“Hey,” Jayme said sharply, raising her eyebrows, “you might be in charge in the bedroom, mister, but I’m putting my foot down here. Hopefully you’ll get a date through for the operation really soon. And the sooner you have the op, the sooner you’ll be recovered and we can get back to normal. In the meantime”—she grinned widely—“we’ll just have to get creative, won’t we?”

Much to Jayme’s relief, Tristan finally smiled. “You’re right, as always, wife of mine. Clearly I’m not happy about this—fucking carpal tunnel bollocks, spoiling all our fun—but it could be a lot worse, I suppose. At least they’re not operating on my dick!”

“True.” She giggled. “That would take some creativity of epic proportions!”

“It would,” he agreed. “So, does this mean we have to have sex more often, then?”

Frowning, Jayme replied, “How do you figure that out?”

“Well, if it’s too risky to spank you, then surely wanking is going to be bad for my wrist, too! And I’m not sure that when the doctor asked if we had any questions, he meant of this nature, did he?”

“You know what this fucking means, don’t you?” Tristan said loudly, slamming his car keys onto the hall’s side table and storming into the kitchen.

Jayme followed him quickly, her heart racing. Tristan rarely got angry—sure, he often pretended she’d done something wrong and faked being pissed off about it when they played D/s scenes, but real anger–it was something that just didn’t happen. She wasn’t quite sure what had sparked it, either. The news had been unfortunate, yes. Inconvenient, yes, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Tristan’s only choice was to take the doctor’s advice.

“Um, I take it you mean aside from the obvious?” she ventured quietly, not wanting to piss him off even more.

“Yes,” he said on a heavy sigh, making it clear his anger and frustration weren’t aimed at her. “Come here, you.” He held out his arms, and when she went into them he hugged her tightly and kissed the top of her head. “Fucking hell, Jayme, I’m really going to miss spanking that beautiful arse of yours.”

“And I’m going to miss you doing it,” she murmured into his chest. Then, pulling back so she could make eye contact, continued, “But we’ll cope. There’s loads of other stuff we can do—we can still have fun. As much as I love it, it’s not worth making the problem worse, or screwing up your recovery once you’ve had the op. Your health is more important, babe.”

“Mmm…” came the reply, along with a very displeased expression.