I sat up. The blanket dropped from my chest and goose bumps spread over my body. I was naked. Another reason why eight a.m. felt more like four a.m., Aiden had kept me up until the middle of the night.

I’d known he had stamina, but I hadn’t known he had stamina.

How could he have held back that much? And if he hadn’t been getting what he wanted, why hadn’t he strayed?

I flung the blankets aside. Rigid control. Aiden was loyal to a fault, and he kept a tight rein on all extraneous bodily functions that didn’t serve his goal. His primary goal was work, not sex.

Until last night.

And lord help me, I’d loved it. Aiden had gone out of his way in bed to make me feel treasured. I hadn’t trusted the feeling, but that hadn’t been his goal. If his goal last night had been to make me feel like an insatiable sex goddess who said yes to anything he asked, mission accomplished.

Sex like that would’ve made it impossible to draw up divorce papers.

I bit my lower lip. So now what?

It was too early to think about where we went now, or what to do with the divorce papers that might have bodily fluids on them.

I climbed out of bed and went to the walk-in closet. Dang, I missed this house. I could twirl inside this space with my arms open and my fingertips would barely graze the clothes hanging up.

I reached for a sweater I wore to work once in a while. It was beige cashmere, soft as a cloud, and fitted in a way that flattered my body type. Then what do I put on? Slacks? Do I go blow out my hair?

No. I had no plans today. If I’d woken up in the trailer, I’d have thrown on an old college hoodie with some leggings and fluffy socks. I’d kept some of my lesser-used loungewear here. After finding some, I finger-combed my hair and walked out of the bedroom.

Thankfully, our last round of sex had been in the shower.

The treadmill shut off. He’d do his strength training next, then come upstairs to chug a protein shake before he took a shower. Maybe I’d bring it down to him and do some shameless husband watching. He often worked out without his shirt.

I whipped his shake up. The bag of his strawberry mango powder was nearly empty. Did he know where to order it? I rolled my eyes. He’d been downing that shake since before me. He could take care of it.

But would I order the next bag? Or would he?

Would I move back in?

I concentrated on the single-serving blender and tried to forget the mounting questions.

I wasn’t sure I’d like the answers.