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  Is that as fucked-up as it feels? I raise the glass to my lips, draining it empty, trying to wash the feeling away.

  And my whispered words slice the stillness of the moment. “All of this only works if you’re here. It begins with you, it ends . . .”

  I’m not good with flowery, romantic kinds of words. But she makes me wish I was.

  Because she’s more than my wife—more than the owner of the pussy that has me so very whipped. She’s my love, my home, the solace to my soul, the keeper of my heart, the center of my entire fucking world. The only reason I really believe in my own goodness is because I see it reflected in her eyes.

  “Without you, I don’t know how . . . I don’t know what I’d do.”

  A sad smile haunts Chelsea’s rosy lips as she rises and plants herself on my lap. My arms automatically wrap around her.

  “I know what you would do.” Her fingers comb through my hair soothingly, rubbing at the base of my neck. “You would hold all the kids at once, because your arms are big enough to do that. And you’d let them all sleep in the bed with you, so you could be right there if they needed you. Then, after a few days, you’d lead them through it—get them back on schedule. Back to the routine. You’d still be broken inside, but you would tape yourself together because you’d know that’s what they needed.” Her warm lips press against my jaw and her breath tickles my neck. “Life would go on. And after some time, you’d meet someone. A kind woman. Smart. Maybe a lawyer who always wanted kids but never found the time.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Chelsea,” I curse—because I don’t want to hear this.

  “She would fall in love with you so easily. And with them. And it would all be okay. It would be a good life—a different life, but still good.”

  My eyes burn behind my eyelids, because I don’t want any part of that fucking life. She’s right, in a way—I would go on—just like I’d want her to. You don’t have a whole lot of choice when you have kids—when you love them like you’re supposed to. You suck it up. Move heaven and hell to make sure they’re all right.

  But it’d be a waking nightmare for me—every horrible second without her.

  My hands press her closer. Melancholy fingers scrape her back, her thigh. “Don’t ever leave me. Promise me you’ll be with me always. I know it’s not a promise you can make . . . but do it anyway.”

  Chelsea punctuates each word with a gentle kiss—to my forehead, my nose, my jaw, my cheeks, my closed eyelids. “Never. I’ll never leave you, Jake Becker. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever . . . never.”

  When her mouth settles on mine it’s like lighting a match. Sparking a needy, frantic fire. Because I have to feel her—alive and vibrant—beneath me, surrounding me.

  I should take her to our room, but I don’t. I should slow down, but I can’t.

  All I can do is set her on the table and strip the fabric from her body with trembling hands. Kiss her like there’s never been a tomorrow, lick her skin and swallow her moans.

  I grip the back of my shirt, pulling it off, and my pants follow. My fingers rub and delve between her legs, feeling sleek, slippery wetness, and then I’m pushing inside her. That first thrust—the slide of her smooth, tight walls against my hot, hard cock. Fucking unreal. Like it’s always been with her. Like it always will be. Her body welcomes me, then clamps down like it can’t bear for me to leave. And just like every time before, the thought flits through my mind, that nothing will ever feel better than this—it’s as good as it can ever possibly be.

  And just like every time before, I’m proven so fucking wrong.

  My strokes are steady and long, more demanding, harsher than they should be. I cradle Chelsea’s head in my hands, my fingers pulling her hair free so it cascades down her flawless back. Her feet lock around my waist, pulling me closer, and our chests meld together. The solid swell of her stomach, where our child sleeps, presses against my lower abdomen. Chelsea tilts her head back, holding on to my gaze for as long as she can—until it’s too much. And the feverish, rising, fucking sublime pleasure forces her lids to close and her lips to part.

  I curl over her, my hand tightening in her hair, my hips driving faster.

  “Jake . . . Jake . . .” She comes hard, her muscles contracting, the gasp of my name on her perfect lips.

  Then Chelsea goes slack, cradled safely against my chest. I slip my hands under her ass, lifting her off the table—plunging inside her again and again with wild, barely controlled abandon. Her hands cling to my shoulders. Trusting me, taking me, giving me everything I could ever need.

  My hips circle, drag, and then with a final thrust and ragged groan, I come so deep inside her.

