Page 65 of Merging Wright

“There was a graduation party for me. Charlese hosted it. I’d been drinking. Tracy wanted to leave.” Mach’s voice comes faster. “She took my truck. Myles went with her.”

“Her best friend.” Mach spits the words and continues his mockery. “He understood her.”

I stare at Mach as he’s momentarily lost in a memory he doesn’t share with me. With a deep sigh, he carries on.

“Charlese lived on the other side of the bridge. I had this sick sensation about Tracy leaving with Myles. We’d had a huge argument earlier in the day. She’d told me she didn’t want to leave. She wasn’t going to transfer in her senior year of college. She said I was selfish. I wasn’t listening to her. I didn’t hear her needs. I didn’t love her like she loved me.”

He takes a deep breath. “Myles understood. He loved her. She was leaving me for him.”

Mach scrubs both hands over his face as if wiping away the recall. He sits up straighter. “There was an accident. Something in the road and Tracy swerved. She crashed into a pylon on the opposite side of the road, on the edge of the bridge, and slid down the embankment.” Mach exhales. “That truck is a classic. It didn’t have airbags or safety features like modern vehicles. Myles had been pinned by the crushed door on the passenger side. The truck was half-submerged in the water on the driver’s side.”

He closes his eyes as if re-seeing that night. “By the time I arrived, Myles was screaming for me to save her. He couldn’t reach her, wedged against the door. Tracy was out cold. Her head bent into the steering wheel,” he chokes on a strangled sob and swipes at his face.

“Mach,” I whisper, surmising the rest. His wife had slammed her head into the steering wheel, snapping her neck.

“When I heard the sirens, I just knew . . .” He swallows hard. “Shoved my arms right through the driver side glass. I still don’t know how I had the strength. I struggled to remove her. Paramedics told me later my efforts hadn’t mattered.”

“Mach, I’m so sorry.” At some point in his story, I raised a hand and covered my mouth. The image in my head was horrific. The truck sinking. Tracy’s head bent forward. Myles beside her, pinned and watching helplessly as his friend—and Mach’s wife—died.

“I later learned she was pregnant.” Mach doesn’t look at me. “Myles told me.”

Dear God, does he think his wife was pregnant by his brother? I don’t want to think it. I don’t want to believe it. And I don’t ask. The possibility is too much, and Mach’s story is already heartbreaking.

He remains silent for a long time, eyes blinking as he stares at the floorboards.

I let his thoughts settle before I reach for him. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

I need to touch him, hold him. He doesn’t need my sympathy. He had it, but he didn’t need to hear another apology. There were no words to express the pain I felt on his behalf.

“I didn’t want to disturb you. I can’t seem to lay in bed beside you without touching you, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

The reminder of my aches conjures images of me sliding into the river. I can’t imagine what Mach must have thought, must have felt, as I traveled downstream.

“I’m okay.” I wiggle my outstretched hand at him. “Come to bed, Mr. Wright.”

“I didn’t want to lose you, too,” he whispers, like a weak breeze flickering a candle flame. My heart melts, like wax dripping down a pillar.

Waggling my fingers once again, I stretch for him. “I’m okay, Mach. Come to bed.”

+ + +

In the morning, Mach is wrapped around me, and while it aches to lie on my side, I don’t move. Our legs are entwined; one of his over mine, and one of mine over his, with our ankles hooking us together. His warm hand coasts down my arm from shoulder to wrist. Then, he slips to my waist, outlining my midsection, before skimming over my hip. He massages the top of my outer thigh, and my back arches. Something long and hard presses into my backside.

With my eyes still closed, I relish the feel of his thickness pushing at the seam between my lower cheeks. I’ve had that Mach-nificence inside me, filling me, making me whole in a way I’ve never felt before. I want that sensation again.

Mach’s hand slides upward, retracing my hip before slipping forward and landing on my lower belly. He gently presses his hand flat, and I arch my body again, tapping against him, wedging the firm length of him against my backside.

“Mrs. Wright,” he purrs against my nape. His breath is hot. The title scorching.

I’m his wife. And I want my husband.

Mach tips his pelvis, rocking forward. His hand on my lower belly drags over my hip again and lands on my backside. Fingers dig into the globe of my ass. “Ever have anyone here?”

The question should be inappropriate. Instead, it’s decadent and dreamy, and fantasies fill my morning thoughts. Take me. Take me everywhere.

I shake my head against the pillow. One of my hands remains under the stuffed case, and I clench on the fill. I want him inside me. I want us connected.

After his revelation last night, the desire to comfort Mach is strong. My willpower is waning. This might all be an arrangement, but I want to reassure him I’m his—if he wants me—I’m his.