Chapter Ten

Now

I don’t sleep well after the elevator incident. When I finally manage to drift into a dream world, my anxiety rises. I dream of Kaden in the elevator . . . and this time the lights don’t come back on. This time, the doors don’t open.

I’m sweating when I wake, my knees up, my hand between my legs. I’m shocked to find myself wet and needy. I turn toward my husband. I need relief. It was just a dream, but it was a powerful one.

But when I reach for Mason, he isn’t there. I look at the clock. It’s four in the morning. He never stays up this late. I throw back the covers and stumble to the door, my eyes hurting from lack of sleep, my body aching from a desire needing to be quenched.

I find Mason in his studio. The music is off and he’s sitting shirtless in front of his painting, a sweet picture of a dog and two cats frolicking in daisies. I barely glance at it before approaching him.

He truly is a beautiful man. His back muscles ripple and my sex clenches. I’m so hungry, so needy. I step up behind him and wrap my arms around his narrow waist, my fingers resting on the hardness of his abs.

He doesn’t say a word. I lean into him and kiss his neck, letting my tongue slide over the smooth skin as I rub my hand lower, hoping to find him ready for me.

“I’m sorry, Miranda, I really need to get this done,” he tells me.

What’s worse than his words is he doesn’t even harden beneath my touch. There was a time it didn’t take anything to get him hard. He’d walk in the front door, see me, and be ready to haul me into the bedroom. For that matter, he had taken me right on the kitchen counter many times. I’d worn a lot of dresses that first year of our marriage so it was that much easier for him to slide inside of me.

My body aches and my feelings are hurt at his rejection. But I won’t show him these emotions. Maybe I should talk to him. Maybe I should say something. I don’t, though. I just turn and walk away.

There’s no point in trying to go back to sleep. I strip off my jammies and step into our oversized shower. The hot water drifts over my body and the strong spray hits my breasts, making the ache inside of me pulse.

I pull down the shower nozzle, turn it on the jet spray, and slide it over my breasts, a small moan escaping me. I close my eyes and lean against the shower wall, moving the nozzle lower.

It hits my skin, making my stomach quiver. I don’t want the shower. I want a man’s hands on my body. But it seems my husband doesn’t find me desirable anymore. I shake that thought away and can’t help it when Kaden’s face appears in my fantasy.

The nozzle goes lower and the hot spray thrums against my core. Pressure builds in my body. I ache, I shake. I imagine Kaden’s hands sweeping down my body, squeezing my nipples before trailing down my trembling stomach. Then he drops before me.

His mouth is now on my core, his tongue sweeping along my sensitive flesh. I cry out when an orgasm rips through me. My knees shake and my legs give out. The nozzle flops from my hand as I sink down the side of the slick shower wall.

I don’t know how long I’m there, hot water cascading over me as I catch my breath. I finally muster the energy to stand on weak legs. Then I rinse off and walk naked into the bedroom. Mason is coming through the door.

He looks at me, circles beneath his eyes as he begins moving toward me. There’s still a hunger inside me, a need to be filled. Maybe he’s changed his mind. I smile at him as he steps closer.

“I’m going to shower and get some sleep,” he tells me. He leans down, gives me a quick peck on the lips, and then disappears into the bathroom.

I stand shaking as a tear slips from my eye. I can’t remember the last time he saw me naked and simply walked on by. I move to the large mirror by my closet and critically examine my body.

My breasts are large, not so big they sag, but definitely big enough that I have to think twice about what shirts I wear, especially to work. My waist isn’t as tucked in as it was ten years earlier, but I don’t have rolls. My stomach can’t be called flat, but it isn’t sticking out. It just has a natural curve to it.

I turn sideways and continue examining myself. I wouldn’t mind losing an inch or two from my thighs, and I have to be very careful working out because if I even think about doing a squat, my butt grows, making it impossible to fit into a normal pair of jeans.

I take care of myself, work out as much as possible, eat healthy ninety percent of the time, and wash my face regularly. I haven’t let myself go just because I’m married. But that doesn’t seem to matter. My husband has stopped wanting me.

Is it my fault? I truly don’t know. I should talk to him about it, tell him how I’m feeling. But I’m not sure how to do that. We don’t have intimate discussions. Maybe he’s having an affair. I don’t know when he’d have the time. He practically lives in his art studio. But something is wrong.

I can’t stare at myself any longer. I have to get out of this house. It’s only five in the morning. An hour can seem like an eternity when you’re feeling terrible. My body still aches. I don’t put my work clothes on. I carefully fold them into my gym bag and instead dress for the gym.

I apply a light amount of makeup, not willing to go out in public without it, feeling as down as I am. I leave the house within fifteen minutes, needing to run. It’s early enough that I have no problem getting to the office building within twenty minutes. That gives me a full two hours to work out if I want.

I definitely want.

I put my headphones on and climb onto the treadmill. I push myself hard for thirty minutes, not caring if I look like crap. I’m not one of those lucky women who look absolutely adorable after an intense workout. My skin flushes, and I sweat . . . a lot.

I pull up an app on my iPhone and do a weight circuit. This gym has everything a fitness pro would drool over. I work for an hour and a half straight, and when I step into the locker room I feel better. I’m too exhausted to care about the ache that still resides low in my belly. I shower, thinking about the one I had a couple hours earlier. All of that working out seems nil all of the sudden. My body instantly responds to my sexual thoughts with my breasts throbbing and my core tightening.

I want to scream.

But instead I climb from the shower, wrap a towel around me, then dress. Like a robot, I fix my hair and do my makeup, taking my time. I still have about twenty minutes before I’m expected to clock in for work. That’s good.

I step out to get coffee, tired and needy, but I’ll make it through the day. That’s for sure. I’m just not sure I’m going to make it through the night — only time will tell.