Page 23 of The Write Choice

The next thing I know, I’m being lightly shaken awake. I grumble a little, but when I finally open my eyes, Katie is looking down at me, her face inches from mine. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, and her blue eyes are quite literally sparkling in the warm light from the lamp next to the couch. Her sweater is hanging off her shoulder, showing a hint of lace underneath. I catch a glimpse of her arm, her paints splattered over it like colorful tattoos. Her full lips are pink and parted just slightly, and her brow is furrowed while her hand rests unnecessarily on my left shoulder. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it seems like she’s not moving her hand because she wants to be touching me.

For a second, I think I might be dreaming because my wife has never looked more beautiful than she does right now. All I want is to pull her close and kiss her.

She blinks a few times, and her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, her eyes widen, and her mouth goes round.

I raise my left hand to cover her right one still resting on my shoulder, and she makes that little purring noise in the back of her throat as her eyelids flutter ever so slightly.

Oh, fuck this. I have more willpower than the average man, but I have my limits. And after that shit with Shane earlier, I want her near me more than ever.

I grab her lush hip with my left hand and pull her to me. She lands on my lap and our lips collide. It’s urgent and hungry. I’m practically devouring her mouth, but I don’t care. It doesn’t seem like she does either as she presses her chest up against mine. She threads her fingers through my hair and tugs. I can’t help the moan that escapes my mouth, but she swallows it, parting her lips and allowing my tongue to explore.

It has been far too long since I’ve kissed my wife, and it is just as Earth-shattering as I remembered.

I lift her shirt and press my hands into her back, spreading them as wide as I can to touch as much of her delicate skin as possible. She breaks the kiss to breathe, and I take the opportunity to trail my lips along her jaw and down her neck to that exposed shoulder that has been terrorizing me for weeks.

“Brandon.” She’s breathless. The sound of my name on her lips has me lifting my hips so my hardness meets that perfect soft spot between her legs. She gasps, then shifts her hips on top of me, and I swear I almost come right there. But then she groans and tightens her grip on my hair—which is really fucking hot—and makes me stop to look at her.

“Brandon,” she says again. “No. I… we can’t.”

“What? Why?” My breathing is rapid, and I’m trying to wrap my head around this sudden shift.

She makes no move to remove herself from my lap, so I hold perfectly still as I watch about ten different, conflicting emotions pass over her face. “I didn’t come out here to make out with you,” she finally says.

Her voice is husky and sexy and about an octave lower than usual. If I had any common sense left, I’d say something sweet and understanding, but her voice and her body are doing things to me I’m not proud of.

Instead, the words that actually come out of my mouth are: “So what?” I immediately grimace at how demanding I sound.

Luckily, she notices my expression and, when she does, she laughs. It’s not her normal laugh; it’s breathy and husky, not in a sexy way, but in the way of a laugh that has gone unused for far too long. It breaks my heart and fills it in equal measure, and my hands tighten involuntarily around her back.

She leans backward into my touch, closing her eyes. I’m dying to kiss her again, but I won’t if she doesn’t give me the green light. I’m desperate for her, but I’m not interested in kissing a woman who doesn’t want to be kissed.

She takes in a deep breath, then blows it out puffed cheeks up to the ceiling. When she lowers her gaze, her eyes are open and meet mine. She tilts her head, and a corner of her mouth turns up sadly. “I don’t know what to feel about this, Brandon. Everything you’ve shown me today has been perfect. Beyond my wildest imagination. But I still feel tricked. You took this job without me. You bought this house without me, too.” She motions toward the studio, then, and I can see she’s already made herself at home in there with tubes of paints, papers, and pencils strewn about. “If you knew I wanted a studio back in New York,” she continues, “you could have done this for me there. You knocked down walls when we moved in. A studio space would have been easy by comparison.” She pauses as she chews on her lips, uncertainty crossing over her features. “Why did we have to move halfway across the country for me to get the best of you?”

I don’t have an answer for that. I should be able to explain why I’ve failed her so often over the years, but I can’t.

She must sense it or see it in my face, because she untangles her legs from around mine and flips around so she’s sitting next to me on the couch. She leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees, putting her head in her hands.

I scrub my hand across my face as I have the painful realization that I can offer her space and time and a studio full of paints and snacks, but there’s an emotional need I’m not meeting, and I’m not sure how I can.

“I’m sorry, Katie.” It sounds so helpless and small, and it doesn’t come close to encompassing everything I’m coming to understand, but it’s all I have to offer right now.

She turns her face so her cheek is resting on her palms as she looks at me. “Me too.”

The wall hasn’t come tumbling down, but I can see a tiny crack, and I’ll take it.

We are silent for another minute, both studying each other, but too shy to touch each other again. I scrape my palm against my beard, and her eyes follow the motion. “Shane called just before I got the kids to bed.” I’m not sure why I tell her this, but it feels like a small weight lifted when I do.

She sighs and runs a hand through her hair, taking the change in subject in stride. She straightens, then shifts to face me, bringing her leg up underneath her and resting her head against the back of the couch. “What the fuck did he want?”

I give her a knowing, sidelong glance, then return to staring at the empty wall in front of me. “Money. He didn’t remember we had moved. I told him we were tapped out right now.”

“You didn’t tell him we were moving?”

“I did. He didn’t remember.”

She rests her hand gently on top of the cat tattoo on my forearm, and that simple, comforting gesture suddenly means more than any of the kisses we shared a few minutes ago. I shift my head to look at her. She doesn’t have to say anything; she’s known about Shane for a long time and has watched him stumble in and out of recovery for years.

She cocks an eyebrow. “Are we tapped out?”