Page 66 of Merging Wright

“Mach.” My body grows desperate. My legs rustle against his. My pussy clenches. I crave him.

“Fuck.” The expletive tickles the back of my neck, and then he’s off me. He shifts so quickly it’s like ripping off the blankets on a cold morning. I shiver as I fall to my back. Mach sits on the edge of the bed, his muscular back to me. His hands grip the mattress like he wants to tear it off the bed frame.

What happened? I stretch my arm, reaching for him but stop short of touching him. Is he thinking of her? Did he imagine I was his late wife? Did he not know it was me . . . the new Mrs. Wright?

“Mach?”

He stands. With his back still to me, my gaze falls to the brilliant colors up and down each of his arms. The ink covers scars. I’d felt the rises and dips of his skin the night of our wedding. Drunk on Mach-lust and champagne kisses, I hadn’t asked questions later as I’d planned. I simply drank him in that night and ignored answers that might have burst the bubble of our erotic evening.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Mach states, shifting through clothes draped over a box. He wears snug boxer briefs, and I don’t have to see his front to know what the heavy shaft behind cotton looks like. I already know what it feels like as well, and I want him again.

“Then don’t,” I whisper. On the inside, I scream, Stop breaking my heart.

Mach stills and glances at me over his shoulder. A deep crease forms between his brows. Once again, we’re having separate conversations. He means physically, in my condition, he doesn’t want to harm me. I mean emotionally, in our position, he’s killing me. We’re married, but in name only, and I’d been wrong to interpret this morning’s cuddle as anything other than what it was—a mistake.

Perhaps even mistaken identity.

I’m the wrong wife on his mind.

31

Playlist: “Without A Fight” – Brad Paisley ft. Demi Lovato

[Mach]

Jane was out of commission for days by doctor’s orders, but that did not stop her from working. The first recovery day, she was in our room, laptop open and plans spread across the bed. Two days later, she was in the front room on the couch again.

“What are you doing out of bed?” I snap, frustrated by three mornings of waking wrapped around my wife, fighting the pull to outline her body and cover every inch of her skin with kisses.

I don’t want to hurt Jane, as I told her. She needs to recover. Then, we can talk.

“I need to work.” Jane waves at the notebook and pens, the papers, and her open laptop.

She’s a machine, but she’s also a woman I want to explore. The curve of her hip. The press of her ass against my dick. The sharp, short intake of her breath when I touch her. I need more of her. I want my wife.

“You need to rest, baby,” I groan because the sooner she gets better, the sooner I can touch her like I want.

“Jane, lovey, you have a visitor.” Ma’s cheery voice has me spinning to face little Willow standing beside my mother, holding her hand. Theo Clarke stands hesitantly behind Ma.

“Hi, Willow.” Jane waves, offering the child a huge smile. The brightness reminds me of the grin she gave me when I accepted Myles as our contractor and said we would stay the duration of this renovation project. By Christmas. That was the new end goal.

I step toward Theo, offering a hand. His voice is quiet as he explains their visit. “I wanted her to know some people survive that river.”

I nod, understanding his intention. He needs Willow to know Jane is safe.

Jane motions for Willow to come to her, and she clears a spot on the couch beside her. Willow steps close to Jane, and Jane rubs a hand up the little one’s thin back. Willow’s brown hair nearly matches Jane’s. She has blue eyes as well, and for a moment, I envision the child Jane might have had with Ripley Edgar. My stomach clenches. I hate the idea of her having his kid, and despite Jane’s broken heart, I’m happy she didn’t have one with him. He didn’t deserve a baby any more than he deserved Jane.

“How is the park coming along?” Jane asks Willow, using an authoritative tone like Willow is the chief inspector or project manager. “Is the work passing inspection?”

“They fixed the boards and painted the wood. There’s a giant Connect-Four game.” Willow’s little voice fills with excitement.

“You need to promise me a game.” Jane swipes a hand over Willow’s hair, brushing it back from her sweet face. “What else is down there?”

Willow explains the other additions, including the new swings hung from trees. “And the dead tree is gone.” She refers to the tree trunk that Jane had kicked into the river. Willow’s small fingers reach for the buttons on Jane’s shirt, which happens to be another one of my old flannels from high school. Jane looks good in my faded clothing, younger, fresher. Not that she isn’t stunning on the daily, but the casual attire works for her as well.

“Did you hear how I pushed that old thing into the water?” Jane asks.

“You fell into the river,” Willow corrects, pointedly looking at the bandage on Jane’s head. With shaky fingers, she traces around the square patch of gauze and hospital tape.