  For several long moments, my lips rest against the top of her head, smelling the sweet clean of her hair, while her hands trace up and down my spine. The storm of guilt and apprehension churning in my gut quiets. Because that’s the power she has, this lithe wisp of a woman—her voice calms me, and her touch gives me peace.

  Chelsea’s face lifts to mine, wearing a drowsy but satiated grin. “Better?”

  I play with her hair. “Yeah. Better.”

  “Good. Now I need another bath. You got me all dirty.”

  My lips smile easily now. “I like you dirty.”

  She nips at my shoulder. “Feel like joining me?”

  I let her go just long enough to grab our clothes from the floor. Then she’s back in my arms and I’m guiding us down the hall. “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 7

  February

  Chelsea came home late from work again last night—after nine. Not that I mind doing my part with the kids—but being five months pregnant she should be taking it easier. So early the next morning, I head over to the museum to chat with her moron of a boss. I know Chelsea won’t be in until the afternoon.

  I’ve only met the guy once, but I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt that he’s just a moron—not a total dickwad—who doesn’t realize the extra projects, the staying later to “help out” shit needs to stop. Chelsea loves this job, so I’ll be nice about it.

  At least—nice is the plan.

  That plan goes up in smoke when I stand outside Gavin Debralty’s open office door, out of sight, but within earshot of the two men inside.

  “Chelsea getting knocked up sucks for you, Gavin—I know how badly you wanted to get up in there.”

  I hear a slimy-sounding snort in reply, and then, “Oh, I’m still getting up in there—count on it. Just need to speed things up before she gets too fat.” They chuckle, and my blood turns to ice. “Though I guess it won’t make a difference if she’s a hundred pounds or three hundred—those lips will feel just as good around my cock.”

  Some people talk about their anger like an explosion—boiling lava, blistering fury. But I don’t work that way. My rage is cold. Detached, callous, brutally unyielding.

  You know the difference between a scalding and frostbite?

  A burn takes off skin. Frostbite will take your whole fucking limb off.

  I step into the doorway, my fists clenched at my sides like two hammers. The piece of shit Gavin was talking with—a coworker of Chelsea’s I met at the Christmas party—pales to a sickly white when he spots me.

  “Crap.”

  Gavin turns around and meets my gaze. For a second he looks surprised, maybe even afraid, then his expression slides slack with indifference. The kind of countenance that says he thinks he can do anything, say anything, and tough tits to anyone who doesn’t like it.

  He should enjoy that feeling. Won’t last long.

  His companion mumbles an excuse and smartly scurries around me out the door. Gavin turns to face me as I step into the room, rolling his blond head on his neck, lifting his average-size shoulders, like he’s loosening up for a fight.

  Such a dumb fuck.

  Too stupid to realize he’ll never have the chance to take a swing.

  “Listen,” he starts, “sorry you had to hear that, but—bro to bro—I got
ta tell you, your little wifey has been on my jock since day one. The way she—”

  His words cut off—along with his air—when my hand lashes out and wraps around his windpipe. I press him back against the nearest wall. Squeezing.

  “Another word,” I tell him softly, “and I’ll rip your throat out.”

  Before the Judge took me under his wing, I had a nasty temper. With his help, I learned to lock it down. But that’s the thing about rage—it never really goes away; it just sleeps. Mine’s wide awake at the moment, pounding against the bars of its cold cage, begging to be set loose.

  Just for a few minutes. That’s all it needs.

  Gavin’s face starts to redden and his fingers claw pathetically at my hand as I lean in close and tell him, “I’m going to ask you some questions—you’ll nod or shake your head to respond. If you lie, I’ll know, and I’ll hurt you.”

  His struggle lessens and I take that to mean he understands.

  “Have you ever touched Chelsea?”

  He shakes his head frantically.

  “Have you ever scared her?”

  Another shake in the negative.

  “Have you ever made her feel uncomfortable?”

  There’s an infinitesimal pause—then he gives me another shake of his head. I release his throat, but before he can draw a breath, my fist drives up deep into his diaphragm. Because that last answer was a fucking lie.

