Brawler (43 page)

N
ot too long ago, Venessa asked me if it was possible to die from sexual frustration. My answer was “God, I hope not.” But truth? I think it’s totally possible. What I didn’t think was possible was that my relationship with Jonas was right back to where it started, with him blocking the cock. The only difference is now his cock is mine by god, law, and a piece of paper registered with the county, and I want that cock back. That cock is
mine
.

The days and nights of “It’s too soon, Princess,” or “What if my cock comes out the hole? I mean, it’s just started to heal,” or my personal favorite, “The longer we wait, the tighter you’ll be.”  Swear to god, if he gives me one more ridiculous excuse I’m going to kick his ass. It’s been seven weeks.

I miss the feel of my husband, the connection. So many times, I find myself wanting to crawl in a hole and cry at the loss we’ve had to deal with, but as always, my husband brings me back. That reason alone has kept me from kicking his ass. But you can only push me so far. I need to get us back to being intimate. So walking into the living room I stand in front of him, block his view of his laptop, and drop my towel.

“Need me to change your dressing, Princess?” he asks with a hoarse voice. My inner slut does a fist bump. He still wants me.

“I need you for something, Captain,” I tell him. “But it isn’t to change my dressing.”

“You hungry, Princess?” he asks, rubbing a hand down his jaw.

“Starving,” I tell him, leaning in.

“Aw hell,” he growls. “You ain’t hungry for a fried bologna sandwich, are you?”

“Not unless you slide it in between two pieces of wheat and the bologna is your cock, no.”

“The doc said six to eight weeks, it’s been seven.”

“Seven too long,” I say. “Why are you stalling?”

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispers. “You been hurt enough.”

“It hurts not having you, Captain,” I whisper back. “We’ll go slow.”

“How slow?”

“As slow as you want.” Noticing he isn’t convinced, I go on. “If I so much as flinch, we’ll stop.”

“Shit,” he says, looking at the floor.

At that point, I lose my confidence. Standing here naked isn’t doing anything but causing him distress, so I bend down grabbing my towel, ready to head back to my room where I intended to admit defeat, followed by crying. I know my stomach is swollen and bruised, I know the bandages are repulsive; I just had hoped he could see past it. Seeing he can’t is hard, so to make it easier on both of us I wrap my towel with the intent to leave.

The moment my back is turned and I take one step, he’s there pulling me toward him. Locking his arms around me, he puts his chin on my shoulder and asks me “Where you headed, Princess?” Hiding my face, I don’t answer.

“Princess?” he asks. “Going somewhere?” When he lifts my chin he sees my tears falling, and his face gets hard. “Don’t leave,” he mumbles. “Fuck, I need you so bad. I just don’t wanna hurt you. We got time, Princess.”

Silently nodding I break away, and once I round the corner to the hall I run to our room, close the door, crawl into bed, and cry myself to sleep.

If I hadn’t been so consumed with my own grief and what I saw as failure, I’d have heard him sitting outside of our door crying, too.

T
here ain’t anything I wouldn’t do for her. But make love to her while she’s still healing was the exception. The fact is, I could hurt her. One wrong move, and fuck. Listening outside the door while my wife cried herself to sleep had me feeling like an asshole. Once I wiped my own eyes I stood up, cracked the door, saw her sleeping, and went to the porch to make a phone call.

Sitting down, I take in my block before dialing. It’s quiet, no one is out, kids are asleep, and neighbors are probably getting ready to crash. I’m still up because I’m too much of a goddamn pussy to face my wife. Looking in the driveway at my truck it hits me I never went to pick up Macy’s SUV. Just another fucking failure, another reminder of what we lost.

Swiping the phone I put my finger on his number and dial.

“Hello?”

“I’m losing my wife.”

“I had a feeling you’d be calling, and you’re not losing her.”

“Where’s Rogue?”

“He’s right here,” she says. “But I wanted to talk to you first. You’re not losing her, Rafe.”

“Feels like I am.”

“Why?”

“Because she wants things I can’t give her yet,” I tell her. “What if I hurt her?”

“This is your partner,” he grunts.

“I know that. I dialed your fucking number, didn’t I?”

“Whatever,” he says. “When mine came home and wanted to uh …”

“Fuck,” I tell him.

“We don’t call it that,” he growls. “When she was ready to —”

“I follow you,” I say. “When she was ready to —”

“Be with me,” he starts, “I kept telling her no, thinkin’ I knew better. Know what?”

“What?”

“I didn’t know shit,” he tells me. “They know their bodies, partner, and last I checked, you married a nurse, so that means she knows more than most. She wanted to —?”

“Yeah,” I say. “She wanted to.”

“You didn’t want to?”

“I want to more than anything,” I say. “It’s the thought of hurting her. I want her so much I can’t fucking think straight.”

“Then trust your wife.”

“She cried herself to sleep tonight thinking I didn’t want her again.”

“Tell her straight then,” he says, then mumbles “Okay” to Venessa. “Angel says use the app. She thinks it will help.”

“Fuck,” I say, groaning. “I forgot about that.”

“Now you know,” he says, then disconnects.

Touching the app I see two new recordings, and I listen in. I’m pretty sure the guilt will catch up with me later for doing it. At least I figured that until I really started to listen.

