Page 8 of Every Good Thing
An easy “hi” slips out with a wave. Remembering his bad dream, I ask, “Everything okay?”
“No,” he breathes. “The bed’s too cold without you.”
A single stride brings him to me, front and center. Commanding and determined. He eases the mug from my hands and sets it on the laundry counter while keeping his gaze on mine. Holy shit—he hasn’t even touched me, and I’m a breathy, hot mess for my thudding heartbeat and prickling skin.
God, this man.
Ever calm and collected, he takes me in as if scientifically registering my heightened anticipation to determine the most effective moment to—
His lips land on mine almost roughly. Hands grazing my cheeks, our familiar tangle deepens in a breath. Major tongue action has me tugging him closer by the shoulders, desperate for more of him. His hands travel down my backside, squeezing my ass before lifting me up and, pressed against him, I realize I’m trembling for him.
Fucking trembling.
I’ve learned many things about being married to Ben Wright—for one, this never gets old. I do whatever feels right (and it always feels right), but Ben is a sex practician. He turns me on in a blink, like a skill he’s honed as we’ve been together. Hell, more than once, he’s reduced me to mush with only a coy look from across the room. The slightest upturn of his lips and the laser focus of his gorgeous green eyes are enough to make me go wild and attack him with tongue-laced kisses.
And this will have me tingling the rest of the day. How will I serve customers under these conditions, all flushed, blushing, and trembling with hot Ben aftershocks sure to come?
I tuck that in my worries-for-later file.
Why don’t we start every day this way? I can’t remember the last time we were together. Small things pile up between then and now, stretching and confusing my memory. Has it been that long?
That’s another thing I’ve learned about marriage—the longer it is, the more you lose that beautiful urgency that once had you racing to the bedroom. Or you’re too busy and tired to entertain it.
A soft moan escapes me when he sets me against the spinning washer and yanks off my shirt. My fingers rake through his short blond hair while his mouth slips warmly over my chilled skin. He nibbles my collarbone and grazes my shoulder. I love the feel of his stubble scraping down my neck and the familiar way his fingers knead my back, rough and delicate at once. He’s about to peel off my bra when the wash cycle ends, interrupting our fun times with an annoying buzz.
He sighs and rests his head against my chest. Then, with a swift move that flexes all his incredible chest muscles, he scoots me against him, lifts me off the machine, and carries me out of the laundry room.
“What’re you doing?”
“Taking you to bed.”
Crossing the living room, my to-do list screams, taking center stage in my head. “Um, I don’t have much time.” Or any, if I’m honest.
Ben stops abruptly, his intent gaze diving into me and reading my contemplation. “I’ll help with setup. Please, Lena. Just stay.”
The soft desperation in his eyes fills me with love and worry in a breath as if one can’t exist without the other. I’m about to agree—to give him a wild, wet kiss while mumbling for him to “take me to bed” in a dramatic, soap opera fashion. But as I quickly reshuffle my mental schedule, I glance at the oven’s digital clock.
He stiffens. “Damn it, Lauren.”
I gawk at him, breathless and devastated. His grip loosens, and my feet land gently on the cold wood floor.
“What? What did you say?” The words sputter out like I’m choking, but I know exactly what he said—Lauren. I sign my question, too, in case he can’t hear me.
He looks frustrated and perplexed, as if I’m the puzzle here. His eyes drift from me to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he manages.
“Who the fuck is Lauren?” I demand stronger now with words and hands.
“No one. It’s nothing. It’s work-related. Don’t read into it.” He’s calm, but irritation pools around his edges like a headache he’s trying to thwart with all his mental energy. “I have a lot on my mind.”
I bristle. “Yeah, someone named Lauren. How can I not read into it?”
“Because I love you, and you trust me.” He runs a hand through his short hair and shrugs. “It was an accident. That’s all.”
Stunned, I stand there like he’s turned me to stone. I trust him—he’s not the cheating type. But saying another woman’s name mid-seduction ranks high on the list of things a spouse should never, ever do. It’s worse than forgetting a birthday or leaving the seat up. This offense falls uncomfortably close to marriage’s cardinal sins—lying, stealing, manipulating, adultery. It feels too egregious to ignore.
I blink as tears fall out, and all of a sudden, I can’t fucking breathe. Lauren. That it eased from his lips so naturally—lips that I claim as mine—shakes me to my core and instigates my anxiety. I haven’t had a panic attack in years, and here I am, heart racing, fingers trembling, mouth going dry, and stomach twisting into tight knots. The sleeping predator inside me awakes with renewed vigor, uncaged and ready to pounce.
