The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 08

The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 08

He came home late, but not too late. One in the morning, maybe.

He was wearing different clothes.

“Luca yakked all over me at dinner,” he said, already halfway to the bathroom. “All over my jacket. My shirt. My shoes. It was disgusting. Borrowed his spare and tossed mine in the nearest dumpster. I’m gonna hit the shower. Don’t come in. I smell like barf.”

The bathroom door locked behind him.

I sat up in bed. Turned on the lamp.

Something was off.

The shower ran for ten minutes. Fifteen. When the door finally opened, steam billowed out into the bedroom, carrying the scent of his cedar soap.

He came out wearing full pajamas. Buttoned to the top. Pants and everything.

That was weird.

Vito sleeps in his boxers. Always has. He says pajamas make him feel like he’s being smothered by a grandmother. Even in winter, even when the heat was broken that one time and I woke up to find him shivering, he refused to wear anything more than the bare minimum. Something about “restriction” and “freedom of movement.”

Something was under those PJs.

He climbed into bed, turned off his lamp, and lay on his back. Staring at the ceiling. Not touching

I let the silence stretch.

Then I swung a leg over his hips, straddling him. The sheets were cool against my bare thighs. His torso was warm beneath me, even through the flannel.

His hands came up to my hips automatically – reflex – but they didn’t pull me closer. They just

rested there.

I started working open the buttons of his pajama shirt.

“Babe.” His voice was tight. “I’m beat. It was a long night.”

“I’ll do the work.”

I leaned down, lips brushing his ear. Felt the shiver that went through him.

His hands tightened on my hips. But he didn’t stop me.

I got three buttons undone.

His chest was bare underneath. Tan skin, dark hair trailing down his sternum, the faint silver line

of an old scar near his ribs.

And scratches.

Four of them. Long, parallel, angry red lines running from his collarbone down toward his nipple. Fresh enough that the edges were still raised.

My heart stopped.

He flipped us before I could react. Wrapped me up in the duvet like a burrito, pinning my arms to

my sides.

“Seriously, babe.” His voice was strained. “I’m exhausted. When this project wraps – when things calm down – I swear, I’ll make it up to you. On my knees. However you want. Just… not tonight.”

He kissed my forehead. My nose. My lips – a brush, nothing more.

“Good night, Elena.”

He turned off the lamp and rolled over.

I stared at the ceiling until the sky started to lighten.