Stitches

He’s starting to piss me off, but when he finally cuts a cold look my way, I see just as much anger reflected back at me.

Ignoring the strain would be a Herculean effort, so Moira picks up on it. She doesn’t know what to do with it, though, so she does her best to pretend there isn’t a tight rope of tension between the two of us as she ambles across it. She takes Griff’s hand and brings him into the living room. She sits him down on the couch and he takes the end furthest from me, like I’m a disease he’s afraid of catching.

When she sits down and snuggles up against his side, resting her head on his shoulder, it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to reach over and yank her over to me. If Griff wants to be an asshole, maybe I should remind him who the king fucking asshole is in this relationship. I’ve given him everything, and I can take it away just as fucking easily.

Before I can respond in anger, Moira’s gentle hand claims mine and she tugs me close. She wants me with her, too. Since something is clearly wrong with us, she must want to snuggle out our aggression.

It doesn’t take any added incentive for me to cuddle my wife, though. Fuck Griff and his shitty mood. Resting my hand on her hip, I move up behind her. With her head on his shoulder, her neck is exposed to me, so I leave a trail of kisses there. When she sighs with pleasure, Griff’s jaw locks with annoyance.

I smirk. That’s fun. I want to fuck with him some more, so I reach a hand down inside her dress and cup her breast as I kiss her. Even if Moira knew he was definitely mad at me, she wouldn’t hold back from me, so just like she would if we were all on good terms like we should be, she responds. Griff has to feel her writhe on his body under my ministrations, and where most nights it would be fine, maybe even hot, right now it makes him mad.

Eventually his body is so taut with anger that I wonder if he wants to hit me. It’s almost like old times, before I shared her with him, if he felt anger at me over it back then. Maybe I’m not using words to remind him how much I mean to Moira, but I’m using something much harder to ignore—a visual. I’m no fool. I know he’s probably considered telling Moira what an evil bastard I am today, turning on me, taking her and running. Even if only for a minute, if only in a fit of anger, I know Griff. I know how he works. I know he has that pain in the ass white knight streak.

I don’t.

And Moira likes that I don’t. She doesn’t need me to be a white knight—she likes me just the way I am.

Moira’s breasts are bare now, her dress pushed down. I can keep pushing Griff, or I can offer an olive branch.

“Care for a taste?” I ask him, nodding toward her breasts.

He looks over at me through narrowed eyes. I cock an eyebrow and bend to take her left nipple into my mouth. Moira’s head drifts back against the couch and she reaches for Griff, giving him the last nudge he needs. Glaring at me in frustration, he nonetheless joins me in feasting on my wife’s breasts. I feel victorious as Moira holds us both close, one hand in his hair, one in mine; she brings us together, even if only temporarily.

Since I’ve been rubbing in how much she wants me, he leaves her breast after a moment and shoves me off her, swinging his thigh across her body and straddling her. A little breathless, she looks up at him uncertainly, then he gives her a searing kiss he surely hopes I’ll hate.

I don’t, though. It’s hot. I like to see him dominate her; he doesn’t do enough of it. He’s only doing it now because he’s pissed at me, and the only weapon we can use against each other right now is Moira’s body.

That gives me hope. He’s angry, but he’s still playing within a set of rules. He’s still respecting limits. Maybe he thinks he can annoy me by angrily fucking what’s mine, by showing me my wife wants him, too, but he’s not crossing the line. He’s not bringing the ugly truth into my house and poisoning my wife with it.

Not yet, at least.

Instead, he pushes my wife down on the couch and frees his cock. He watches me instead of her while he pins her down and shoves his cock into her mouth.

I smile.

His eyes narrow and he thrusts harder.

I like that even more. It’s hilarious that this is how he thinks he’s going to piss me off. I’d be more pissed, more afraid, if he didn’t want to touch her. If it seemed like he was turning away and I was losing my hold on him.

I’m not. All the evidence is right here on the couch, in the tension in his body, in the sounds my wife makes as she takes every generous inch of him. And then afterward when she’s sucked him dry and he comes ba

ck down, when he realizes he’s using her as a weapon so he pulls her close and snuggles her, kissing and caressing her, trying to make it up to her.

He doesn’t need to; Moira’s perfectly content. He’s still not used to her, though. Despite all the evidence that should have shattered it, there’s still a part of him that refuses to let go of his image of her as his Madonna.

After snuggling for a little while, Moira tilts her head up and looks at him. “Are you hungry? I can warm up some dinner.”

Griff shakes his head, looking down at her with so much tenderness, I almost feel like an intruder. “I just want to hold you.”

Moira smiles softly and leans up to kiss him, then she settles back into his embrace and gives him exactly what he needs.

Griff goes upstairs to take a shower, so I get my wife back for a little while. She curls up beside me and rests her head on my shoulder. I think she’s waiting for me to turn on the television, but I don’t want to watch anything. I don’t even want the background noise. I want to know the perfect way to explain to Moira that I need her to handle Griff, remind him the chain of command, and oh, by the way, he might try to convince her I killed Ashley—or at least contracted her death.

Turns out I don’t have to bring it up, because Moira does.

“That’s so awful about Ashley,” she says, shaking her head.

“Yes,” I murmur, not bothering to muster much fake sorrow.