Filthy Vows (Filthy Vows #1)(46)

“What? You did like it!” His attention cut to me and carried a flash of the careless attitude that typically drenched my panties.

“And sometimes you like to fuck me in schoolgirl outfits, but I don’t run down and tell the local fucking nuns,” I countered. “I can’t—I won’t—be honest with you if I can’t trust you. That wasn’t your information to tell, it was mine.”

“But you wouldn’t have told him.”

I sputtered. “I didn’t need to tell him! Why the fuck would I tell him?!”

“To see how he reacted.” Something came over his face then, a knowing cocky grin that made me want to slap him across the cheek and then straddle the resulting mark. He had something. A card up his sleeve. Something that tilted this playing field.

“And?” I couldn’t help it. I literally couldn’t contain the word.

He shrugged. “I shouldn’t be talking about it. As you just pointed out, this isn’t my stuff to tell. If you want to know, talk to Aaron.”

I tackled him in his backward step, my leg hooking around his knee at the same time that I collided with his shoulders. He went down, Wayland lunged for us, and I landed a solid punch to his solar plexus before Wayland was on top of me, his nails digging into my left thigh, his back beginning to curve as he started doing the worst possible thing, short of me getting into a physical altercation in the middle of our hoity-toity neighborhood.

He started to hump me.

“Wayland!” I shrieked, hitting his chest with my hand. “Get off! Down!” I found the cord of his leash and yanked. He started to pant. My husband, who had worked his way up to his elbows, one hand pressed against the center of his abdomen, started to laugh. I rolled right, and was almost on top of the poop spot when I realized my error and went left. Wayland scrambled to follow, and I screamed as one of his paws pistoned into my cheek.

“Wayland,” Easton spoke in the calm voice of someone who wasn’t inches from excrement-smeared grass. “Stop.” He found the end of the leash and pulled, dragging Wayland off of me.

I took a deep breath and sat up, dusting off the dirt from his paws. My knit top was, without a doubt, ruined. “Stop playing games with me and just tell me exactly what your conversation with Aaron was.”

He crouched and held out his hand, helping me to my feet. “I told him to stop worrying about it. That you had a bit of a voyeuristic streak and that it had turned you on.”

I dug my nails into the back of his hands as I pulled upright. “And?”

“And he said…” he took a moment to place the right words. “He said “interesting”.”

“That was the big smirk you gave me? Because he said interesting?”

“Look, I really don’t want to rehash our entire conversation. It was personal shit. All you need to know is that he’s absolutely fine with you being fine with him seeing us.” He grinned at me.

“Uh-uh. No. I need you to rehash the entire conversation, especially considering that it was about me.”

“He thought it was hot. He thinks you’re the sexiest woman in Miami. He, in an absolutely respectful way”—he held up his hands as if to ward off another attack—“told me that I was lucky as hell and to never let you go. That’s it. End of conversation.”

“You are lucky,” I pointed out grudgingly. “Exceedingly so.”

“Exceedingly so,” he allowed. “And…” he looped a finger in the waist of my shorts and pulled me closer. “I do have the sexiest woman in the world. Which is why I’m trying to keep you happy in the bedroom.”

“I’m very happy in the bedroom.” I took the kiss he gave, then pulled back. “But don’t talk to Aaron about me anymore.” It was hard not to feel a sticky warmth at what Aaron had said. Sexiest woman in Miami? He’d thought our sex was hot?

There was a boost that occurred when Easton gave me compliments, an effect that had slowly diminished over time. At one point, I would have glowed over him telling me I was beautiful. Now, I felt a minor satisfaction over a met obligation—and not much more. But this new stimulus… it brought back that old feeling, that buzz of fresh excitement and nervousness. It wasn’t just that Aaron thought I was sexy, it was Easton’s reaction. He loved that his best friend found me hot. I could see it in his cocky grin, could feel the energy in his touch.

I stepped back from Easton as if it would physically separate me from the sensation.

“I won’t.” He tilted his head toward the bottom of the hill. “Ready to head back? I promise not to bring up orgies over dinner if you make macaroni and cheese.”

“Ugh.” I dropped my arms and trudged in the direction of home. “We don’t have noodles. Fish tacos?”

“Deal.” He dropped a kiss on my head and switched Wayland’s leash so he could hold my hand.





21





The divorce became final on Tuesday, the same day as my ill-fated but barely successful closing. Easton and I were in the midst of an argument on whether to get Wayland his own Whopper Jr when I got the text from Chelsea, who heard the news from Becca’s sister.

I glanced at my phone, cut Easton off mid-sentence, and told him the news. Abandoning our spot in the Burger King drive-through, we cut across the parking lot, hopped a curb, and headed for home. From the backseat, Wayland let out a mournful whine.