Dedication

To Tim.

Thank you for loving me so beautifully.

Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Teaser

Also by S.L. Jennings

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

I could have easily told him what I wanted. I should have. I see that now.

I could have reached across the white-linen-covered table, grasped his large hands, and leveled my stare with his, before spilling my guts all over my half-eaten, olive oil–poached branzino.

I could have said, “Tucker, I love you. You’re a wonderful husband, partner, friend, and lover. And my life would be empty without you. But honey . . .

“I need to be fucked.

“Not your version of fucking—which is great, and all—but fucked like you hate me. Not like you love me, because I already know that. I’ve always known that. And as much as I wish that love was enough . . . it’s not. So please give me what I need. Please do to me what you deem dirty and disrespectful. I need you to understand that. I need you. But I need this too.”

It would have hurt him, but he would have understood. He always did.

Then we wouldn’t be where we are now.

Scared. Excited. Naked.

My loving husband and me.

And him.

Maybe I should have told him what I wanted from the start.

But then again, maybe not.

Chapter One

He was doing it again.

Analyzing every word, every inflection of my voice. Trying to read my body language for any sign of discontent. His lips are smiling. But his maddeningly perceptive gaze is burning right through my impassive expression, boring straight into the root of my unease like a drill.

I huff out an aggravated breath and take a sip of my martini. If I couldn’t keep him out of my head, I’d just drink until I didn’t care anymore. Until my thoughts slurred together and edges didn’t exist to contain logic.

“Stop it,” I finally say, looking down at my menu to hide my aggravation.

“Stop what?” I can practically visualize him narrowing those cunning eyes, causing the space between his brows to wrinkle with age and misplaced concern.

“Shrinking me. I’m not your patient, Tuck. Stop it. I said I was fine and I meant it.”

I look up just as he places his elbows on the table and leans forward. Sincerity rests on those lusciously full, bowed lips, fashioned into a comforting smile. “You’re right; you’re not my patient, Heidi. You’re my wife. And I’m worried about you.”

That’s right. He said wife.

I am somebody’s wife. And the somebody sitting across from me—a tall, tan Adonis with cornflower blue eyes, bourbon brown hair sprinkled with the first signs of maturity just at the temples, and a pronounced, chiseled jaw—is my husband, Tucker DuCane. The best man I know. The man I’ve loved and devoted my life to for the past ten years.

“Ever since all that shit blew up with Justice, you’ve been busier than ever,” he continues, peering at me over the dark rims of his glasses. “The long hours, the trips every other week . . . you need to slow down. You’re a publicist, babe. Not a superhero.”

I set down my menu and look away, unable to face his condescending stare. He doesn’t mean to be a patronizing ass, but he can’t help it. He’s a psychiatrist, and a damn good one at that. He gets paid hundreds upon hundreds an hour to listen to New York’s famously fucked up bitch and whine about their trivial, self-important lives. And he actually cares enough to help them. The man is practically a shoe-in for sainthood.

Then there’s his most demanding case of all—me.

I’ve been known as a lot of things—the Ice Queen of the North, a shark in stilettos, the Big Apple ball-buster, and my personal favorite, the blonde Olivia Pope. But I’m rarely known as a happy, doting wife. And that’s not a matter of negligence. Simply circumstance.

Being married to the top publicist in New York is no picnic, especially one as notorious for her razor-sharp tongue as her colorful clientele. So it’s no surprise that most of this city wouldn’t make the connection between us. Tucker DuCane, serenity-inducing shrink to the upper crust married to Heidi DuCane, PR pit bull in a skirt? Doesn’t make sense.

Except it does.

Well, it did.

A tall, tuxedo-clad young man with angular features and the smoothest, darkest skin I have ever seen approaches our table with a blinding white smile. “Dr. DuCane, Mrs. DuCane. Lovely to see you again. Another date night?” he asks in his intriguing accent that boasts of his Nigerian heritage combined with years of schooling in England.

“Bilal, great to see you, young man. Sick of us already?” Tucker jibes, successfully smothering all signs of seriousness and using that blithe tone reserved for patients and the press.

“Absolutely not, sir. I could never tire of my favorite guests, especially with Mrs. DuCane helping me nab the biggest campaign of my career.” He beams, casting brilliant light into the dimly lit dining room.

“Don’t tell me you landed the Versace campaign. That’s amazing, Bilal!” I smile, stowing my Bitchy Resting Face and grasping his hand. I’m genuinely happy for him and I’m human enough to let it show.

“I did! And I owe it all to you, Mrs. D,” he says, completely covering my much smaller hand with his long fingers.

“Nonsense. You’re the one with the gorgeous face. I just simply made a call. It was nothing.”

And I mean it. Bilal has been serving at our favorite steakhouse in the city for the past two years, and I’ve always felt he was way too pretty to be pushing pretentious plates of porterhouse for stuffy, old businessmen and groups of gal pals à la Sex and the City. But the fashion industry here is fiercely competitive, and even an extraordinary beauty like him was struggling to get seen by the right people. So I made a quick call, no biggie. Donatella owed me a favor anyway.

Bilal makes quick work of taking our order, not even bothering to ask the desired doneness of our prime steaks—he already knows—before thanking me again. After checking on his other tables, he returns with a stellar bottle of Cab.

“On the house,” he says with a wink as he fills our glasses. He doesn’t pause to give us the standard taste, either. He already knows that we’ll love it.