“What’s wrong?” The flash of hurt that sparks in her eyes is a line drive straight to my gut. I feel like the worst kind of asshole as she studies me, her brow pinched with confusion over my drastic one-eighty. “It’s your turn.”

I’ve got nothing. What the hell am I going to say to that? No thanks? Not likely. I need a way out that won’t break her heart, and I’m drawing a complete blank.

Thankfully she doesn’t waste any time waiting on my reply before swirling a finger around my nipple. “We’ve tasted me…” She huffs out a timid laugh. “Whaddaya say we taste you now?”

Yup. That’ll do it.

I take my escape, bolting out of that bed like my ass is on fire. “It’s a no from me, dawg,” I say, imitating the infamous Randy Jackson, which is a nod to our weekly American Idol nights growing up.

“Ask yourself, dear husband…” She taps a wicked finger against her lips, slow and calculated. “Are you really opposed to tasting yourself on your wife’s lips, or just—”

“Yes!” I say, cutting her off as she tries slinging my earlier words back at me. “I am absolutely one hundred percent, without a shadow of a doubt, opposed to sampling my own jizz from your lips or otherwise.”

She snorts. “Good. Cuz that actually wouldn’t be sexy at all.”

Just the thought has me gagging. “There’s not much I’ll say no to, but that’s a hard line, Li’l Bit.”

“I was just fuckin’ with ya,” she says with a shit grin. “You got real tense all of a sudden…thought I might lighten the mood.” She pats the mattress beside her. “Come back so I can sample your special sauce.” The waggle of her brows is exaggerated for effect.

Her sense of humor is so perfectly matched to mine, it’s uncanny. This situation could have gone downhill fast. With most women that likely would be the case. But given the choice between falling apart and flipping the script, my girl will choose laughter ninety times out of a hundred.

“Hold that thought, beautiful,” I say, blowing a kiss to where she’s still splayed across the bed as I begin working my way across the room with backward steps.

“Lyle?” She sits straight up, her just-fucked hair a veritable rat’s nest framing her face.

“Need the bathroom,” I lie, offering her a placating smile. “Make yourself comfortable, Li’l Bit. I won’t be long.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she says, grabbing the rumpled sheet from the foot of the bed and tucking it under her chin before flopping to her back.