ducked. “Hey!”
She launched the second shoe and it nailed the side of his head.
“Ouch!” He rubbed his bruise and then took off running toward her. “You’ve lost your mind.”
Chanté squealed as she lunged from him. “Get away. Leave me alone.” She bounded up on the sofa and rushed across its cushions.
“I’m going to make you pay for that.”
“Don’t you dare touch me!” She jumped down, slid on her stocking feet, then raced in the opposite direction.
Matthew crashed into a bookcase and yelped in pain when a few hardcovers landed on his head. “Damn it!”
Chanté glanced over her shoulder as she exited the living room. To her surprise, her husband was right on her tail. She’d crossed the foyer and was just inches away from the staircase, when his strong fingers bit into her shoulders.
“Gotcha!”
Chanté swung as she pivoted.
Matthew ducked, lost his balance, and fell backward—taking her down with him. He landed with a hard thump and had no time to register the pain before his wife knocked what little air he had left out of his lungs.
In no time, her hands and legs flailed out in attack.
“Will you stop it?” He wrestled with her, trying to catch hold of her.
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
He latched on to one arm, but failed to catch the other one before it landed a hard blow against the same spot her flying shoe had hit. “Ouch!”
Matthew captured the other hand. He rolled on top and pinned her beneath him.
Even then Chanté kicked and squirmed.
“Be still,” Matthew demanded.
“Go to hell,” she spat.
“What? This isn’t 666 Hell’s Drive?”
“Very funny.” She gave a last futile tug, and then went limp beneath him.
“Give up?”
“Never.”
Her chest heaved while she dragged in deep breaths. It, consequently, drew her husband’s lustful gaze. It was crazy, but she felt good lying beneath him—her curvy body soft but pulsing with raw energy. He was turned on—and she knew it.
Five months.
“What are you doing?” she asked in alarm.
He leaned down close until their faces were just inches apart. He filled his senses with her floral-scented hair and the faint hint of Chanel No. 5.
“What will you do if I kiss you right now?”
“What?”
“I want to kiss you.”
Chanté renewed her escape efforts, but the wild bucking and squirming only succeeded in turning them both on more.
When his lips landed on hers with surprising gentleness, Chanté’s mutinous body melted as though cold water had been splashed onto a fire.
Their tongues danced, caressed, and sent small shock waves of pleasure clear down to her toes. She wanted him, and judging by the hard bulge in his pants, he wanted her, too.
She could give in just this once. After all, it had been five long months. What was the harm? God knew she still loved him—probably always will.
“Tell me you want me,” he commanded softly. “We don’t even have to go upstairs. We can do it right here. Right now, but I want to hear you say it.”
I want you. Chanté panted and tried to gain control of herself.
“Tell me.”
She met her husband’s fevered gaze while the war continued to rage inside of her. Bend—be flexible. But giving in to him wouldn’t magically erase their problems.
“Who knows, tonight might be the night...”
A baby. She closed her eyes. Always a baby. Forcing ice into her veins, Chanté lifted her chin, and with her next words extinguished the small fire crackling between them. “I want you to get the hell off of me.”
Chapter 3
Matthew didn’t sleep a wink.
How could he when all he could think about was marching down the hall to the master bedroom—his old bedroom—and demand his wife perform her wifely duties?
Fat chance.
He chuckled under his breath and watched as the sunlight beamed through the thin slits in the venetian blinds. The rays warmed his face but he wondered when it would touch his heart.
This was not supposed to be his life.
He was never the type of man who trembled at the idea of settling down, having the white picket fence or having the customary two point five children...
Children.
Coming from a large family of four brothers, four sisters and a host of cousins, nieces and nephews, Matthew had always assumed that one day he, too, would raise a small army of children. He’d originally delayed those plans to support his wife in her career. But when they actually started planning five years ago, there was a snag. Chanté could get pregnant, but ten weeks into the pregnancies, like clockwork, her body would reject the fetus.
Five years. Nine miscarriages. Nine heartbreaks.
Matthew swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Children were what was missing from their home—from their lives. He knew it, she knew it and all their friends knew it, too.
And yet, it wasn’t in the cards for them.
He sighed; mourned for the children he didn’t have, and then reached for his copy of Chanté’s latest book, I Do. “Following an argument, we need time to cool off. When one person hisses a sarcastic comment and the other, hurt and angry, feels justified in topping the insult. The volleys begin. By the time we realize the mistake we’re making, it’s too late to ‘take it back.’”
He slapped the book closed and hung his head in shame. Seth was right. “I should have apologized.”
A loud rip caught his attention and he jerked his head toward the door. When he heard it again, he frowned and went to investigate. Upon opening the bedroom door, he couldn’t wrap his brain around what he was seeing.
“What in the hell are you doing?”
Dressed in sexy, silk pink boxers and a matching lace chemise, Chanté stood with a large roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
