“Um.” She shuddered as her fingertip grazed her clit. “A-anything else?”

Dominic’s breathing cut out. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said too quickly.

“Where are you?”

“Bethany’s house.”

“Where are you in the house?”

“Lying on the bed,” she rasped.

“Fuck, Rosie. I knew it.”

Her breath caught at the sound of his fist hitting their hallway wall.

“I knew it. You think I’m not well aware when that pussy is wet?”

This had been a mistake. They weren’t on solid-enough ground yet. For all she knew, the therapist would consider phone sex a violation of his rules and . . . and she didn’t want to mess this up. Walking into Armie’s office, she’d been prepared to plow through all four sessions just to say she’d tried. Now, though? Trying seemed like a real option. Dominic was in this. And it seemed like every day they were apart, she was discovering new things about him. Things that made her wonder if the old Dominic was there, right under the surface. So yeah. She didn’t want to do something to jeopardize what little progress they’d made. “I’ll go—”

“You hang up this phone, honey girl, and I’ll kick Bethany’s door down to get to you,” Dominic growled, that dominant side she knew so well coming out to play. “When you’re being a hot little tease like this, I find a way to make you come. Don’t I?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, adding a second fingertip and rubbing her clit in slow, unhurried circles. “You do.”

“You want to talk, Rosie? Let’s talk about Tuesday nights.”

She heard his belt hit the floor, the buckle clacking off the wood, and moisture rushed between her thighs.

“With the exception of last week, you usually come home those nights and go straight to the bedroom. Strip down to your thong and pretend like you left the door cracked by accident. But you know. You know I’m watching you and getting hard. Christ.”

He grunted a curse and Rosie knew he’d wrapped a fist around his erection, could picture his tattooed knuckles stroking up and down that thick column of flesh.

“I should have known something was wrong when you took off your high heels at the door. You usually leave them on Tuesday nights, don’t you? They’re the very last thing that come off when I fuck you, aren’t they?”

Rosie cast a look down the writhing form of her own body, the breasts spilling out of her bra, the panties hiding her moving fingers, ending at the pointed black leather encasing her feet. “I’m wearing them right now.”

“Rosie.” He made a choked sound and she could hear the pace of his strokes pick up. “If you were here, they’d have come off by now. Never can keep them on when I’m thrusting, can you? When I’m hitting you deep and your legs can’t stay still, those size sevens hit the floor faster than your panties.”

If there was one fact that was infinitely true about her husband, it was that he had no problem talking a blue streak when they were like this. Whatever filter he usually kept in place evaporated, and pure, raw sex rolled right off his tongue. She craved his filth. It was a constant between them. His obsession with her body was the one thing she could count on one hundred percent. Tonight, though? Tonight, after having read his letter, talked to him, Dominic’s filth was even more effective. The insides of her thighs were coated with the evidence of that. She wished she could smell that faint tobacco scent he carried everywhere. The one he seemed to think she minded, but she actually craved. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, and her hips arched, circled, arched, two fingers using the ample moisture to massage her swelling clit.

“Dominic,” she gasped, feeling her walls start to quicken, that low, low thrum in her belly going from a ten to an eleven. “I want you to come.”

“That right? I was starting to wonder.” He groaned, and Rosie bit her lip, listening to the wet stroke of male fist on flesh, happening across town and in her ear at the same time. There was a twang of bedsprings, too, the sound achingly familiar. “I’m in our room, honey girl. Kneeling on your side of the bed. I’m picturing you in front of me with your thighs wide open.”

Rosie rolled over onto her stomach and moaned into the mattress. With that erotic imagery in her head—Dominic pleasuring himself on their bed while she posed in front of him—Rosie bore down on her fingers, pumping her hips and rubbing up and back at the same time. “Dominic, Dominic, please . . .”

“Please, what?”

“Come all over me,” she sobbed. “Paint me in it.”

