Morgan loved abstract art. She used to drag me to art galleries and try to explain what each piece meant. When I told her I couldn’t see what she saw, that it looked different to me, she said that was the point.
Art was subjective.
Interpretative.
I shuffled into the kitchen; my eyes fixed on the shelves along the wall. Dozens of jars labeled with what I thought were spices, and some were. Others were flowers and herbs.
She’d made her dreams come true.
Without me.
I ran a hand over a jar that readArnica. A memory filled my mind. I’d come home from the clubhouse. Beaten and bruised from the ring.
Morgan gasped when she saw my face and dragged me into the bathroom. Pulling a jar of something she’d made, she sat me on the toilet and rubbed it into my face and shoulders.
“What is that?” I asked, spreading my legs so she could stand between them.
“It’s Arnica,” she replied, her voice clipped with irritation. She hated it when I was in the ring.
“It smells like potatoes.”
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “It’s infused with rosemary. Why do you equate everything with food?”
I pulled her closer until she straddled my lap.
“Not everything,” I muttered as I ran my nose against her neck, inhaling her skin.
She leaned back and pinned me with a look that let me know she didn’t appreciate me patronizing her. “You tell me I smell like cherries.”
I laughed. “It’s not my fault.”
She finished doctoring me up, and I had to admit, I’d felt better. Good enough to carry her to bed and make love to her for hours.
I walked down the hall and peered into the guest room. I leaned against the doorway and smiled. The walls were lined with shelves; dried herbs hung from the ceiling. And the table she used to mix her potions was covered in empty bowls and bottles of oil.
I stepped into her bedroom and froze.
Every other room in the house was filled with light and soft neutral colors. But in here, what she always called her sanctuary, were warm browns and tans.
They were the colors I preferred.
The bed wasn’t huge; I wasn’t even sure it was a queen. I smiled as I thought about how uncomfortable a man my size would be sleeping in that bed.
My heart expanded at the realization that she was sleeping alone.
I sat on the bed and picked up the discarded T-shirt. It was one of mine, worn thin from years of washing. I closed my eyes and held it against my nose, inhaling.
Cherries.
I dropped into the oversized chair in the corner. We’d had a similar one in the apartment in Little Rock. It sat in the corner, facing the bed, and I’d sit there and watch her as she played with herself. Stroking my cock as she got herself off.
Just thinking about the way she moaned, not caring if anyone could hear her, had me stiffening in my pants. I rubbed my dick through the material and waited for Morgan to come home.
An hour later she was stumbling into the house, and I was fucking hard. She came into the bedroom and sat on the bed. She hadn’t realized I was here, and I watched her take off her shoes. This was the closest I’d been to my wife in seven fucking years. She was more beautiful than ever. When her feet fell back to the floor, I cleared my throat.
Her head snapped in my direction and I growled, “You want to tell me why some asshole had his fucking hands on my wife?”
She blinked at me and shook her head. She pinched her elbow, and I knew what she was doing. Her mouth opened to say something but closed again when nothing came out.