dick’s screaming, begging me to put it in its favorite place, pleading for me to relieve it. I want to. I really want to. But long-term gains mean short-term sacrifices. So I detach my body from hers, mentally apologize to my cock, and leave her a panting, desperate mess propped against the wall. “Would love to,” I say, my voice low, my hard stare fixed on her flushed form. “But I’m late.”

Her realization is a beautiful thing to watch surface. Beautiful. “You bastard,” she whispers, not trying to seduce me into giving her what she wants—what we both want—because she has a point to prove. But today, I win. A little win, but it’s a win.

She swipes up her bag and pushes her way out of the stairwell, and I follow, smiling, adjusting my trousers as I watch her arse sway, her angry stomping feet giving it extra bounce.

She stops outside briefly before heading to her Mini. Here we go again.

She gets in, and I sigh, approaching and tapping the window as the engine roars to life. She takes the tip of her finger and presses a button with accuracy and a smile that would win any competition for sarcasm.

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