Page 7 of Untying the Knot
The garage door opens, and in walks my incredibly charming, handsome, and very late husband.
When he spots me at the dining room table, alone with his plate of food, his expression morphs into an apology.
“Babe, fuck, I’m so sorry.” He sets his wallet, phone, and keys down on the kitchen counter and comes straight to me.
Wearing a three-piece navy-blue suit with a black button-up shirt underneath, he approaches with just enough swagger to remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place. With his kind, caring light-blue eyes, the scruff on his cheek that has rubbed against my fair skin, and the bulging muscles that strain the threads of his clothes—he’s everything a fantasy could dream up. I only wish that fantasy was still the man I fell in love with.
He rests one of his hands on the back of my chair and leans toward me. He lifts my chin and looks me in the eyes when he says, “I’m really fucking sorry, Myla.”I’ve lost count how many times I’ve heard that over the last few months.
“Thank you for apologizing,” I answer as I stand and move around him. He grips my wrist gently, halting my retreat.
“Tell me about your day.”
I look up at him and say, “I’m exhausted, Ryot. I’m going to go take a bath. Your dinner is cold, so warm it up if you want.”
I snatch my wrist away and head up to our bedroom and into the master bathroom.
We’re currently renting since we just moved out here a few months ago, and the house we’re renting is nothing I would have chosen for us. It’s a typical coastal-style house with an open floor plan, generic finishings, and expensive taste that lacks taste. From the marble bathroom, to the chandelier above the master bed, it’s all too gaudy for me, which of course makes me hate this current state of living even more.
I throw on the bathtub jets and toss a bath bomb into the shallow water. As it foams with purples and pinks—a present from Ryot—I strip down and then brush my hair out only to pin it to the top of my head so it doesn’t get wet. When the tub is ready, I shut off the faucet, keep the jets moving, and then slip in.
My body instantly relaxes as I soak all the way up to my neck.
With nothing to do, I flick at the bubbles on the top of the water and wonder—what the hell am I going to do with my life?
I’m not happy. Quite depressed, actually.
Before we moved to California, I had a job, a social life, and purpose. But here, I feel like I’m just . . . I’m just Ryot’s wife. And although I do take pride in marrying the man, I know I need more than this. I need him to listen to me and see me like he used to. I’ve told him how I feel, how sad I feel, how I need him to listen to me, but . . . he just hasn’t.
I hear a pair of shoes hit the floor as I look up toward the bathroom entrance to find Ryot undressing. His suit jacket is off, his vest is gaping, and he’s working on the last buttons of his dress shirt. His tan, carved skin peeks through, and even though I’m angry with him, I can’t help but stare at my husband.
Since he left baseball, he hasn’t given up on his routine, and sure, it might annoy me at times—why can’t the man just eat a donut—but he looks amazing. Sexy. Irresistible.
“Thank you for dinner, babe.”
“You ate that quick.”
“I was starving.” He sheds out of his dress shirt, and my eyes fall on his impeccable chest. He removes the watch I got him a few Christmases ago and sets it on the bathroom countertop next to his cologne that smells like absolute sin. When he turns back toward me, he says, “I’m sorry I let you down tonight. I know an apology means nothing, and my actions speak louder, but I need you to know I truly am sorry.”
I can’t look at him out of fear I might cry, so I play with the bubbles. “Thanks.”
“Want to tell me what you did today?” he asks as he takes a seat on the side of the tub.
Since he seems focused, I say, “Not much. Went for a long walk around the neighborhood. Went grocery shopping, did the laundry.” I shrug. “Worked on some mock designs of a hotel lobby for fun. I have this idea—”
“I saw one of those mammoth dogs on my run this morning,” he says, making me wonder if he actually listened all the way to the end of my answer or was already absorbed in his own day again.
He leans forward and lifts my chin so he can press a soft kiss to my lips.
And because I can’t seem to keep myself away from him, I sink into his mouth as he slips his hand behind my head and filters into my hair.
Our kiss grows heavier, stronger, and more intense with every breath. Before I know what’s happening, I’m rising from the water and undoing his pants.
He slips out of them and pulls me from the tub then lays me on the bath rug, where he spreads my legs and slips his delicious cock inside me.
I cling to him like he’s a lifesaver, helping me stay afloat, yet . . . he’s also the thing drowning me.
And with every pulse of his hips, I think to myself, why doesn’t he see me like he used to?
