Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 119548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Begging him to stay with me.
Telling him I could take care of his erection for him.
Jesus Christ, why had I done that? The man had clammed up when I’d kissed him, so what made Drunk Delilah think it was a good idea to offer him a handjob?
He was obviously going to say no.
Especially since I was drunk.
Heck, he’d have turned me down if I was sober, judging by his reaction to the kiss. But I knew Fred—I knew he would never touch a woman when she was drunk or let her touch him.
Consent granted under an impairment wasn’t consent, after all.
But, fuck.
How I wished he’d let me touch him.
If he wouldn’t, then maybe… Shit, maybe it was time to walk away from this. Maybe it was time to put an end to this sham before it went even further and both of us ended up irreparably hurt.
Before we reached a point where a friendship could no longer exist. The longer this marriage continued, the closer to the edge I teetered. I truly feared that one day, I’d never be able to look at him and see anything other than my husband.
It didn’t matter that I’d fallen in love with him. I wouldn’t force him to stay married to me for my own selfishness. If he still felt the way he did at the start of our so-called relationship, if he still wasn’t willing to cross the line with me, then it left me with no option but to walk away.
I had to. For myself.
To save what was left between us.
To save what was left of myself. Of my heart.
I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that we could pretend like nothing happened. Too many things had. Too many things had changed. We could annul our marriage and on paper it would be like it never existed, sure, but reality was entirely different.
We should have listened to Granny.
We should have laughed the idea of getting married off like the joke it should have always been.
We never, ever should have changed anything between us.
If I could go back, knowing what I know now, knowing how I’d fall in love with my best friend, I don’t think I would have said yes.
I don’t think I would have been strong enough to say yes.
Now… There was only one option.
We had to talk.
And if talking meant bringing up us ending this marriage, then so be it. Despite how I joked, his rejections stung—they’d hurt from the very beginning, because I was only human, and everyone wanted to be wanted.
Everyone wanted to be wanted by the person they craved.
And I did.
Crave him.
I craved Fred. His touch, his taste, his everything. I wanted all the parts that belonged to me as his best friend and all the parts I was being denied as it. All the sides I couldn’t see, all the thoughts I couldn’t share, all the feelings I couldn’t experience…
I was weak and greedy, and I wanted them all.
I feared I wouldn’t be happy unless I’d touched and kissed every inch of his skin and branded him as mine.
I sank my hands into my hair.
If tonight was the last night we lived as a married couple, how was I going to cope with that? How was I going to cope when he moved on and met someone else? How many times would I have to see him wrap his arms around someone else knowing exactly how it felt? How many times would I have to imagine him lying in bed with someone else, laughing with someone else, living with someone else? How many times would I have to see someone else experiencing the sides of him only I had known until now?
How would I cope knowing they were seeing sides of him I didn’t know?
How could I possibly survive without Fred being mine?
“Are you cooking?”
The sound of his voice made me jolt, and I sat up, quickly glancing over my shoulder. “Shit!” I scrambled off the stool and grabbed my wooden spoon to stir the spaghetti I’d started boiling before I’d gone into my sixtieth spiral of the day. “Thank God.”
Fred audibly sniffed. “Are you making spaghetti Bolognese?”
“Maybe,” I replied, giving the pasta a mix.
“Hmm. What are you apologising for?”
I pressed my lips together.
Did I really only ever make him this when I was apologising for something?
“Just because I’m cooking this doesn’t mean I’m apologising,” I said, checking on the sauce that was happily simmering away in the pot. “This is… just spaghetti.”
“Really? Didn’t you once tell me you could serve a fake boyfriend a killer spaghetti with a side of regret?”
“Yes, but you aren’t my boyfriend.”
“You’re right. I’m your husband. And not a fake one, either.” He leant against the island and folded his arms across his chest, smirking.
I met his teasing gaze with a firm one of my own. “You’re not exactly a real one, either.”