Rolling out my mat, I stretch with the other attendees and contort myself into the first position. Yoga always cleanses my mind. It doesn’t empty it, but it makes me hyper-focused on what is bothering me, all the other distracting clutter in my brain falling away.
As I move through the motions, my head is full of Seamus. No surprises there. Of course my husband is what is weighing on my mind.
He doesn’t speak to me. He leaves before I get out of bed in the morning, going god knows where – I think a strip club is involved – he gets home late, tumbling me into bed before we sleep.
Married life is certainly different from how I had imagined. It’s different in the bedroom because there is no way I could ever have imagined having such mind-blowing sex every night of my life. I’ve had more orgasms in the last week of marriage than I have ever managed to give myself in my life.
But apart from our incredible chemistry in bed…there’s really nothing in our marriage. We’re two people who float along, existing – not even in the same physical space – who come together every night to put fireworks to shame.
Is it selfish to want more of a connection with my husband? Should I just be grateful that we at least have amazing chemistry in bed? It could be worse. He could be a sexual taker like Ant was.
When I think about it, Ant was kind of rude to me in the bedroom too. At least Seamus accompanies his slightly condescending nature in bed with an all-inclusive stud-servicing. I can’t really complain about that.
I’m bored. I have to admit it. I used to have a full life helping other people. Now I cook meals for my husband, which he never bothers to show up for. I shop for groceries, and I come to yoga class. The rest of my time is filled with cleaning the huge house I now live in and reading my single book of poetry.
I think back to our wedding night. To the flash on his face when I challenged him. To the surge of excitement I felt when I defied him. Hmm. Maybe I should try winding him up. At least that would be a break in the boredom. Screaming at each other has to be better than silence. Doesn’t it?
SEAMUS
Tiggy takes my warning about her dinner plans to heart because I am late for supper every night of the first week of our marriage, and every night, she eats alone in the dining room before serving Niall his supper in the kitchen while she flits around cleaning up. Then she goes to bed.
Apparently, all she does around the house all day is do chores. My laundry is done and folded away. Hell, she even got the blood stains out of my blue shirt without using bleach. Fuck, a wife is a handy thing to have sometimes.
Of course, having a wife is a fucking pain in my arse most of the time. She keeps moving shit around in my house. I put something somewhere, and the next time I look for it, I can’t find it.
The only room in the house that seems safe is my office. I think Niall put the fear of God into her about going in there. Or, more likely, he put the fear of Seamus fucking Fitzpatrick into her. I smirk at the thought.
Unlike my office, my kitchen is another matter entirely. My fridge is full of rabbit food, and my cabinets are full of weird spices.
She’s a good cook, and her cooking is just as good cold, which is a fucking relief since I haven’t eaten a hot meal with her. I’m still teaching Tiggy her place.
She’s yet to serve up any Romanian food. Thank fuck. If it happened, I’d have to chew her ass out for that transgression. I’m not sure if Niall put the hex on it or if she just clued in that it wouldn’t be smart. Either way, she mainly sticks with staples like lasagna, pasta, meat, and veg. Hell, she even made a lamb stew one night. That was a highlight, and I wish I’d been home on time for that one. I haven’t had a decent fucking stew since my mammy died.
My Aunt Siobhan is many things, but a good cook is not one of them. So a hearty stew hasn’t been on my menu for fifteen years. I’ll be asking Tiggy to make it again when I intend to be home for supper.
“Seamus.”
I look up from the spreadsheet on the iPad, tapping my fingers against it. I wasn’t exactly paying attention to the bar takings, so I don’t mind the intrusion.
I shake my head, trying to clear it of my wife. Why the fuck am I thinking about her anyway?
Paddy stands in the doorway, his eyebrows raised.
“What is it, Paddy?”
“How’s the marriage going?”
My eyebrows shoot up, and I shrug as he strolls into the room, pouring himself a glass of whiskey and dropping into one of the chairs across my desk.
“Sex on tap, what’s to complain about?”
Paddy smirks at me, tapping his thumb against the side of the glass.
“Does it bother you that you’re living with our enemy?”
Draining my own drink, I shove to my feet to fetch another. Glancing over my shoulder, my gaze meets Paddy’s, where he’s still watching me.
“I wouldn’t trust the woman further than she could throw me, but she’s a fucking good lay.”