Drowning in Love

I wouldn’t have minded if he’d just pinned my shoulders and kissed me hard.

This was the ninth time.

I’d been excited, ready to go further, and he pushed me away.

I shot to my feet and slammed the door.

---

At my best friend’s place, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

“Not answering?” Wendy Jackson tilted her head, studying me.

I tipped my head back and downed a big gulp of tequila. The burn left my throat raw and bitter.

I shut my phone off and grumbled, “That cigarette hit hard. One drag and my voice is wrecked.”

Wendy toyed with the pack in her hand. “But the packaging is cool, right?”

I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I genuinely couldn’t understand it.

“Why won’t Travis actually touch me? Does he like men?” I shook my head. “Back in high school, he even dated the cheer captain. After that, girls threw themselves at him and he turned them all down.”

A thought flashed through my mind.

I narrowed my eyes. “He’s probably thinking about my sister. The one who ran off to Paris.”

My sister was supposed to marry Travis, but she chased some so-called true love and ran overseas with a broke painter.

Travis acted like the perfect gentleman. In the six months since we married, he’d given me everything I asked for, in every way except in bed.

And every time he used his hand on me, even when I was falling apart, he stayed calm and controlled.

He couldn’t possibly find my body disgusting… could he?

The thought snapped something in me. Humiliation surged hot in my chest.

I slammed my glass down on the table. “I’ve decided.”

Wendy jumped.

“Divorce.”

A useless man, handsome or not, wasn’t worth keeping. I didn’t need him.

“Okay, okay. Stop drinking.” Wendy must’ve thought I was wasted. She dragged me into the shower.

She’d just gotten these over-the-top rhinestone nails, and she kept pawing at me in her sleep. The next morning, I woke up with several dark red scratches on my neck where she’d clawed me.

When I turned my phone back on, it was packed with emails and texts from Travis.

I went back to the villa and was surprised to find him home.

The living room reeked of nicotine, and the ashtrays were overflowing.

He looked up. His chiseled face seemed almost sharp with anger. “You’re back?” His voice was rough.

Then he saw the marks on my neck. His pupils tightened, and his expression turned dark in a way that made my stomach drop.

I’d slept like crap, and my throat was raw from smoking and drinking, so I wasn’t in the mood to fight.

He was about to speak when I croaked, waving him off, “I’m a mess today. I’m going upstairs.”

I wasn’t bluffing. I meant it. I wanted a divorce.

I didn’t want a sexless marriage.

—

That night, I ran a high fever. My head felt thick and foggy.

The bedroom door opened.

The scent of his body wash hit me and made me dizzy. I frowned. “Don’t touch me.”

His body went still. “Then who do you want touching you?” His voice was low, like he was forcing himself to hold something back. Then he softened it, coaxing. “Listen, take your medicine.”

A cool fingertip brushed my lips, and his other hand tightened at my waist. His gaze locked on my fever-flushed mouth. His breathing turned heavy, fast.

I hated being held by him. Uncomfortable, I turned away and burrowed under the covers. “Once I take it, get out.”

In my haze, I thought I heard the bathroom water running again.