Page 6 of Thin Ice

“Damn, Quinn!” she yells over “Toxic” by Britney Spears. “That was your third screaming orgasm.”

I lick my lips. “Might as well drink them if I’m not having any.”

I giggle then hiccup as Stevie’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. She steps closer to me and grabs my upper arms, thankfully not shaking me. If she did, I might puke.

She dips her chin like she’s going to lower her voice, but her question comes out on full blast. “Are you fucking serious?”

I think of my husband back home, who is likely asleep on the couch with the TV paused on the same frame of the game it was when I left him. The game that’s turned him into a man I don’t recognize—and I don’t just mean the game the Stormbreakers lost last week.

“I’m serious.”

“You and Noah aren’t having sex?”

I should be embarrassed by how loud she asked that, but this club is packed full of people in their own worlds, not caring about us.

“I mean, we have sex.”

“Does that mean he doesn’t get you off?” she squeals.

“Dump him, queen!” a young woman yells as she walks by with a group of friends. Okay, I guess not everyone is in their own world.

My ears burn, and for a second, I feel bad, but then Stevie is dragging me toward a corner where a booth has just opened up. My stomach turns, but I swallow it down, grateful when we’re seated and even more grateful when she hands me the bottle of water she got for us to share.

“Okay, spill,” she demands once I’ve taken a drink.

I press my head back against the wall. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t give her more information, but I wasn’t lying when I said I get chatty after alcohol. And truth be told, I need to tell someone other than my therapist about my marriage troubles. And Stevie is one of the best people to talk to.

Not only is she a great listener, but she’s also open about her relationship with Lucas and how they play with other people together. We also bonded over my bisexuality and her polysexuality. Not to mention, her sister, Riley, is married to two men, Leo and Jace, who own the agency where Noah’s agent works. I know that whatever I say, she won’t judge me, and she’ll keep it to herself.

I blow out a breath, feeling all the alcohol I consumed in the last two hours pump through my veins. “I fake it.”

“Quinn,” Stevie scolds. “Are you saying you’ve never—”

I snort. “No, no, no, it’s just been this hockey season.”

“You haven’t come in”—she counts on her fingers drunkenly—“nine months?”

My cheeks flush, my body temp soaring. “I mean, sometimes I do, I guess.”

“You guess?”

I remember the last time Noah and I had sex, which was at least a month ago. It was standard, run-of-the-mill missionary. He told me I was beautiful, said how much he loved me, and it was over within ten minutes. It lacked the spark we had before that somehow got stamped out. Honestly, I might have come or at least convinced myself and Noah that I did. All the times before that had felt the same.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

Stevie closes her eyes like she’s attempting to stop herself from going on a rampage. When she opens them, a fire is simmering there, and it almost makes me laugh. Almost.

“You’re telling me that you have sex with your hot-as-fuck husband but you don’t come—or, at least, you’re unsure if you do—and he doesn’t notice?”

“He has a lot on his mind.” I add in my head, Just like I do.

She snorts. “That’s no excuse.”

I twist my hands together on the table, unsure of what to do with them. Stevie places one of her hands over mine.

“Are you not attracted to him anymore?”

I shake my head immediately. My husband is, as Stevie so eloquently put it, hot as fuck, and I’m attracted to him. More than I probably should be given how our relationship has been going.