Page 13

Trying to teach the rest of the day with so much on my mind was excruciating. This was the one day that I wish I were able to call my boss and tell her that I needed the rest of the day off, but unfortunately, it’s not that easy. I can’t just tell the kids I’ll see them tomorrow and walk out the door. I had to power through, and I did.

The kids seemed all right when I picked them up from school. Again, showing how extremely resilient they are. There was no mention of the conversation we had earlier in the day. No more questions or sad faces. Dinner went on as usual. The kids talked about who did what and I sat and listened. Heath, who’s never one to get involved in the dinnertime conversation, threw in a word or two.

“Did you watchthat?” Heath asks me from his side of the bed, pulling me from my thoughts.

Looking up from my now darkened Kindle, my eyes scan him, the television, and then back to him. “Did I watch what?”

“The movie.”

“Oh, no, but we’ve seen this movie before. That’s why I’m reading.” I point to the Kindle. He eyes the Kindle then looks at me. His head is against the headboard, propped up on the pillow, and the remote is lying on his naked chest.

Heath has always had the rugged look going on for him. We both have brown hair and brown eyes, but his coloring is much darker than mine. His nose is strong, with a nice scar over the bridge from where a window came crashing down on him when he was restoring his first solo gig.

“Shouldn’t you be writing instead of reading?”

It’s this line of questioning that irks me to no end. He doesn’t understand that writing isn’t a nine to five type job. He thinks that I should be able to write any time I need to and I guess lying in bed with the light off, and the television blaring, is one of those times. I’d love to be able to write whenever I want, but it doesn’t work that way, at least not for me. The characters don’t always talk, and if they aren’t talking then how am I supposed to write their stories?

“I’m not in the mind-set to write right now, so that’s why I’m reading.”

He takes the remote from his body and drops it next to him before turning on his side and facing me. His arm reaches out as his fingers grip my waist, pulling me towards him. He plucks the Kindle from my hand and drops it at our feet.

“I’m sure I can get you into a mind-set to write your sexy stories.”

I bite my tongue because there are so many things I want to tell him, but I don’t. “Thank you, honey, but you know that’s not how it works. Besides, you wouldn’t want people to think that all those scenes are actual recounts of our bedroom activities, do you?”

He pulls me down the bed while he brings his body up to cover mine. He nips at my earlobe, placing kisses along my jaw bone. “Who gives a fuck what other people think?”

He moves down my body, biting my nipple through the cotton of my shirt, and my body tenses at the pain. His hand finds the hem of my sleep shirt and pulls it from my body, wasting no time pulling my shorts down my legs as his own legs fight to push his boxers off. The weight of his body is back to covering mine as he places his lips on the column of my neck. He shifts and brings his fingers to my breast, twisting at my nipple. This action does nothing for me, it never has. There was a time when he would feast on my nipples, starting off slow and sweet and then work to become more aggressive. He knows that’s the easiest way for me to climax.

My body arches, wanting to push him off me. He leans back, spitting on the tips of his fingers before rubbing it on the tip of his dick because he hasn’t taken the time to get me wet enough. He doesn’t put effort into it anymore. Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe the years of frustrations, the lack of communication and the absence of daily physical touch, has made me unable to get turned on.

I can’t do it anymore.

He pushes into me, slow, working at the fact that there isn’t enough lubrication to make it enjoyable for either of us.

I lose it.

“Get off,” I grit through clenched teeth.

“That’s what I’m trying to do here, babe. Your help would be appreciated.”

“Damn it, Heath. I mean get off of me!” I growl as I push on his chest, making him fall to the side. I roll over to the side of the bed and grab my shirt from the floor, tugging it over my head.

“What the hell, Whit?”

Without answering, I toss his boxers at him.

“If you aren’t in the mood, all you have to do is tell me. Jesus.” He leans to his back and hikes his boxers up his legs.

This has nothing to do with me being in the mood or not being. It has everything to do with me feeling as if I don’t matter unless it benefits him. I pull the sheet up to cover my naked lower half.

“Heath, I can’t do this anymore.”

When I look over to him, he’s sitting with his feet crossed, knees drawn up, his arms wrapped around his legs. He’s staring at the television, and I hope that he’s heard me because I don’t want to repeat myself. When he turns his head, and brings his gaze to meet mine, my stomach drops.

“What the hell is this about? Do what exactly?”

“Us,” I state.