Drowning in Love

I’ve always felt like Travis Chancer was forced to marry me.

Every time we were intimate at night, he’d rather use his hand to get me off than actually have sex with me.

I got more and more disappointed and decided to divorce him. But the night before I printed the papers, I heard him on the balcony talking to his buddies.

“Bro, I’m not trying to be nosy, but you’re obviously dying for it. Why won’t you touch her? The perfect woman is right there. It must feel amazing.”

“Women can’t stand being ignored. If you keep bottling it up, she’ll eventually run off with another man, and you’ll regret it.”

He took a quiet sip of whiskey. “But her skin is so delicate, and her waist is so slim… she’s so sensitive. What if I lose control and scare her?

“She’s my woman. I have to be careful. If she wants to find comfort elsewhere, she can. As long as she’s still willing to come home, I’ll keep spoiling her.”

They snorted. “Don’t act like a saint, man. If you’ve got the guts, stop secretly posting on Reddit.”

Late that night, I quietly opened Travis’s browser history.

A full hundred entries. The pinned post read: “I finally married the girl I’ve loved for years, but I have a very high sex drive. How can I make her enjoy it without leaving psychological scars?”…

Travis was finally back from his trip.

I’d done everything. I showered, did my makeup carefully, slipped into expensive lace lingerie, and got into bed early to wait for him. But after his shower, he opened the bedroom door, saw me on the bed, and froze.

“Why are you here?” His voice was cold, with no warmth at all.

I looked him up and down. He’d always had a great body. His robe hung half open, showing a solid chest and cut abs. With that straight nose and those long fingers, he should’ve been incredible in bed. But in the six months we’d been married, I’d never gotten the chance. It made my irritation flare.

“I’m sleeping here tonight.” No matter what excuse he tried to use, I wasn’t leaving.

Travis’s gaze flicked over what I was wearing. In a low, hoarse voice, he said, “Fine.”

That was it? I could barely believe it.

When he came closer, I suddenly felt awkward. The bedside lamps were dim. He lay down, my heart pounding, and I wrapped my arms around his waist. He went rigid and looked down at me, his expression unreadable in the low light.

From the shadows, his voice came out rough. “You want me to help?”

Before I could answer, he turned and pulled open the nightstand drawer.

The tiny spark of hope in my chest went out.

He was reaching for one of those latex finger covers again. He was still just going to use his hand!

I was fuming. It was always the same.

“I don’t need your help. You’re