I reach up and undo the belt, freeing her. She rolls toward me. Time to face the music. Time for what I’ve been terrified of.

“Matty,” she whispers. Now, I don’t dare beg her not to cry. “How could you do this to me?”

My chest compresses under the weight of what I’ve done.

She’s not even talking about me buckling her to our bed and brutalizing her.

That’s the thing about my wife—she’s as wholesome as her award-winning, homemade apple pie. Everyone’s sweetheart. Darling of every church bake sale. My little pocket-rocket. Butter wouldn’t melt on her sweet pink tongue.

By day.

By night, she’s five-foot of pure hussy. Takes her six-foot-seven, rough husband anyway, anywhere—and fucking loves every filthy moment of it.

I grab her face and swipe away her tears with my thumbs. When it comes down to it, I’m not much good at talking or explaining. But she knows me.

She’s known me since kindergarten.

Libby knows I’m hurting worse than she is. That this last deployment almost killed me, both literally and figuratively.

“How could you keep this from me?” Her tears collect on my thumbs, and each one is a knife in my middle.

My brave Libby never cries. Not when I leave her, and not when I get back. She sends me off with a kiss and welcomes me home with many more. She keeps her worries for her prayers.

She knows I’d never have the strength to go, otherwise.

This time has been different.

What I’ve been trying not to imagine is right here in her eyes. Her lips work together over and over, and I see everything she’s been going through in the last month. Since she got the call no wife ever wants to get—her husband’s been injured in the line of duty. On a mission where she couldn’t even be told what happened or what country I was in.

“Wasn’t supposed to get clearance to fly.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. Want to see all of her face, even when it’s this sad.

“How did you?” She keeps her gaze locked on mine, and her arm draped over my waist, even though there’s somewhere else she wants to be looking.

No, I wasn’t supposed to get medical clearance to fly. Was told I’d have to miss another Christmas at home.

But then I wasn’t supposed to be up and walking unaided five days after surgery, either. They thought that was impossible. But they couldn’t understand the treasures I have motivating me to heal. One thing I’ve learned in my years of service is that human will is stronger than the body.

“I had something to come home to, I needed to recover for.”

Her eyes shut briefly, and then she does what she’s been avoiding. She leans back and looks at the angry scars on my hip. The stitches are out, and the wound’s healed, but it’s not pretty.

“Oh, Matthew.” She bursts into sobs and buries her face in my chest.

I wrap her up in my arms and hold her close. She’s not crying over battle scars.

She’s crying over how close we came to our last kiss goodbye.

I squeeze my eyes closed and rub my nose in her hair—sniffing her the way I always do, just in case I don’t get any more chances to breathe her in.

Her sobs rattle me. I clench the hair at the back of her head in my hand and clutch her tighter. Until the hurt buzzing between us subsides.

Her breathing evens, and she draws back to look at me again.

She touches my cheek. Then smiles the smile I’ve been dreaming of for six months, straight. “How in the world did you manage to fuck me like that with a brand new, artificial hip?”

“Baby girl.” I palm her luscious ass in my hand. “I’d still manage to fuck you like that with no hips.”

“I believe you.” Her sultry chuckle snakes into my heart. She sniffs then sighs, stroking my cheek. Expression so soft. “Superman.”

I take her fingers from my face and hold them. “Supergirl.”

Her fingers link with mine, and our wedding bands knock together.

A lump grows in my throat. I’ve seen horrific shit people would never believe, but this right here—her pale fingers linked with mine—this slays me every goddamn time.

“I can’t believe you managed this.” Her smile gets deeper. “Is everyone in on it?”

I’d do anything to see that smile, and I’ve got many gifts still up my sleeve for her to make more smiles happen. Her parents came to stay at our new place for a big family Christmas, but being home was only part of the plan.

“Pretty much.” Both our parents helped me surprise her. “Well, in on most of it.” I raise a brow then roll to the edge of the bed and tug a folded bit of paper from the pocket of the abandoned pants on the floor, then hand it to her.

