Forsaken Duty (Red Team #9)(67)

The heat grew. He shivered. The feel of her in his arms, her body, her pleasure offered up to him, was too much to hold back. He lifted her up and down, faster and faster. “Addy, I can’t—”

She tightened her arms around his neck, lifting herself up to whisper in his ear, “It’s okay, Owen. Let go.”

He bent his head into the nook of her neck and did just that, letting his body pump into hers, taking his release. It was beautiful. It was lonely. It was everything and nothing and nowhere near enough.





21





Addy’s panic set in as soon as they’d separated in the shower. She should have faked an orgasm. She knew to do that. She’d had years of training. How was Owen going to react to her failure? With fists? Or cutting words? Or threats against her boys?

It was hard to breathe. The air was damp, but her mouth was dry.

Owen got out of the shower first. He dropped the spent condom in the trash, then wrapped a towel around his waist. The other he brought back to drape over her. She ventured a fast look at him. His eyes were sad, as if she’d taken something from him. She looked away, uncertain what to do with that information. He’d be angry in a moment, when he realized it was her fault.

Fear cooled the shower’s heat from Addy’s skin.

She tried to calm her rising panic by remembering this was a new place, new rules, new people…new places to hide. Standing before her was the good Owen from her memories, but the bad Owen from all the lies she’d been told made her question her safety. A punch from him would hurt so much more than any of Cecil’s.

He frowned at her, worry in his eyes. It was coming, the anger. It was getting even harder to breathe. Was this the real Owen, or was he playing a part? Was he really the bad Owen?

“Do you need a moment?” he asked.

She nodded, trying not to show the relief that stormed through her.

“Take all the time you need. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He closed the bathroom door behind him. The room’s steamy warmth was quickly evaporating. She stared at the door, wondering how much time he’d give her before he slammed back in. In a panic, she slipped out of the bathroom and out of his room, rushing into hers. She didn’t lock the door because that would only enrage him if he thought she was trying to avoid him.

Instead, she dressed quickly, choosing a pair of beige slacks, a tank top, and a black V-neck sweater. She picked a pair of black stilettos that Cecil always favored. She’d just finished blow-drying her hair when she saw Owen leaning against the doorjamb of her bathroom, his arms and legs crossed, anger in his eyes. She jumped, then dropped her blow-dryer on the counter, the noise loud in the suddenly quiet room as the fall shut it off.

“I’m sorry. I’m almost done.” She brushed out her hair, then scrambled to collect her makeup so she could apply it quickly—hard to do when her hands were shaking.

“Done…doing what?”

“Done cleaning up so I don’t look like a lowlife.”

His brows lifted. Good and bad Owen tangled in her panicked mind, mixing with similar experiences with Cecil. Her husband’s wants changed on a dime. She could never make him happy enough to avoid his fists.

“Who said you could ever look like a lowlife?”

She lowered her gaze to the counter. Shame. She’d always let Cecil down, no matter how she tried not to. No matter how important it was to do the right thing for herself and the boys, she’d always failed. “He did.”

“I’m not him.”

She nodded quickly, trying to keep up with the issue at hand, her mind racing to see where it would fall out. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

She licked her lips but didn’t look at him. “For taking so long. I’ll just be a minute more.”

“Laidy…I thought we were going back to bed. For at least a little bit, until they call us to talk to the doctors.”

She looked at him, searching for the anger that preceded the fists. She nodded. “I just want to look right for you.”

He frowned. “Do you always put makeup and clothes on before going to bed?”

“H-he always liked it that way. Do you not?”

Owen lifted a shoulder. “It’s not about what I like—it’s what you like that matters.”

She looked away, trying to unravel that comment.

“Baby, look at me.”

She did. He was getting angrier. Her gaze darted around the bathroom for someplace she could take cover, but there was no place, and he didn’t move from the doorjamb.

“Answer truthfully. Do you wear makeup to bed when you’re alone?”

She shook her head.

“Do you want to wear it to bed when you’re with me?”

What was the right answer? What was it? “No.”

“Then don’t. I’m not the boss of you. There are only two places in our lives where we aren’t equal: your security and your children. I’m in charge of the former; you’re in charge of the latter. Do you understand?”

She nodded, but she didn’t understand. “I don’t like these clothes.” She looked at him quickly, surprised that popped out, wishing she could unsay it.

“Then wear what you want to wear.”