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boiling mass of rage, fear, regret. His body, however, was alive and kicking.
    What they’d done…
    What he’d done to her…
    For a moment, there pressed into the upholstered darkness that smelled faintly of some floral freshener, he only remembered the crack of her elbow against his jaw. He slid it side to side. The morning aftermath of that solid hit was still a little tender.
    Forget what his mind was thinking. Forget what his heart was fearing. He wanted Sunny again. That force. That rush of power and fight and a pure, undiluted meanness he hadn’t known was in him.
    He ground his hips against the couch, but even a quick, forceful thrust didn’t do a thing to ease how hard he was. He groaned into the pillow. Flung it across the room. Dug his hands into his hair and pulled.
    It wasn’t the sex. Hell, it wasn’t even that he’d damn near raped his own wife. He’d listened to her. There on the couch, head throbbing, body in a humming sort of shock, he’d listened to her wrestle with the zip ties. She’d cussed. She’d shrieked his name once, calling him a motherfucker. But she never backed down or asked for help or told him enough was enough. The rougher Sunny fought to get free, with all those delicious grunts, the more Dash had wrenched his palm against the base of his cock. Holding back the urge to storm back in there and start all over.
    To tie her up. To fuck her without asking.
    He sucked in a hissing breath. A shower would be nice, but the only full bathroom in their bungalow was en suite with the bedroom. He’d need to go in there. Scene of the crime. Maybe she’d be awake, glaring, hateful. Yeah, she’d given him permission more than once, but the heat of the moment was a helluva lot different than staring facts in the face come dawn.
    His tongue was sticky and dry of anything to swallow. Instead he tried to lick his lips—and tasted her. No matter how awkward, no matter how sick, he wanted to see her wrists and her ankles.
    Yes, scene of the crime. But also one of the fiercest, fastest turn-ons he’d ever experienced. She’d wear bands of red, abraded skin as undeniable evidence of what he’d done.
    I want a divorce.
    That memory, apparently, took longer to smack him upside his face. How long was she even giving him? How long did he have to fix what was broken—or wrap his mind around the impossible? Perhaps only a month. She usually stayed home a month between trips.
    He sat up, then propelled off the couch. Four strides through the living room. Two past the kitchen and office and down the hallway. Two into their bedroom.
    She was awake. Bare to the waist—or at least that’s what he could see. A sheet draped across her stomach, leaving her petite breasts and rich caramel skin exposed. Half-propped on a pillow, she simply stared at him with that “won’t ever touch what’s inside” placidity. Tiny smile and all.
    As if she’d been expecting him. As if she had all the power.
    “Someone woke up expecting too much,” she said in a snide tone. Her luscious, dark brown eyes flicked down to the obvious erection tucked awkwardly in his boxer briefs.
    “And someone woke up ready to play the part of a goddamn tease.”
    They stared at each other. Even from halfway across their small bedroom, he could see her pupils dilate. Fury, need, controllable lust. Dash couldn’t figure out what the hell was happening, but he was swirled by the same emotions.
    So he let her win that round. He looked away first. What he found was no relief—the snipped zip ties on the floor, and the scissors with the blades open. She’d cut free and left it. More evidence.
    His blood sped and sped. No stopping it. He should’ve felt shame or sick regret. Instead he turned his eyes back to his wife of eight years. They’d been so good once. So good. A flicker of old, safe tenderness made his heart falter.
    She wanted to throw all that away.
    Divorce. The end.
    Fuck that.
    “Those breasts you’re showing off?”
    She