I wasn’t an inch more in love with her than I was three months ago and didn’t care for her an ounce more than I had the day she burst into my office, asking me to be her knight in shiny loafers.
Yet.
Yet.
My new lifestyle had a price, and I was not happy to pay it.
I cracked my knuckles behind closed doors so frequently I was surprised my fingers were still attached to my hands, and I spent double the time at the gym taking my energy out on a punching bag to blow off steam.
It didn’t help matters that Sailor was sporting an impressive belly.
She’d stuck it out every weekend when we’d all gathered at my parents’ house, patting it to make sure no one forgot she was with child. My parents’ initial euphoria with my nuptials had died down, and they were back to cooing and fawning over Sailor’s stomach.
I needed an heir and fast. My sole motivation was to lead the Fitzpatrick clan and sire someone who would do the same. I didn’t want to see Hunter’s spawn hijacking my hard-earned company and with their DNA, pissing it away on flashy cars, drugs, booze, and a spaceship full of sorority sisters.
Having said that, each month my wife informed me that she had gotten her period, I found myself content.
A baby did not fit into my world.
Not yet, anyway.
I needed to get rid of the Andrew Arrowsmith problem, make sure Royal Pipelines was lawsuit-free, and ensure the exploratory drillings in the Arctic were fruitful.
Besides, knocking Flower Girl up meant I no longer had an excuse to keep her around, and having a steady lay turned out to be convenient. So much so, that I was toying with the idea of taking a local side piece after this was all done and dealt with.
Not too local, but local enough to be on the same continent as me. Someone I could stash close enough for comfort and too far away for dinner dates.
There were other merits to getting rid of Persephone, of course.
Namely, the fact that sometimes (although not very often, and in a completely manageable way) she made me feel like I was falling through an endless abyss full of glass ceilings.
Next time I chose a mistress, I’d do my due diligence. Get Sam on the case. Find someone less attractive than my wife, and not half as stubborn. Chances were, I’d never have to deal with the discomfort of wanting someone physically so much again, simply because Persephone had always stirred in me what no other woman had.
Now, I played the memory of last night in my head while I entertained my friends during our weekly poker night.
Of my wife in her lacy white nightgown. How we met halfway in the hallway as we often did. I was coming to see her, and she was coming to see me, neither of us in the mood for that tug-of-war, who-caves-first game.
We exploded on the carpet, fabric ripping, teeth nipping, moans drifting downstairs to the staff quarters.
“My favorite wish,” she had rasped into my mouth when I came deep inside her. “My miracle.”
“Is that a smile on Cillian’s face?” Hunter scratched his head, dumbfounded.
It had only been forty minutes since they’d arrived, and already I wanted to kick them out with my shoes still deep in their ass cracks. Flower Girl was upstairs, having a Zoom conference call with her friends, and my mind was deep in the gutter as to what I had planned for her tonight.
“A smile? Surely not.” Devon squinted at his cards, taking a sip of his brandy. “Perhaps he is having a stroke.”
“Maybe something got stuck in his teeth.” Hunter tapped his cards against the table. “Like, you know, feelings or something.”
“Zip it,” I warned.
“No. They’re right. You’re beaming.” Sam frowned at me in abhorrence. “It’s disgusting. People are trying to eat here.” He dropped his sandwich onto his plate.
“Leave him alone. I think it’s cute.” Hunter took a pull of his beer. “Kill caught a case of the feels, and there’s no vaccine for what he’s experiencing.”
“Are you really one to talk about being pussy-whipped?” I plucked a card from the stack in the middle of the table. “Your balls have been MIA since your wife came into the picture, and no search unit in the world can find them.”
Every head in the room snapped in my direction.
“What?” I bared my teeth.
“You said pussy-whipped.” Devon’s forehead creased. “You never curse.”
“Pussy is not a curse word.”
“I have a gay joke on the tip of my tongue.” Hunter squirmed as though he was trying hard not to pee.
“Swallow it,” I snapped.
“That’s what he said.” Hunter couldn’t help himself. I shot him a look. He zipped his lips with his fingers, making a show of throwing the key across the room.