“Taste her . . . Taste how fucking good her pussy is.”

“That’s right. Fuck her hard. Harder.”

“Pull her hair.”

“Slap her ass. Again . . . slap it again. This time make it hurt.”

All things I’ve wanted him to do with me. Things he’s refused me at every single turn.

So over the years, I just stopped asking. I stopped fantasizing. Which led to me resenting every fucking gentle caress and tender kiss. That’s what he needed. That’s the only way he could love me—as if I were a fragile, little paper doll. He was afraid he would rip me in two. And I wanted him to do just that.

Break me. Destroy me. Wreck me.

Love me.

Tucker could’ve loved me through all the madness. And I would have known that he cared for me beyond the boundaries of his own inhibitions. Isn’t that what love and sacrifice are all about? Isn’t that marriage? Putting your own selfish needs aside for the happiness of the person you vowed to devote your life to?

Don’t get me wrong—Tucker is an amazing husband. He’s patient, kind, and supportive. He’s a great provider and I know he’d be an incredible father, if we ever cross that bridge. I trust him with my life, and I can go to sleep every night knowing that he is dreaming of me and only me. I don’t have to doubt him or question his love for me. I feel it in his touch, see it reflected in those eyes as blue as the ocean. See it curl around his full lips to shape a smile so warm it could have been carved from the sun.

I know my husband loves me. But when I am forced to stifle who I truly am and what I want—what I need—is love enough? Can I live another ten years like this? Can I spend a lifetime with a man who only chooses to know the part of me that is deemed pretty and decent?

Even after I’ve prepped, primped, and plummeted into the late morning crowd at Starbucks, the same questions still replay in an endless loop of confused frustration. I grab a nonfat frappe and find a vacant stool at the bar that faces the street. It’s busy today, and if anything can get me out of my head long enough to find some perspective, it’s people watching. That’s what I love about New York. Even when you’re by yourself, you’re never really alone.

However, after a good half hour, I still can’t wrap my head around the state of my marriage. I can’t understand Tucker’s motivations for last weekend if we were still going to have a sex life that was about as dry and stale as day-old toast. I mean, he’s a wonderful lover . . . to someone else. There’s nothing wrong with his equipment and his mouth and hands have made my legs shake for days. But it’s not enough to fill the emptiness. Not enough to feel completely satisfied behind the sacred doors of our bedroom.

I fish out my cell phone and stare at it a good thirty seconds before sliding a thumb over the Unlock icon. My finger hovers over a name in my contacts for twice as long before I bite the bullet and press Call.

I told myself I wouldn’t do this—my marital problems are for me to deal with and nobody else. Tucker and I had struggles long before we made the mistake of involving another party. Going down this road could only further complicate things. And how do I know it’s safe? Hell, how do I know I won’t look like a total freak?

Only one way to find out.

“Drake,” that gruff baritone sounds over the receiver.

“Take the bass out of your voice, JD. I’m not calling to bitch you out . . . for now.”

“Surprise, surprise. So . . . what can I do for you, Heidi?”

“I have . . . a few questions. And I need to know that it will stay between you, me, and the phone, or I will fly to Arizona, cut off your balls, and serve them with Riku’s Béarnaise and a side salad. Got it?”

He laughs without so much as a hint of discomfort. To tell you the truth, Justice Drake is probably the only person who can tolerate my silver tongue, so I keep it extra sharp just for him. I think he actually likes it. When people pay you to be a merciless asshole five days a week, maybe it’s nice to be in the hot seat for a change.

“Questions, huh?” I can almost hear the smile in his voice. Can almost imagine those denim blue eyes dancing with intrigue and his lips slinking into a wicked grin. “You have my undivided attention. And my word.”

“Good. Because this . . . this is off the record. So I better not find any notes in your fucking client list. And I damn sure better not find out that it’s the topic of pillow talk with Ally. I swear to you, Drake. I will end you if this gets out.”

Silence stretches for just a beat before he asks, “Are you done?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now talk. It’s my day off and I’m not getting paid for this shit.”

“Fine.” I take a deep breath and mentally count down from ten before looking around to ensure that no one seems overly interested in my conversation. As I suspected, the rest of the café is oblivious. Another perk of the city—we’ve seen and heard it all. No one cares enough to eavesdrop because they’re too busy trying to conceal their own dirty, little secrets. “What do you know about open marriages?”

“A lot. Be more specific.” Not even an inkling of surprise or over-interest.

“I mean, do you think they can work? If both parties can agree to it?”

“They have worked, yes. But I believe that a relationship, namely a marriage that is built on the foundation of monogamy and devotion, can only survive if the circumstances are right. And the reasons for the arrangement are of a decent nature.”

“What do you mean?”

“To be frank, is this arrangement based off the fact that either you or your husband merely want to fuck other people?”

“No! Of course not. And I’m not even saying that this is about me and my husband.”

“Whatever. I’m not judging. But the fact that I only found out about this husband mere months ago speaks volumes, Heidi. Why the secrecy? Is it because you’re ashamed of him? Or you want to live a life separate from him? Is that your motivation for an open marriage? Because in that case, I say get a divorce.”

“Save the self-righteous psychobabble, Dr. Feel Good. I never hid my marriage from you. It was none of your business. And you’re the one with Magnum P.I. on the payroll. All the dirt you dig up on your clients and you can’t get your thumb outta Allison’s ass long enough to do a quick Google search about my marital status?”

“Huh. Well, what can I say? I’m more interested in the people who pay me. Not the ones who charge me enough to mortgage a small castle.”

“Obviously, I need a raise.”

“You’re getting it now.” He clears his throat and when his voice floats through the phone again, it’s devoid of all humor and cynicism. It’s almost sincere . . . sympathetic. “Heidi, I don’t usually suggest open marriages unless each spouse is completely comfortable of the terms and the reasons behind it. A good reason to go down that road is if one of them are handicapped or medically incapable of providing their wife or husband sexual pleasure. Or if they are merely sexually incompatible, yet very deeply in love. Being a slut isn’t a good reason. Getting tired of the same dick or pussy is not a good reason. If one wants to seek pleasure in others, solely for the purpose of sexual gratification, then they don’t need to be married. Now, I won’t ask you if any of this pertains to you, but I will say . . . be very careful what doors you open in your marriage. Once open, some can never be closed. And you’re allowing just about any and everything to taint the sacredness of your vows.”

Stunned, I silently chew the straw of my drink for a good fifteen seconds before responding. “Wow. I have to say, that girl is getting to you.”

He laughs, the cocky tremor of his deep voice booming from the other side of the country. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“No. Yes. I’m worried you’re losing your edge. Just when I started liking your arrogant ass.”