My Fake Husband Black, L. (year 2 reading books TXT) 📖

had needed more help with my dad that day, so I’d had to skip out on the shop. I’d spent the day at my parents’ house then, wishing I was with my wife instead. My mom had gone to her doctor’s appointment and had her hair colored and I had mentally cursed the home health aid who had taken the day off so I had to spend it there. I loved my dad, and I loved talking firefighting with him. I felt guilty for my restlessness that day, and I had even watched Backdraft for the six millionth time with him to make up for it. But my heart hadn’t been in it. Now I was at work missing her, wishing I could be with her instead.

It was going to be a long shift if I moped the whole time. Instead, I got busy. I inventoried our safety equipment, which wasn’t due to be finished till Tuesday. I cleaned out the fridge and scrubbed the shelves. There were no calls, but I kept busy. Well, I kept my hands busy, but my mind was on Trixie. The chief came in to take over, and I told him Patrick was asleep in the bunkroom.

“You busted your ass tonight. What’s going on?” he said suspiciously, taking in the sparkling clean kitchen.

“Nothing. I’ll take the trash out when I go.”

“Not nothing. I can’t get you boys to throw out the expired crap in that fridge for nothin’. Y’all would rather run into a burning building than clean. So what’s up?”

“Nothing’s up, chief,” I said. “Just trying to keep busy on a slow night.”

“It was nice of you to cover for Ryan so he didn’t miss the birthday party. I’m sure he’ll return the favor one day soon. When’re you and Trixie gonna start a family anyway? Or is that a sore subject? I know she’s got a job, one of them independent women, I guess,” he said, making his opinion pretty clear.

“We’re both pretty busy,” I said, bristling at the question, at the obvious judgment of my wife for wanting to run her shop instead of staying at home gestating my offspring.

“You trying to pick up over time for a blessed event? When you’ll want some time off? You can tell me. I won’t tell a soul,” he said, chuckling.

“No news,” I said briskly, brushing off my hands and tying up the garbage bag before I heaved it out of the can. “Hope you have a good night.”

I left, not wanting to discuss my procreation plans with my boss, the old chauvinist. I normally didn’t mind the guy, but he was all up in my business over this, and I felt like my sexual habits and contraception choices were private. Like I wasn’t the guy who made jokes about my coworkers knocking up their wives and girlfriends, like I didn’t get Doug an economy box of condoms when they announced their fourth baby on the way. Like I was above a tasteless joke—no, it was just that I was sensitive about this topic. I kind of groaned at myself for being able to dish it out but not wanting to take the same teasing.

It was eerie in the quiet house without her there. My stomach twisted at the knowledge that she’d move out in a few months, and it would be this way every night when I came home. Cranking up the hot water, I took a long shower, tried to get my head on straight.

I was just drying off when I heard a noise in the house. I wrapped a towel around my waist and eased the door open quietly. Instead of an intruder, I saw my wife fumbling with the front door deadbolt trying to refasten it. Her purse was by her feet so I guess she’d dropped it, and that was the sound I’d heard. I ducked back into the bathroom and I adjusted the towel so it was more secure around my waist. I stepped out into the hallway and bumped into Trixie who had moved faster than I thought possible. She crashed into me. I grabbed her arm to steady her so she didn’t lose her balance, but as I did, my towel dropped to the floor.

She bit her lip, stepped back from me for a second and, honest to God, the woman looked me up and down like I was something nice she was considering buying for herself, a treat in a shop window. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it, the heat in her eyes, the flush of appreciation on her cheeks. I worked hard to look the way I did, and I was proud that she looked at me like she appreciated the view. She stopped chewing her lip and looked up, met my eyes with a sly grin.

That woman would be the death of me. She raised one eyebrow, mischievous and questioning. Then she practically jumped on me. Her arms were around me, and then her legs were around me, my hands under the curve of her ass to hold her. She looked right at me, not diving in with kisses and nips, but looking right in my eyes.

“Damon,” she said.

“Glad you remember my name, Trix,” I said with a half-smile. It was hard to smile. This felt intense and serious.

“I know who you are,” she said. “I had way more tacos than I had margaritas. I only drank one. I’m not even tipsy.” She was looking me dead in the eyes and that look went straight to my cock.

“Good, because I have a policy about not taking advantage of drunk women.”

“Pro tip: don’t talk about drunk women when you’re wife’s trying to climb your naked body in the hall,” she said.

“Like a tree, huh?” I said archly.

I smirked at her and backed her into the wall, my mouth taking hers, all slow lick and exploring, swallowing her soft moan and pressing her into the wall with my body.

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