Page 7 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

I’m not wasting it.

CHAPTER 2

NO SEX WITH MY HUSBAND (PROBABLY)

ROXY

* * *

There are only three ways I wake up after a night like last night. Either still drunk, deeply aroused or emotionally unwell but wearing great lashes and with perfect tits.

Today, I’m all three.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling fan like it’s personally responsible for my marriage. Chase’s T-shirt is soft against my skin and smells like him.

The itinerary I found under the sink after my shower last night is under my pillow, smug as hell.

And my thighs are still mad at me for not wrapping them around his waist, or his head, last night and ruining everything.

Rolling out of bed, I grab the scrunchie that dislodged in my turbulent slumber, Chase tried to get in bed beside me, and I shoved him out, so he laid out on the floor. I slept like shit without him beside me. I always do.

Pulling my hair back up, I head into the bathroom to brush my teeth before stomping toward the sounds in the kitchen like I’m headed into a legal deposition.

As I hit the hall, I smell bacon and vanilla and my coffee order—extra cinnamon, a splash of oat milk, and one pump vanilla syrup, topped with thick and creamy cold foam.

Rounding the corner, I stop in my tracks.

Of course, he’s there. Shirtless. Hair messy. The scruff on the lower half of his face instantly causes a reaction.

He’s casually flipping French toast on the griddle like he’s not the reason I’m contemplating committing a felony before 9AM.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says without turning.

Did he spy? I mean, I wore it to bed and technically it’s our room, but whatever.

“You’re in my kitchen.” I snap.

Uh, what? Since when do I give a shit about the kitchen? That’s his domain.

“This is technically our kitchen.” He casually replies.

“I claim full custody of the French toast and visitation rights to the bacon.”

He plates the food with zero fear and sips from his mug, my mug actually, the one that says, “Have a nice day” but has a raised middle finger on the bottom. He sees me looking and grins. “I love this mug.”

I glare. “I hope your eggs curdle.”

He slides a plate across the counter toward me.

“You’re welcome, babe. My shirt looks better on you.” His gaze rakes me from head to toe before slowly moving back up again.

Why is my husband so damn fine?

I want to jump him. Right now.

I also want to stab him with a butter knife.

Instead, I take a bite and moan as I chew.

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