  He doubles over, gagging on air and retching bile. I yank him back up, eye to eye. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Gavin. Chelsea’s not coming back here—she quits—consider this her resignation. From now on, you don’t think about her, you sure as shit don’t talk about her. If you glimpse her on the street, you run the other way and make damn certain she doesn’t see you. You’re going to write her a reference letter, so she can get another job that doesn’t include a sniveling scumbag like yourself. And that reference better be radiant, Gavin—every word of glowing praise we both know she’s earned. Put it in an envelope, tape it to the outside of your office door, and don’t be here when she picks it up.”

  He nods, still wheezing.

  My voice is low, deadly. “You fuck with my wife, you fuck with me. And in case you haven’t realized it yet, I’ll spell it out for you: you do not want to fuck with me.”

  The rage inside, the one with my father’s voice, clamors for at least one broken bone—his arm, his jaw, his fucking spine.

  But the image of six sweet, smiling faces who need me, holds me back, gives me the strength to walk out the door, and leave Gavin Debralty bruised but not broken.

  ****

  I use the walk from the museum to the law firm to pull my shit together. By the time I walk into the conference room for our weekly meeting, I assume I look normal again.

  And . . . I’d be wrong about that.

  Stanton, Sofia, and Brent stare at me with wide eyes as I sit down. For several long seconds, no one speaks. Then Stanton ventures, “You all right, man?”

  I glare at the file on the table in front of me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Sofia tucks her long dark hair behind one ear. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look kind of . . . murderous, Jake.”

  “That makes sense.” I grind my jaw. “Almost just killed a guy. I didn’t—but I could have.”

  Brent’s eyebrows lift high. “Well, there’s something you don’t hear every day—even in this business.”

  Stanton leans forward. “Maybe you should elaborate . . . just in case.”

  That’s probably a good idea.

  After I tell them the whole story, Brent and Stanton are firmly on my side. They get it.

  Sofia? Not so much.

  “Wait a second. You quit her job for her? And you think Chelsea is going to be okay with that?”

  In retrospect—probably not. And yet, I can’t make myself give even a single fuck.

  Because I’m pissed that she didn’t tell me the cocksucker she works for was making her uncomfortable. That she’s likely been dealing with his looks and suggestions—and Christ that better be all she’s been dealing with—on her own.

  “What other choice did he have, Soph?” Stanton asks. “I sure as shit wouldn’t want you working for a dickhead like that.”

  Sofia’s eyes narrow—because she is woman, and she’s never been shy with the roaring.

  “Why does Chelsea have to leave a job she loves and the dickhead gets to stay?”

  Brent adds his two cents. “She’s got a point, Jake. I learned the hard way not to mess with my girl’s career—remember? On the other hand, Chelsea will be going on maternity leave soon.”

  “And she had the option of going back after the baby’s born,” Sofia counters. “But now that option is gone.”

  On that note, my phone alarm chirps. Because my ass needs to be in court in twenty minutes.

  On the way over, Sofia’s comments start to sink in and I decide to at least give Chelsea a heads-up about what I’ve done. I try to call her, but she doesn’t pick up. If Gavin has half a brain cell, he’ll do what I told him . . . and Chelsea and I will be discussing the aftermath face-to-face.

  ****

  Court adjourns early, so I make it home by four. Early enough to send home the babysitter, who’s usually there when the kids get off the bus. Chelsea typically works until six on Wednesdays, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised that she’s not home earlier today.

  There’s a din of chatter around the dining room table as the kids bustle around, simultaneously unpacking backpacks, talking about homework, asking to go to friends’ houses, wondering what’s for dinner, and seeking permission to have a snack. I sit in a chair at the end of the table, legs stretched out, arms folded—eyes glued to the doorway.

  Until I hear the front door slam open with a meaningful bang.

  And my gorgeous, pregnant wife appears, pinning me down with the blue fucking fire in her eyes.

  She breathes out hard through her nose “We need to talk. Outside. Now.”

  The kids all freeze midmotion. In any other case, it’d be funny—the way their attention is instantly captured.

  “We sure do,” is my simple reply.

  Raymond starts to whistle the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars.

  As I stand and follow Chelsea toward the kitchen, Rosaleen sings, “Someone’s in trouble.”

  “And for once, it’s not me,” Rory points out. “Take note, people.”