She unfolds the worn paper.

“I waited outside for hours until everyone was asleep.”

She reads the paper, and her eyes flash. It’s my favorite of her letters. I’ve read it more than a dozen times. Imagined it over and over again. Had visions of it possess my imagination.

It’s tormented me.

“Dear Matty, last night, I dreamed I woke up to you fucking me senseless. I wasn’t even ready, but you stretched me open and made me take it—”

Her lower lip catches between her teeth, but she doesn’t even have the decency to blush—my dirty, little, fucking tease.

She writes me a letter every single day I’m away, no matter what. Depending on the mission, sometimes I get a months’ worth at once. Those off-the-grid missions are the ones where her letters save my mind. She never talks about when she’s lonely and hurting for me. Libby would never burden me that way. But I feel it. The way she’s hurting. It’s in the dirty letters. In the things she says I’m doing to her in them. Rougher stuff than we’d do in life. I feel the desperation there. Because I hurt for her that way, too.

She shields me from those things, just like I shield her from the names of buddies I’ve left behind. Protecting her from imagining my name on some list along with theirs.

“Matty…” she whispers, and her horny little gaze meets mine.

Don’t think she even remembered this one. She’s written me many filthy little tales to entertain me.

A cry rings out down the hall. She sits bolt upright then leaps out of bed, tugs on a robe, and heads for the door.

I know exactly what she’s doing, and I’m out of the bed in an instant, too. Not following after her, though. I go to the drawers and find boxer shorts to put on and then back myself against the wall.

Oh, shit.

My mouth goes dry—like the times I’ve been dehydrated in an actual desert, dry. I scrub my face, which feels odd after so long with a beard. But when my parents collected me from the airport, Mom wouldn’t allow me home to Libby without a shave. That woman is my wife’s number one fan.

After me.

Her footsteps pad back into the room, and the door clicks closed behind her. I bend over to get in a breath, then straighten but can’t bring myself to look.

Holy shit.

My heart’s a riot under my ribs. Faster than it’s ever been in a war zone. The sound of someone else’s breathing joins ours, and this one is louder and more boisterous. Hiccupy little gasps.

What if he’s afraid of me?

“Look who’s here, Ollie.” Libby’s voice is the special, sweet tone she saves just for our son.

He can’t possibly remember me. He was six weeks old when I left. My throat gets thick. Holy shit. My baby son is about to be reintroduced to his father as a terrifying, six-foot-seven, scarred mess.

“Dada.”

My gaze snaps up to the most adorable little boy in the whole fucking world. Too much brown hair like I had as a baby and his Mama’s dimple. “He knows me?”

I can’t believe it, and I can’t reach for him. Oliver said my name, but he’s snuggled into his mother’s chest, chewing on a slobbery fist.

“Of course he does.” Her eyes get this worried squint. Don’t think she expected I’d be nervous to see him. “We say our prayers with your picture every night. He won’t sleep until we’ve said goodnight to Daddy.”

I scrub my face again and inch closer.

“He’s teething.” She rubs his back and sways toward me. “Poor bubba’s gums wake him up.”

I stop in front of them. His eyes focus on me, his fist working in his mouth. He’s watching but cautious, just like I am.

Libby, though, she might be kind, but she suffers no nonsense. “Go to Daddy. Mummy will get your medicine.”

She deposits the seven and a half month old into my arms and leaves the room.

Abandons me with absolutely no idea what to do with a teething infant.

She’s ruthless.

Drool trickles onto my collarbone. He’s so, so warm. I press my nose to the top of his head. Three fast gasps tug in then out of me. The closest I’ll get to letting myself cry in front of my son. She uses some kind of special baby detergent on Ollie’s clothes. He smells just like he did when he was six weeks old, and I breathed in his baby scent and didn’t know how the fuck I’d make myself go.

I sit on the bed and lean back on the frame. Then look at him properly. His long lashes fan over bright-hazel eyes. I brush his cheek with my fingertip, and my heart melts all over again for him. Can’t believe he’s so relaxed with me.

