Page 28 of I Almost Do

“Why didn’t you go?”

“Dad didn’t want me moving out of the house or going to a state school in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t think it was a real school if it wasn’t Ivy League. And he didn’t want me swimming competitively. There are crowds at swim meets. And sometimes the press. He was afraid… well, you know how he was.”

James stands, and I join him, easing the cap from my head as we walk toward the locker rooms. He hands me a dry towel, his expression disturbed. “You should have told him to fuck off and done what you wanted to do.”

I choke in laughing surprise, and he stops walking. I pause there in the short hallway to the locker rooms, turning back to see why he’s fallen behind. He’s scowling, his jaw tight and flexing.

He moves closer, and at the intensity of his fury, I take a step back, my shoulder blades kissing the wall.

He recoils. “Did you think I was going to hurt you?”

“Of course not.”

“You backed away.”

“I don’t like confrontation. You look angry.”

“I’m not angry,” he bites out.

“Oh—”

“I’m fucking pissed.”

I try to understand where this is coming from. “Why? What did I do?”

“What if I told you I forbid you from coming back to the pool?”

My heart sinks. “But… why?”

“Because you’re my wife, and I don’t want people seeing you here. What if some douche sees you in a swimsuit and decides he’s going to stalk you?”

“I—” My throat clogs. “No one else is here but the staff. You reserve the whole pool. Are you sure—”

“Tell me to fuck off.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“We’re having asparagus soup for dinner tonight. I expect you to eat it.”

“What?”

He moves closer and braces his forearm on the wall above my head. “You hate asparagus. Tell me to fuck off.”

Oh, this asshole.He’s doing a Bronwyn, except instead of gently coaching me to stand up for myself, he’s goading me. But I’m not afraid of hurting James’s feelings the way I was with my dad. James can handle it.

I reach up to grab hold of his thick wrist. I whisper, “Fuck off, James.”

He makes a sound in his throat and drops his forehead to mine. His voice is deep and growly when he says, “That’s my girl. Say it again.”

My nipples go diamond hard, and liquid heat pools low in my pelvis. “Fuck off,” I say, a little louder this time.

“I’m having a decorator redo the billiards room in pink.”

I snicker. “You are not. Fuck off.”

He smiles and clenches my waist through my wet swimsuit. His body presses against mine. It’s not the first time. We touch a lot. But they’re mostly casual touches—nothing overtly sexual.

This is different. This is wet skin and elevated emotions, and I already want him so badly my nerve endings vibrate with it. His cock is an iron bar against my belly.

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