The first message is from a week ago when the hospital called with a follow-up, which I assume is normal. Then the lady on the phone asked her if she wanted to begin counseling sessions for help dealing with her loss. In a firm voice she says, “No, my husband and I are working through this together.” When the lady insists it will help her deal with her loss she tells her and I close my eyes as she does it. “Have you ever wanted something so much that you’d do anything to keep it?” Tears started forming as I heard her speak on how much she wanted our son. “That’s how I feel about my husband. We suffered a tragedy.
Both of us
. Not just me. He did, too. I was able to feel our son, connect with our son. He didn’t get to do that. Don’t you ever fucking suggest to me tcounseling would help
me
deal with this loss. The loss is
ours
and we will deal with it in
our
way,
tofuckingether
.” All I could do was sit there and blink.

The next message is her talking to Venessa earlier tonight, and I wanted to stop listening, but I couldn’t. Jesus, my wife is a goddamn pillar of strength. I don’t think I realized how much I’d been leaning on her, and when she needed me …

“I’m losing him, V,” she cries into the phone.

“Macy,” she says. “You’re not, I promise.”

“I am,” she cries. “He does everything for me and all I do is take. I’m weak and sad all the time, and I miss touching him, and I just … fuck, Venessa, I miss my husband.”

“Macy,” says Rogan coming on the line and I swallow hard. “You both gotta cut each other some slack. He was helpless when his wife was taken, he watched his wife get shot in the stomach, he lost his son, and he almost lost his wife twice. He’s runnin’ scared. You gotta bring him back.”

“How?”

 “Don’t got all the answers, but you two got love. Don’t give up on my partner, he sure as fuck ain’t givin’ up on you.”

“I’m not giving up,” she cries harder. “I’m afraid he doesn’t want me anymore.”

“He tell you that?”

“Of course not.”

“Then show him you want him then,” he says, and I really close my fucking eyes. “My partner loves his wife.”

“Thanks, guys,” she whispers. “For everything.”

Leaning back in my chair, it all makes sense. Her wanting to go for walks, go out to eat, play cards and … just be close to me. Even though we’re always together we haven’t been
together
. Fuck, and the towel. Man, I fucked up. My wife was trying. She thinks I don’t want her anymore. All of her attempts I threw in her face because I was so fucking scared. How did I not see it? How the fuck did I not hear her? Because I wasn’t listening after I promised her that I would. The quiet times she wanted to talk about what happened, but it upset me to hear it, so she finally quit asking.

How many times did she roll over in bed looking for me, and I wasn’t there because another nightmare forced me to the couch so I wouldn’t wake her? How many times did she walk into the room looking sexy and perfect and I tuned her out because I wanted her so fucking badly, I didn’t want to stress her out if she wasn’t ready for sex. How many more nights was she going to cry herself to sleep because I can’t fucking listen? She thinks she takes? I took everything from her, and it’s my job to give it back. It’s my job to get
us
back. We have kids, grandkids, barbecues, and a future to plan. The second I accept that my life could be good, I mean really fucking good, it hit me. Every second with her consists of all the firsts I’d been searching for.

Me and her have had misunderstanding after misunderstanding. Enough is enough.

I
was having the best dream. In it, Jonas was wrapped around me telling me the story of our future. About our two rowdy sons and our even rowdier daughter. How they protected her, defended her, and picked on her every chance they got. He told me how Venessa and Rogan spoiled them rotten, taught the boys how to fight, and that when the girl grew, Venessa and I would teach her everything we knew. He explained how we’ve had to fight for everything we’ve been given, but our love and our family was worth the brawl.

He told me how we stood firm on the no-pet rule, but Rogan said fuck that and got the kids a puppy anyway. Rogan said the puppy will teach them care, patience, and responsibility. He said we spoil that puppy rotten, and even though he’s enormous, he still sleeps attached to me, his mother.

He also said that through the years not a day went by that we didn’t love and miss MJ, the son we lost. Oddly enough, I felt so safe here. No tears fell for once. I actually felt like smiling because that sounded like a damn good future. If anyone could make this dream a reality, it was us.

When I felt his hands roam down to my stomach, over my wound, down to my mound and then between my legs, I let out a beautiful moan. I fucking loved my husband’s hands. I missed them. When his hand started making circles over me I felt my hips move. As his lips met my throat I felt my belly quiver, and when his free hand cupped the back of my head I felt like I was home.

“Open your eyes, Princess,” he tells me. “I need you here with me, starting our future together.”

Opening my eyes, looking into his, I whisper, “I thought I dreamed you.” Kissing him back, I tell him, “But you’re real, you’ve always been real, better than any dream.”

“I’m gonna fix us, Princess,” he says, working me harder. “Gonna get this right, too, but I need you to come first, on my hand, then in my mouth.”

“We’re not broken, Captain,” I tell him, burying my hands in his hair while my hips thrust and my climax closes in. “We’re getting there, in our own way.”

“I’ll love you forever, Princess,” he says, leaning down to suck my nipple. “Our lives will be full, our hearts, too,” he says. making his way down my stomach. When he reaches my bandages he slowly undoes them. Running his fingers around the stiches he whispers “My wife is the strongest women I’ve ever met.” Kissing my wound he tells me, “She loves me right, keeps me sane, and one day we’ll fill this belly again.”

When his mouth seals over me my back arches, and I moan long and deep. “Then what?” I beg him, wanting to know the rest, needing to know what happens next.