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I mean, I of course I am. I guess. Right? I have no right to be offended. Hell, I don’t know.
Silence descends once more as we finish our meal. I can't shake the gnawing fear that he regrets this already, regretsme. That I've left everything behind for an illusion of belonging.
My face colors. Oh my god. What if I’m too curvy for him? I know curves as thick as mine aren’t every man’s cup of tea. What if I’m not pretty enough?
I touch my hair self-consciously. What if he hates redheads?
All the what-ifs are still spinning through my mind when Colton stands abruptly, chair scraping harshly against the floor. I nearly jump out of my skin. "I have some things to take care of. I'll clean up later," he says gruffly.
He's gone before I can formulate a response, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway. I slump back in my seat, appetite evaporated. Is this what our life together will be? Ships passing in the night, never quite connecting?
I can only hope that time will thaw the icy reserve of my new husband. And pray that I haven't made a terrible mistake.
Colton
I stride down the hall, blood pounding in my ears, a roaring that drowns out everything but the need clawing under my skin. The need to touch her. To taste her. To bury myself in her softness and never come up for air.
Damn it all to hell.
I slam into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. My cock is harder than railroad iron, jutting against the confines of my jeans. All through that torturous meal, I couldn't stop imagining spreading Samantha out on the table, hiking that skirt up her creamy thighs, feasting on her sweet nectar until she begged for mercy.
The shame of it twists like a knife in my gut. She's not a object for me to rut against. She's my wife. A wife I barely know but who deserves more respect than the filthy fantasies running through my head.
I lean my forehead against the door, trying to catch my breath. To will the raging lust away. But it's no use. Growling in frustration, I yank open my fly, wrapping a rough hand around my aching erection. I pump furiously, images of Samantha's plush lips, the elegant curve of her neck, her full breasts creating a tormenting slideshow in my mind.
It doesn't take long. Half a dozen strokes and I'm coming hard, painting my fist and the door with ropey white streams. I muffle my groan into my shoulder, knees nearly buckling from the force of my release.
As the haze of pleasure fades, the disgust rushes in. What kind of man am I, objectifying my own wife? Treating her like a means to an end?
I clean myself off methodically, regret a lead weight in my stomach. This can't happen again. I won't let it. Samantha deserves a real husband, not a lecherous fool who can't keep it in his pants.
I'll be better.
I have to be.
For her.
three
?. . .?
Sam
The gentle swayof the clothesline draws my eye as I pin up freshly laundered shirts, their worn cotton soft beneath my fingers. A warm breeze carries the scent of sun-warmed leather and horses, the symphony of ranch life playing in the distance—hooves clopping, cattle lowing, the creak of a saddle.
I feel his gaze before I see him. A tingle goes down my spine.
Colton.
He's by the barn, those piercing blue eyes watching me from under the brim of his hat before he turns away, shoulders straight as an arrow as he strides towards the corrals. The air feels charged when he's near, like the heavy stillness before a thunderstorm.
Sighing, I gather the empty laundry basket and head inside the rustic ranch house that still doesn't quite feel like home. In the kitchen, late afternoon light slants in, illuminating the yellow gingham curtains. I start preparing supper, the simple rituals of chopping vegetables and kneading dough grounding me.
It’s clear that my role here is to tend to the house while he does all the hard work outside.
Where we are completely separate.
I sigh and go about my tasks, and my mind inevitably wanders to Dad.
