Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
And obviously, there was no possible way to ensure a woman whose name happened to start with an F would never introduce herself to my wife. Although, I guess I could take precautions and scan IMDB before we watch TV shows or movies to see if any of the characters—
No.
This is something I’ll have to talk to Doc about. I’ll need his help, because I have no clue how to un-trigger someone. I’ve never once in our marriage, or since I’ve known her, had to avoid certain topics, or words, or visuals, or even the fucking cologne I wore that night. I never had to. It was my own stupid insecurity that had me avoiding the subject of my dark desire; it wasn’t out of necessity, to keep from invoking an automatic negative reaction that would send the person I love most in this world into a spiral of anxiety and heartache.
But now, as I look deeper into those tear-filled green eyes, past the wetness gathered so densely atop the bottom lids it’s a wonder that it hasn’t spilled over and down her cheeks, the usual pain that’s always its sidekick isn’t there. I unconsciously lean closer to peer even deeper, and I’m actually startled as the movement sets Savannah into motion, launching herself toward me and closing the distance between us. Her arms circle my neck as she sobs, and I feel all those tears finally give up on holding back as they wet the side of my face. I feel them track down my cheek as if they are my own. For the second time today, when I hadn’t felt the sensation in so long.
A weight lifts off my chest even though Savannah rests all of hers against it. There’s still a tightness there, because I know we still have a long road of healing to face, and there’s an ache that will probably be there for the rest of my life for putting my wife through any of this in the first place. But for the first time in eight excruciatingly long months, my girl hugs me like she used to, with all the strength in her much smaller body, like she means it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SAVANNAH
I fold one leg up beneath me as I sit down on the couch cushion next to Roman, glancing up nervously at the seventy-inch TV screen mounted to the wall in front of us. He holds the Bluetooth keyboard that magically turns my Netflix-watching device into a computer. A computer we’re about to use to search up things I never in my life even considered before.
He tries to hand me the slim black plastic, but I shake my head as I hold up the coffee mug in my hand, using it as a scapegoat to not take the reins on this “homework assignment.”
“What should we type in first?” he asks, his dark brow rising as he looks at me cautiously, clearly not wanting to be the one to make the first move in this unknown territory. Which in itself shows just how sincere his apology was in the car and at our appointment—my other half has to feel the deepest regret if it’s weighed him down enough to subdue his normal dominance in all situations.
* * *
But I’ll be damned if I’m the one to initiate this… game. Yes, a game. I’ll look at this assignment as if it’s just a fun game we’ve decided to play in order to spice things up a little. If I view it like that, then maybe I won’t be suffocated by the magnitude of what we’re really doing—researching. Researching like we do when we want to learn all we can about a new toy, or a new power play, or a new set of characters we want to role play… before we actually end up trying it for ourselves. And we always—always—end up trying it for ourselves. So yeah, I’ll just pretend this is all a game and not what it actually is, the prelude to me eventually fucking some other man so my husband can watch.
* * *
Finally, I see a spark of the Dom I married in Roman’s midnight eyes before he turns to face the TV, and then he holds the keyboard in his left hand and types with the right. I bring my mug up to my lips and take a sip before glancing at the search bar at the top of the screen, peeking over the rim as I would a security blanket keeping me safe from the monsters in a movie we’re watching.
The letters appear one by one as I catch myself holding my breath and remind myself to exhale.
C-U-C-K-O—
Cuckoo Clock pops up in the suggested searches.
If only we were just looking up a cute little clock to add to our décor. But no, we’re…