  ****

  Through the kitchen and out the back door onto the patio we go. As soon as the door is shut, Chelsea whips around, waving an opened envelope at me.

  “What the hell is this? And why did Gavin inform me—through his closed office door, I might add—that you’d given him my resignation?”

  I cross my arms. “I’m more interested in hearing about the sexual harassment you’ve been silently suffering for God knows how long and why the hell you didn’t clue me in on it.”

  Now she crosses her arms and cocks a hip. “I like my job, Jake—it wasn’t that bad—and I knew you’d make a big deal about it.”

  I keep a tight rein on my voice—and my temper—though I gotta say, it’s a battle.

  “Hearing that cocksucker tell your coworker how he couldn’t wait for you to blow him sounded like a pretty fucking big deal to me. Guess I’m funny like that.”

  She blinks up at me. “He said that?”

  My nod is quick and sharp. “And his choice of words wasn’t nearly as nice.” I point my finger. “You should’ve told me you were dealing with that.”

  “I was handling it!”

  Those four words push me right to the edge. “You obviously weren’t handling it, since the scumbag was still spewing shit about you. That won’t be a problem anymore.”

  Her jaw is clenched and her chin is high—and if I wasn’t genuinely fucking furious, I’d be really turned on right now.

  “I’m not quitting my job, Jake.”

  “You already have.”

 
“I’m not quitting my job, Jake.”

  My voice goes soft, dropping to a lethal whisper. “Let me make this crystal clear. If that fucker gets within twenty feet of you ever again, I will put him in the ground. You’re not going back there. Period.”

  Chelsea’s arms flail out to her sides and she yells, “Who are you?”

  “I’m your husband.”

  “Really? I don’t remember exchanging rings with a fucking caveman!”

  I lean down over her, almost nose to nose. “Then you weren’t paying close enough attention.”

  She glares up at me for a few seconds; then she closes her eyes and breathes deep, stepping back. When she focuses on me again, the fury has faded—replaced with something more dangerous. Resentment.

  “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

  “I’m completely calm. You’re the one pitching a fit. And apparently you can’t fucking talk to me at all.”

  It seems I’ve got some resentment issues of my own. Brent would say this is healthy—getting it all out in the open. That theory can go suck a dick.

  Chelsea’s hand goes to her stomach—to the bump—rubbing circles. She takes another deep, cleansing breath. “The kids have homework, we have to start dinner, Rosaleen’s piano teacher will be here any minute. We’ll finish this later.”

  She moves around me to the door but stops when I call her name.

  “Chelsea. It’s already finished.”

  She hisses at me through clenched teeth, “God, you are such an asshole sometimes!”

  “Whatever.”

  After that, we do our best to ignore each other the whole fucking night.

  ****

  Dinner? Done.

  Dishes? Clean.

  Kids? Asleep. Or at least, pretending to be, which works for me.

  Chelsea and I share the bathroom sink space, brushing our teeth, our arms moving in matching, violent jerks, both of us avoiding the mirror and instead glaring at the faucet like it insulted our mother.

  I finish first, walk into the bedroom, strip down to boxer briefs, and slide between the cold sheets. A minute later the bathroom light goes out, and I watch, through the moonlit, shadowed room, as Chelsea walks around to the other side of the bed. She climbs in—staying as far away from me as she possibly can without actually falling off the mattress.

  I stare at the ceiling, one arm slung above my head, listening to the sound of her tense, harsh breaths. And God, I know it makes me sound like a pussy—but I want to hold her. As frustrated as I am with her ridiculous stubbornness, as infuriated as I feel about the entire fucking debacle . . . I love her.

  It’s a constant, living, needy thing inside me. My arms twitch with the urge to pull her close, to feel her, warm and supple against me.

  My voice comes out in a gentle, jagged whisper.

  “Chelsea . . .”

  Slowly, she turns on her side, facing me. We watch each other in the darkness for a few seconds, then she insists softly, “Our discussion is not over.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’m going to be really mad at you again in the morning.”

  My hand finds her jaw, stroking, before moving through her hair. “I can live with that.”

  She gives me a tiny nod, and then—she moves in close, resting her head on my chest. I wrap my arm around her, holding tight. And there’s a small comfort in the idea she needs this every bit as much as me.