“Mama,” he says with a mouth full of hand.

A chuckle rumbles me. “I know, bud. Your mama. I like waking her up all night, too.”

He blinks and sucks his fist, then pulls it out fast with an impressive pop of suction. His eyes widen, and he glances at his fist. Then cracks a big, gummy smile and giggles.

A laugh splits me.

He stares at his fist and laughs—really laughs. A hysterical, hiccupy belly laugh that makes his head bob.

The contagious sound and sight wrap around me, and I’m joining him, my laughs bouncing his whole body.

His nose scrunches, and his one half-tooth flashes.

Christ, do babies really laugh wholeheartedly like this, or is mine special?

“Is Daddy exciting you at bedtime?” Libby approaches, holding a small tube. She grins and shakes her head. “I knew it’d be trouble with two boys against one poor girl.”

I look at her and am shoved back to that feeling of not being able to speak. “Then we’d better make ourselves a girl and even things up.”

Her grin slips, and she meets my gaze. She gets a pink glow. Her hand slides to her middle, and I know she’s picturing how I’ve already filled her up twice, and hoping it takes.

I’ve got six months more of pent-up fuel in my tank to knock her up with.

She sighs and opens the tube and rubs a tiny amount of gel on Oliver’s gums. “That should help.”

She leans down and plants a kiss at the top of his head. Her hair brushes my shoulder, and her scent mingles with Ollie’s. Together, they strike a punch to my chest that I know is the feeling that no matter where in the world we are—this means home.

“I’m going to freshen up.”

“Okay.” I smile at her and drag Ollie higher up my chest and hug him. His fist is back in his mouth, but his lashes lower. Her medicine is already helping him. She doesn’t need to freshen up in order to get back in bed with us, and we both know it.

She’s giving the two of us a chance at our own hello.

I appreciate the sentiment, but she could never interrupt a single moment of my life if she tried. She moves to the dresser, shrugs off the robe, and fishes in a drawer.

A groan tugs from my belly at the sight. My handprint is a perfect cum target on her round ass. Once I’ve got her nicely pregnant, I’ll have to give her another bright-red mark to give that a try.

She glances over her shoulder and catches where I’m looking. Her gaze flutters down, and she runs a hand over her rump where it’s still swollen. She seizes her lower lip between her teeth and winces.

I swallow. On second thought, maybe I got carried away?

Her gaze flies back to me, heavy and sultry. She releases her bottom lip and strokes her ass.

“Ouch,” she says with the evilest twist to her lips I’ve ever seen.

Nasty, little, fucking tease.

Yeah, I got carried away. Shouldn’t have hit her that hard. Now I’m going to have to fuck her constantly until it fades when it’s the holidays, and her parents are staying here.

She smirks, knowing me more than well enough to read my mind, then slips into the master bathroom. The sound of water emanates from the other room. Making me picture her soapy and dripping wet.

It’s only the precious treasure on my chest that can keep me from joining her. But not to worry, she can go ahead and get herself clean. I’m just going to get her dirty again later.

Then we can shower together.

A little snort sounds under my chin. I look down at Oliver, who’s sound asleep. Let myself have a few moments more cuddling, and brush my lips on his baby skin, before taking him back to his room.

I’d keep him in our bed all night but don’t want to get him off his routine. Libby’s mad for routine. Not to mention, I’m not even slightly done with Mummy tonight.

I get him all settled in his crib with one last kiss on his fluffy baby hair, then leave his room. Another door creaks down the hall.

My father-in-law stands in the guestroom doorway in striped blue pajamas.

He raises a hand but doesn’t come out. “Glad to see you home, son.”

“Thanks.” I wave back, chest tighter for the reminder that it hasn’t only been Libby praying for my safe return. I’m a lucky man with so much to come home to. “See you in the morning.”

He inclines his head and closes the door.

I return to my room and wait to give my wife her real holiday surprise. The one she really won’t see coming.