I stared up at Rob and wanted to smack him.

Of course, to do that I’d actually have to be able to reach him.

Either talk or we’re staying here all day.

Ugh. Freaking idiot men.

Did he think he could control me? Did he think he could bend me to his will? Did—

Hell yes, he did.

And why wouldn’t he?

I had bent. Too many times. Bent and bent and bent until I’d felt as though I would break.

No more.

I lifted my chin, made my voice fierce. “If they offer me a contract, I’m taking it.”

Rob’s brows drew down, forming a little divot I used to love smoothing away. Then again there were a lot of things I used to love doing.

Including my husband.

Who was hot and hard on top of me.

Who knew that restraining me while I was naked would turn me on? Apparently my body was seriously into kink.

Gross.

Except, not gross. Because Rob’s stomach was flat, his jeans were unbuttoned and—my eyes flicked down—he wasn’t wearing underwear.

I felt like banging my head against the headboard. I probably would have if I could have reached it.

He. Is. Screwing. Another. Woman.

I can’t be attracted to a man who’d do that to me. I just can’t.

But I was.

And Rob knew it.

His eyes darkened. His hips dropped a little heavier against mine, letting me feel the weight of his arousal.

He liked restraining me too.

After all these years, I never would have expected to find something new that pushed both of our buttons.

Rob had always been gentle with me—soft and sweet and tender. I’d liked it, been satisfied . . . when we’d been able to make time to have sex with two small kids and a husband who worked insane hours.

But maybe I’d like something more too.

Which was a thought that had never crossed my mind. Not until recently anyway.

I was supposed to be grateful and thankful and whatever else that the universe decreed. My family was safe and healthy. We had food and security and—

Sometimes I wanted more.

Did that make me a bad person?

Maybe. I sighed. Maybe, it did.

“I hope you take the contract.”

My eyes flew up, collided with Rob’s. His were molten, dark and bottomless, inviting me to swim in their depths if only I could find the courage to dive deep into the blackness.

“W-what?”

“If you get an opportunity to do what you love, I want you to take it.”

My voice caught in my throat, and then I shook my head.

He lifted one hand from my shoulder, rested it on my cheek. “I’m serious, Melissa.”

I pulled away. “I’m serious too. I’m taking it, and it doesn’t matter if—”

He bent, slanted his mouth across mine.

This time I didn’t bite him. I wanted to. At least for a second. But then his hand slid from my cheek to my chin and held my head in place as he plundered my mouth.

Literally plundered. Like a rake or rogue or pirate.

Or at least that was how I pictured one of those types of men from the historical novels I loved. They took charge in their heroine’s bed, making the poor girl—or in this case, my poor brain cells fizzle to almost nothing.

Rob’s tongue pushed into my mouth, sliding along mine, coaxing, no cajoling, no demanding that it tangle with his. He pressed me into the mattress, laying the full weight of his body against mine as his other hand moved from my shoulder to my hip. His fingers were there . . . almost there.

I gasped, and he kissed me harder, pressed me firmer, tugged me closer until I didn’t know where I ended and he began, until I was kissing him back just as fiercely and wildly.

I yanked at his pants, ripping at the waistband and shoving them down as far as I could reach.

Then he was naked.

“Oh God,” I said when he finally released my mouth.

“Yes,” he quipped, running his tongue down my stomach, delving it into my belly button.

For once, I didn’t feel an ounce self-conscious. This wasn’t about stretch marks or saggy boobs or lumps and curves where they shouldn’t be. This was about heat and feeling and passion and desire.

This was needing my husband’s tongue on me, in me more than my next breath. This—

“Oh fuuuck.” I bucked when Rob pressed his mouth to me and gripped his hair like it was a steering wheel as I ground against his face.

I don’t think I’d ever been this aroused, or at least not this quickly. Of course, it had been months since I’d had a good orgasm.

It wouldn’t take months to have this one.

His tongue pressed, his fingers slid home, and I was gone. Flames licked up from my center to explode throughout my body. I glanced down, half expecting to find I’d turned to ash, but ash couldn’t feel.

Not the emotions. Not the torment and need and want.

Everything with Rob was twisted up, knotted, and so fucking sick.

And I was worse.

Because I wanted him still. I wanted more. I wanted him inside me.

He lifted his head, grabbing the corner of the sheet as he sat up to wipe his face. My eyes slid away from the glistening on his chin, ashamed and turned on at the same time.

“Miss—”

I couldn’t.

Not when his voice was that soft. Fuck. Tears burned. My chest rose and fell in rapid movements and not because my husband had just taken me on the fastest, strongest, biggest roller coaster of an orgasm of my life.

I didn’t want to feel any of it.

Not the betrayal and agony, not the hope. I wanted to forget it all.

“Sweetheart.” A swipe of Rob’s thumb along my cheek. “Don’t cry—”

I shook off the tendrils of emotion creeping in, the forgiveness for my husband, the urge to forget all and carry on like nothing was wrong.

I would probably hate myself for this, but I didn’t want tender. I didn’t want my heart involved.

I wanted a rough, raw fuck. I wanted to get lost in sensation and feel nothing but pleasure.

So I brushed his hand from my cheek and reached down between us. He was hot, hard as steel.

His breath hissed between his teeth and he went to pull my fingers away.

I stroked faster, held on tighter.

“Babe—”

“Mmm,” I said, need coiling between my legs. I accepted the flames of desire because it cauterized the painful edges of my emotions.

It was all reduced down to rough. To smooth, warm. Wet.

I tugged Rob closer, biting at his neck, scratching his back with my free hand, pulling him tight, accepting him inside.

“Melissa,” he groaned.

“Harder,” I panted, arching up. Pain bit through my consciousness, my feet not quite ready for the exertion, but my body was. And that slice of hurt put me on the razor’s edge. “Rob. Rob. Rob.”

“Fuck,” he said, pounding into me. “Melissa, please say that you’re with me. Please—”

The sheets abraded my back, the pillow bunched under my neck, the blankets tangled at my feet, and I didn’t care one bit. Not when the pleasure was twisting, spinning tighter and tighter. “P-lea-se d-don’t s-stop.” I gasped out, his strokes breaking the words into multiple syllables.

He gripped my hips and stroked harder, deeper than before. His eyes were on mine, burning, excruciating as he took in every detail of my response. I ignored the plea, his need for connection, and focused on his body instead.

The way the cords of his neck strained, his skin shiny with perspiration, the ripple of his abs as he moved in and out, in and out.

And then I didn’t have to worry about avoidance.

My eyes slid closed as my orgasm bubbled over and swept through me.

I was barely aware of Rob pounding into me one more time before he cursed and exploded.

I held onto that shield of pleasure as long as possible, gripping tight to the sensation, never wanting to come down.

But I did.

I eventually became aware of Rob on top of me, of my husband stroking my hair and holding me close.

His smell, his body, his touch. Initially, it was only that. Physical. But then my mind cleared, and it all came pouring back in.

Anger. Hurt. Betrayal.

And the worst . . . disgust.

With myself.