Filthy Vows - Alessandra Torre Page 0,15

But something felt off, and I closed my eyes under the spray, trying to pinpoint what it was. We had been as passionate as always, my confidence in our marriage always solidified by our sex. And the fight, of course, had only made it hotter. Our fights always seemed to end with us naked, our anger dissolving as our orgasms mounted.

I rubbed an exfoliating scrub into my cheeks and tried to place what was still nagging at me about this event. Was it the subject matter itself? My insecurities over my fertility issues? His avoidance of the topic altogether? Or… oh. The realization came with startling clarity.

It was the first time, in almost a year, that we’d had sex without me thinking—at least for a brief moment—of someone else.

6

I think you have to properly experience cheating in order to form a valid opinion on it. As either the cheater or the cheatee. It’s like death or a cancer diagnosis. Unless you’re in the trenches, facing the possibility or actuality, it’s not real. It’s a concept, one you can judge from afar and gossip over for hours without actually understanding the depth of feelings and emotions that are involved in the event.

I watched my husband as he spoke on the phone, his handsome features pinching, his one-sided dialogue giving me clues to the conversation. Cheating was the topic and with Aaron on the other side of the line, I knew who the culprit was—Becca.

“When’s he following her? Today?” Easton’s eyes cut to me, and he gave me a pained look.

I picked up my setting and headed to the kitchen, scraping the remnants of the spaghetti into the trash. Wayland looked worriedly from my plate to the trash can, then whined. Setting the rose-dotted china on the floor, I watched as he quickly cleaned every bit of the meat sauce off the delicate saucer, the eBay find scraping against the red Spanish tile as he skidded it into the corner and tried to pin it in place with his paw.

“Let me know what happens. I’m sorry, man. I hate that you have to deal with this.”

From behind me, I heard his chair squeak against the tile as he pushed away from the breakfast table and headed toward me. Shooing Wayland away, he picked up the plate and set his own down.

“Okay. Call me then.” He ended the call.

“Becca?” I guessed, taking my plate from him and running it under the hot water.

“Yeah. She’s being sketchy with a guy at work. Aaron thinks she’s having an affair.”

I did quick math on their relationship. They were about to celebrate their third wedding anniversary, if I was calculating things correctly. “Cheating already? That’s quick.”

He rescued his plate from Wayland and passed it to me. “Yeah. I hope he’s wrong, but Aaron isn’t paranoid. Everything he’s describing sounds suspicious.”

And Easton wasn’t a suspicious guy. Both he and Aaron were, if anything, a little too laissez-faire with their trust. Not that I wanted an overbearing jealous husband, but I sometimes intentionally provoked him, just to get a glimpse of his alpha male side.

Maybe Becca was doing the same thing. Flashing red flags just to get attention. That seemed more likely than a scenario where she would cheat on Aaron. I ran the plate under the hot water. “What’s she doing?”

“She’s working out constantly. She’s started going out with friends and coming home late. She’s on her phone all of the time.”

I frowned. Becca’s friends weren’t the type to go out. And anytime Chelsea and I had ever invited her anywhere, she’d always staunchly refused, her social group focused on volunteer opportunities and cooking circles. I tried to picture a new version of Becca, one with a drink in hand, social media popping, without the extra fifteen pounds she’d picked up in college. I couldn’t see it.

“Here.” Easton came up behind me and kissed the back of my neck. “Let me do these.” He reached into the soapy water and stole the sponge from me.

“Okay.” I went to move, but he caged me in.

“Stay. I’ll work around you.” His chest settled against my back and he moved closer to the sink, pinning me in as he looked over my shoulder and into the sink. There were only a few items. The big spaghetti pot. The spoon and spatula. Our plates and silverware. I leaned back into his chest, letting him work and examining our reflection in the plate-glass window above the sink. So handsome, my husband. This lighting