“Well, yes,” I began, then stopped with a sigh. “I know, I know. We have money, and I technically don’t have to work.”
“That’s right.” His gaze was intent on my face, and I looked away, not ready to go there yet. Logically, I know he’s right—we’re multimillionaires, thanks to his recent adventures—but I’ve worked too hard to become a doctor to simply give it up.
“You could still volunteer at the clinic,” he said, and once again, he had a point. I’ve thought about that several times, about how nice it would be if I could cuddle with him every morning instead of getting up with the alarm and racing off to work. As frustrating as my captivity in Japan was, we were always together there—something I didn’t appreciate at the time, given my anger with Peter, but now recall with perverse longing.
“It’s not the same,” I told him. “I wouldn’t get to deliver babies at the clinic.”
It’s true, and he let the matter drop, but I know we’ll return to it again.
It’s inevitable, given our mutual obsession.
And it is an obsession. I can’t deny that. I thought I loved George, at least in the beginning, but my feelings for him were a pale shadow of the way I feel about his killer. I’d never missed George this way when we were apart, never longed to come home to him with this kind of intensity. Our lives were more or less separate, and I thought that’s the way things were supposed to be, that all marriages—all relationships—were like that.
There’s no separation of any kind with Peter. Not even close. It’s like an invisible thread binds us together, even when we’re physically apart. He’s constantly in my thoughts, and I often catch myself physically aching for him, as if my body is addicted to his touch.
It doesn’t help that when we are together, he showers me with attention and pampers me until I feel like a spoiled pet. Massages, foot rubs, brushing my hair—he does it all when we have time. And that’s not even counting the sex.
Oh God, the sex.
Ever since our wedding night, when I admitted to Peter—and to myself—that I need a certain degree of force from him in order to cope with our nontraditional relationship, he’s had zero compunction about unleashing his inner monster in the bedroom. Though there are plenty of times when he’s sweet and tender, more often than not, he takes me with unbridled hunger, leaving me sore and aching in the morning. No part of my body is off limits to him, and I frequently find myself tied up on my knees, with my mouth stuffed full of cock and my ass burning from his rough claiming.
He may be my husband now, but he’s still my tormentor.
The key part, though, is “my.” To my relief, sex with me is where Peter seems to channel his darker impulses. As far as I’m aware, he’s kept his word about not hurting anyone else, and as the weeks march on, I find myself less worried when we’re around my family and friends. My parents are slowly warming up to him, and my bandmates seem to like him—which surprises me, since Marsha is now seriously dating Phil and she’s not a Peter fan.
Or at least I assume that’s why I’ve barely seen her since the wedding.
“Marsha never seems to come out with us lately,” I tell Phil when we’re all grabbing a drink after a Friday night performance. “You guys are still together, right?”
He flushes, clearly uncomfortable. “Yeah, but she’s been, um… really busy.”
I nod and pick up my drink. “Right, okay.”
It’s ridiculous to feel hurt by my friend’s abandonment. After all, I’d avoided her for a bit after learning that she’d been helping the FBI keep tabs on me. And in any case, I can’t blame her for being cautious. Any sane person would want to stay away from a man she suspects of being a conscienceless assassin who’d once tortured her friend and killed her husband.
“What is she busy with?” Peter asks, coming up behind me to knead my shoulders. His tone is light and casual, but I can feel the tension in his strong fingers as he massages my knotted muscles. “Is she working more shifts?”
“Something like that,” Phil mumbles, then motions to the bartender. “A round of tequila shots, man. The best you got.”
The tequila burns my throat as we down the shots, and the slight awkwardness dissipates as Rory and Simon launch into an animated discussion of the pros and cons of natural blondes. Phil joins in, but Peter stays quiet, observing them with a vaguely amused expression, and when I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, I hear him order a round of vodka.
“None for me?” I ask, seeing only four shot glasses upon return, and my husband grins at me.