“Let me grab a shower,” he says after a few moments, pulling away, taking that warmth with him. “Long day today.”

“Everything ok?” I ask, flipping through the racks. I stop on something sexy and appealing. Perfect to start tonight’s mood off right.

“Yeah. Patient in the hospital. Rough few days but I think we’re out of the woods now.” Translation: One of his patients has gone off the deep end and OD’d, either intentionally or accidentally, prescribed or street pharmaceuticals.

“Will they be ok?” I’m genuinely concerned. Tucker takes on a lot of entertainers and society types, most of them young. Last year, one of his patients—a teenage, rising starlet—overdosed on Klonopin and washed it down with her dad’s collection of aged scotch. All of it. The doctors did what they could, but her mind had given up, soon after her body did. It killed Tucker, and he carried a bit of the blame with him for months afterward. He knew the girl was suffering inside, and he put his all into helping her fight her demons. In the end, they were just too strong to combat.

Tucker sighs, and I turn around just as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. Now that I am just really seeing him for the first time in days, I find that he looks exhausted. His eyes are sunken in, his usually meticulous hair too long and a little disheveled, and he probably hasn’t eaten real food in days. God, have I really been that much of a selfish brat to see that my husband is suffering? That he just needed me to put my own bullshit aside for once and just be a wife?

I hang my sexy outfit back on the rack, putting it on ice and step out of the closet, going straight to the bed. Without a word, I climb up behind him and begin to massage his shoulders, which feel as hard and unyielding as boulders.

“Hey, you. Let’s skip Nobu tonight and just stay in and hang out,” I suggest.

He lifts his head a fraction, but not enough to deter my kneading. “Are you sure? You love that place.”

“I know, I know, but we can always go some other time. Besides, I’ve really been craving pizza. Angelo’s?”

Even with his head turned, I know he’s smiling. “I’ll call it in.” He turns to face me, his eyes just a shade brighter. His smiling lips press against mine for just a split second before he’s on his feet, instantly reenergized by the word pizza. “Thanks, baby. I owe you one.”

After calling in to place an order for a large pepperoni, sausage, and mushroom, Tucker takes a quick shower and dresses in a pair of comfy, flannel pants and nothing else. His body is magnificent, the muscles tight and toned without even a hint of aging. Even the ridges leading to the waistband of his pants form a perfect V before disappearing under the nuisance of fabric. I’m a lucky woman—the luckiest. A gorgeous man adores me, worships the very ground I walk on, and has for a decade. Never once has he made me feel less than beautiful or confident in my skin. And he’s never, ever made me feel guilty or ashamed for wanting a less than noble career, even though I know he hates it.

We’ve had a good marriage—a solid marriage. Up until now, neither one of us has had to question our fidelity. And other than his desire for children—that mostly stems from his overbearing, southern belle mother—Tucker has always appeared to be happy with our life.

Maybe that’s what all this is about. He gave me something, now it’s time for me to give him something. I mean, I’m not opposed to motherhood. I just don’t see the need for it. He’s aware of my circumstances; he knows I could never conceive on my own. And while IVF is definitely an option, it’s not 100 percent guaranteed. Hell, it’s not even 50 percent guaranteed. And I can’t say I’m comfortable with those odds.

In any case, Tucker hasn’t brought it up within the last few weeks, so maybe his sudden interest in my sexual deviance hasn’t been sparked by his need for fatherhood. He’s getting older, and forty will be knocking at his door in a couple years. And we’re both incredibly busy with work. So maybe he feels that ship has sailed for us?

“What?” he asks, breaking me from the reverie of my thoughts.

I smile and shake my head. “Just looking at you. I honestly think you get more handsome every day, if that’s even possible.”

“Oh, it is, baby,” he jibes, slinking over to the bed, where I’m perched. “Just wait a few more years. You won’t be able to keep your hands off me.”

“I can barely keep my hands off you now.”

He leans over onto the bed and I help him by pulling the waistband off his pants. Even fresh from a shower, I can smell the hypnotic scent of his most sensitive skin. His smell is so erotic, so incredibly masculine, that sucking him off is a feast for the senses. I feel myself get wet at just the remembrance of him pulsing down my throat.

His mouth crushes against mine, and I part my lips immediately to welcome him inside. We’re all lips and tongue and teeth, absolutely starved for each other. I moan in the back of my throat, and Tucker uses the opportunity to kiss me even deeper. I need to feel him. Right now. I need to erase the ugliness of the night before. All the ugliness that has caused a rift between us.

I’m pulling up my skirt with one hand and trying to yank down Tuck’s pants with the other when the intercom buzzes.

“Shit,” he curses against my lips. He stands up and straightens himself, and makes his way to the buzzer. “Yeah?”

“Dr. DuCane, it’s Norm from downstairs. I’ve got a pizza delivery guy here for you.”

“Right, thanks, Norm. Send him up.”

I huff out an aggravated breath and stalk to the closet to get out of my day clothes. Great. Now I’m even more sexually frustrated than I was before. That delivery guy better have a free order of garlic knots for me or I might lose my shit. Can you actually explode from being overly aroused?

After snatching up Tuck’s worn dress shirt and sliding it on, sans bra, I might add, I make my way out to the kitchen where my husband is already divvying out slices and servings of salad. And dammit, there are no garlic-fucking-knots.

“So what do you want to do tonight?” he asks, settling in beside me on the bistro table.

“I don’t know. Just chill? Have a couple glasses of wine, maybe? I think Lucia picked up some Stella for you.”

“That sounds amazing,” he says, jumping up to inspect the fridge. Sure enough, his beer of choice is fully stocked.

“Hey, bring me one of those, will ya?” I say, ripping off a bit of crust and popping it in my mouth. Tucker looks surprised—I’m not a beer drinker—but complies, even pouring it in a glass for me.

“This is great,” he remarks around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni. “Pizza, beer, and my favorite girl. I so needed this.”

I smile and nod. “Yeah, me too. Busy week.” I take a sip of beer, which turns out to be crisp and refreshing on my tongue. It’s not bubbly, but it definitely hits the spot.

We polish off the pizza and settle onto the couch with our second round of beers, which is pretty risky considering that our living room set is ivory. But I’m trying this new thing called being a supportive wife that just lives in the moment. And in this moment, Tuck needs to be comfortable in his own home. This is his refuge away from all the horror he must experience at work. I can provide that for him. I can be his refuge.

He grabs the remote and starts to flip through the channels, bypassing E! News, VH1, MTV, and Bravo. Nothing that would pique my professional interest and take me away from him and our little slice of normalcy. We’re not even twenty minutes into some slapstick funny sitcom when his cell phone rings.

“What? When did this happen?” He’s pacing the floor, his brow wrinkled in concern. “Dammit. I’m leaving now.”

Tucker looks to me with a mixture of regret and fear. “Bunny, I have to get to the hospital. There’s been a turn for the worse.”