The Forbidden Longing

I always felt my husband was forced to marry me.

Every time we were intimate, Parker only used his hands.

Eventually, I gave up and decided to set him free. But the night before printing the divorce papers, I overheard him with his friends.

“Why not touch your wife? She’s right there,” one said.

“Nora might run off if you keep holding back.”

Parker sipped his whiskey. “You don’t understand. She’s delicate. What if I scare her?”

His voice deepened. “She’s my wife. I must cherish her. If she finds what I can’t give elsewhere… fine. As long as she comes home to me.”

His friends laughed. “Then why secretly Google everything?”

That night, I checked Parker’s history—99 searches, all variations of:

“I finally married the girl I love, but I have a kink. How do I not scare her away?”

1

The day Parker came back from his business trip, I had a battle plan.

I showered, shaved, and put on a full face of makeup before slipping into the new, sinfully sheer nightgown I’d bought. Then, I slid into his side of the bed, waiting to be conquered.

But when he walked out of the bathroom, the sight of me in his sheets made him freeze, the towel in his hands stilled mid-rub.

“What are you doing here?”

There wasn’t a trace of warmth in his voice.

My eyes roamed over him, from top to bottom. Parker’s body was a work of art; even the plush bathrobe couldn’t hide the swell of his pectoral muscles or the faint outline of his abs. Logically, with a nose that sharp and fingers that long, he had to be… well-equipped.

And yet, in six months of marriage, I had never been allowed to get a “deeper” understanding.

Refusing to be deterred, I decided to be direct.

“I’m here to sleep with you.”

I didn’t care what excuses he came up with. Tonight, he was mine.

Parker’s expression flickered. His gaze dropped to my lingerie, and after a long pause, he gave a clipped, “Fine.”

That easy?

I was in disbelief. As he approached the bed, I felt a wave of uncertainty. The only light came from the small, mood-setting lamp on the nightstand. He lay down beside me, a wave of cool air and the clean scent of soap washing over me. My heart hammered against my ribs as I boldly wrapped my arms around his waist.

Parker’s entire body went rigid. A beat later, his head turned, his eyes finding mine in the dim light. His voice was a low rasp.

“Do you want me to help you?”

Before I could answer, he pulled away, his movements swift as he opened the nightstand drawer.

“…”

The little spark of excitement inside me was instantly doused by the practiced ease of his actions. I didn't even need to ask. I knew what was coming next.

He was going to fulfill his husbandly duties—just not with himself.

A white-hot spike of anger shot through me. It was always like this. His own body was under lock and key, untouchable even when he was clearly aroused.

When he pulled out the finger cots, my face darkened. I snatched them from his hand and threw them at his chest.

“Help me with what? You’re so damn vanilla, what new tricks ...