His growl almost hurt her eardrum. “Come home and I’ll do it. I’ll cover you in what I’ve got, all over that incredible body. And soon as I’m hard again, I’ll flip you over and remind the neighbors how loud you can scream.”

Even though his words warned her to put the brakes on, Rosie couldn’t help herself. She sunk two fingers inside the weeping opening of her flesh and cried out, riding her own hand in earnest. “Please, I’m so close. I want you with me.”

“No. No, I want you with me,” he gritted out. “I want you home.”

“Dominic!”

He made a low, hungry sound. “Would you suck my cock between those pretty lips if you were here, honey girl?”

A ripple moved through her sex and she rode harder, faster. “Yes. Oh my God, yes.”

“Yeah, I know you would, Rosie.” His breath was turning more shallow by the second. “You’d suck it like you know the pussy-licking is coming next. You always do.”

“I’m coming,” she wailed into the comforter. “I can’t stop.”

Sexual frustration dripped from his voice. “I’m not finishing until it’s inside my wife.”

Pleasure slammed into Rosie before those words could register, her flesh spasming around her fingers as the orgasm tore through her body, head to toe. Jesus. Jesus. She couldn’t drag in oxygen fast enough, but at the same time, her lungs felt full to bursting. Dominic’s harsh breathing on the other end kept her hips grinding down on her stiff fingers, milking the climax for everything it was worth.

“Say my name, wife,” he instructed.

“Dominic,” she managed, rolling her forehead side to side on the mattress. “Please. Please, don’t hold out like this.”

“Why not?”

Denial reared its head at thinking of him going to bed unsatisfied. Getting up in the morning and going to work without relief. “It’s cruel to both of us.”

“Good-bye, Rosie. I’ll see you Monday.” He took a sharp inhale, and she heard his jeans zip back up. “If you want to see me sooner, you know where we live. I won’t lay a finger on you until you’re ready. But I’m not going to let you settle into this. Living apart. Fucking over the phone. Understand how serious I am about bringing you back to me. Don’t doubt me when I say I’ll fight dirty to get you back through this door.”

The phone line went dead.

Rosie stared at it with an open mouth for long moments before collapsing facedown on the bed with a closed-mouthed scream. Her husband had come out swinging. But she had to fight to make sure when—if—they reconnected, they would have the tools to succeed. Even though Rosie was annoyed as hell with Dominic as she slid under the covers . . . she found herself looking forward to their next therapy session. Looking forward to seeing him. A lot.

Chapter Ten

Dominic sat at the end of the dock and looked out over the water. Apart from the low hum of boat motors and the light breeze rustling the trees around him, it was quiet. So quiet. That lack of noise was what had appealed to him most the first time he’d come here. Where he lived with Rosie, there was noise from Port Jefferson’s busiest avenue, which was a mere half a block away. He could often hear horns honking while he showered.

Not here, though. How many times had he pictured Rosie at the end of this dock? Sitting there with her bare toes brushing the water, a mug of coffee in her hand, smiling over her shoulder at him as he approached. When he closed his eyes at night, he thought of her outlined by the sunset’s reflection off the water, fireflies dancing around her naked calves in the summertime.

Dominic turned and glanced at the house behind him where it sat on the slight incline. To someone who remodeled homes for a living, its stillness was almost accusatory. When are you going to make me look nice? it seemed to ask.

Summertime. Maybe he would tell Rosie about the house then.

He curled his hand around the set of keys so tightly, they abraded his palm. As always—lately—when he thought of showing Rosie the house he’d bought them over a year ago, that familiar panic crept in and burned his throat. Had he made the right decision? When he’d returned from overseas and started saving to buy this place, the kind of home they’d always talked about growing up, he was so confident that purchasing it would make Rosie happy.

His confidence in that was long gone. When Stephen handed him the keys a year ago, he’d come out of a fog and thought, Jesus, I have no idea if she wants this anymore.

I have no idea what she wants anymore.