He jogged down the wooden stairs to the beach. Rocks of all sizes, washed smooth by ocean waves, dotted the pale sand, and he meandered along until he found a wide flat boulder to sit on. He cupped his coffee mug in both hands, warm beneath his fingers, cool ocean breeze floating around him, and stared out at the Pacific Ocean. The water swelled, rose, curled and crashed into a froth of white, over and over again, the rhythmic sound and ceaseless motion mesmerizing. Seagulls cried overhead, soaring in the clear blue sky.

This was pretty awkward. He’d appreciated the offer of a place to stay while he finished recovering from his food poisoning, had actually been happy to be seeing his friends again after being away for so long. He hadn’t expected to walk into some kind of marital turmoil.

He supposed he could have gone to stay with one of his two brothers, or even his parents, in Los Angeles. But he’d pretty much cut himself off from them after his life had disintegrated. He’d cut himself off from everyone, and calling Derek had seemed the easiest choice.

He’d just have to stay out of their way and hope that his goddamn eyes got better pretty fucking quick.

Krissa rinsed the conditioner out of her hair, then reached for the tap of the shower. She cranked it off, opened the shower door and put out a hand for her towel. Derek stood there, leaning against the vanity, towel in his outstretched hand.

He still hadn’t dressed, and despite her anger and sorrow, and despite his obvious hangover, his muscular chest, smooth and tanned, made her want to touch, and the low-riding boxers drew her eyes to the V-shaped muscles tapering down beneath them. His eyes were shadowed, his face lined with fatigue.

Krissa took the towel and dried off, aware of Derek watching her. Her pussy clenched and her nipples tingled. She wrapped the towel around her, tucked the end in to hold it in place.

Water dripped from her long hair onto her bare shoulders, soaked into the thick towel as they looked at each other.

“I know you were hurting yesterday,” Krissa finally said. “But that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like shit.”

“I know. I said I’m sorry.”

“You could have at least told me you were going out.”

“I know. I screwed up, okay?”

She continued to watch him. His eyes, dark with pain, met her.

“Did you tell Nate?” he asked.

“No.”

He nodded.

“Were you with someone?”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

“I smelled perfume on your suit. Not my perfume.”

“There were women in the bar. I smelled like cigarettes, too, but I wasn’t smoking.”

She nodded. A couple of years ago, they’d had this same conversation. But he’d emphatically denied it, and she’d had no reason to disbelieve him—okay, the truth was, she didn’t want to disbelieve him—so she’d let it go. She didn’t like fighting with him, and nothing else had ever happened, so she must have been wrong.

She didn’t like the suspicion eating at her insides, the fear and worry.

“I love you, Krissa.” He held her gaze.

“I love you too.”

He reached for her, drew her to him with his hands on her waist. She let him pull her closer, rested her pelvis against his as they leaned against the vanity. She stroked her fingers through his hair, trying to tame the wild spikes.

Derek’s fingers moved to where the towel was tucked into itself above her left breast and tugged it out. He let the towel fall open and then to the floor. His hands returned to her waist.

Krissa pushed the towel aside with her bare foot and leaned in to kiss her husband. Their mouths met and clung. Derek tasted of minty toothpaste and coffee, still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. She laid her hands on his shoulders, satiny skin over firm muscle and hard bones, let her fingers curl into him.

They kissed again, and again, Derek’s hands sliding lower to her ass, pulling her against him, his growing erection nudging her tummy. She went onto her toes to rub him there, needed to feel him between her legs where she began to ache.

“I love you,” he whispered, his mouth still touching hers. “I’m sorry, Krissa.”

“I’m sorry too.” She kissed the corner of his mouth, leaned her forehead against his.

“I feel like such a failure.”

“Don’t. Please, don’t. You’re not a failure. We’ll get through this.”

He swallowed hard, then lifted her by her ass. She wrapped her legs around him, feet resting on the cool marble vanity, and he slid a hand between their bodies, found her center and stroked through her wetness. Hot and achy, she let out a moan.

“I’m still a man,” he said, shoving at his underwear until his penis sprang out, hard and thick.

“I know.” Her head fell back. She wrapped her arms around his head and he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked, hard. Hot delight flashed through her. “I…know.” He pushed into her, filling her. He grunted and she gasped. “Yes.” She lifted her hips, tried to open more for him, let his cock surge into her, so deep it almost hurt. Involuntarily she lifted, and he thrust again, harder. “Oh, God!”

He drove into her, and she rubbed her swollen clit against his pubic bone on each push, driving her higher, the pleasure spiraling inside her, higher. She held on tighter, focused on their image in the mirror behind Derek, blurred by steam. She could make out the bulge of Derek’s biceps as he held her up, the ridges of muscles down either side of his smooth, tanned back, her hands gripping him. She squeezed her eyes shut. Water dripped down her naked back, making his hands slide on her body as he pumped into her.

He turned, sat her on the vanity, the marble cold beneath the warm flesh of her ass, his hands on her hips.

“Krissa, Christ, Krissa.” He kissed her nipples, hard and pointy and aching, and she peaked in a delicious spasm, arms and legs tightening on him. Then he went over, too, holding her against him as he pulsed inside her in hot jets.

Her legs shook as he lowered her to the floor, the terry bath mat soft beneath her soles. She draped her arms over his shoulder and rested her face against him, both of them breathing hard. When she opened her eyes, she met her own eyes in the foggy side mirror, saw the flush on her cheeks, the heaviness of her eyelids.

“We need to talk,” she said.

He let of a long breath. “Yeah.”

“But now Nate’s staying with us.”

“Yeah.”

“I felt humiliated last night, in front of him.”

His body tightened. “Jesus, how many times do I have to say it? I’m sorry!”

He set her away from him with his hands on her waist. She sucked in air, bent over to pick up the towel. He yanked his boxers up over his penis, still half hard and wet with her cream and his semen.

“I have to get to the office,” he muttered and she watched as he threw open the bathroom door and strode out.

Krissa leaned her hands on the edge of the counter, looked at herself in the mirror. Her body still pulsed from her orgasm but her heart hurt. He felt like a failure. Like less of a man. She had to remember how this was impacting him, needed to understand. But her own aching heart made it difficult.

She felt bad leaving Nate all alone in the family room watching television through dark glasses after they’d eaten dinner. But she and Derek had to talk. This was their life and they’d barely said ten words to each other since the doctor had delivered the devastating news.

Krissa closed the door of her office, actually the fifth bedroom of their home. She sat at the chair in front of her desk, and Derek slumped on the futon against one wall.

He’d changed into cargo shorts and a T-shirt after arriving home from work. They’d eaten dinner and he and Nate were going to go out for a beer after this little “talk”.

“Tell me what’s going on with you,” Krissa said. She leaned on one arm of the chair, studied his face.