Free Bittersweet (Xcite Romance) by Alyssa Turner

Is it possible to miss arguing?
    As I lay there next to Keith one Sunday morning, the thought wound rope like through my mind. This time last year, we’d reached the point in our relationship where you either decide you thrive on the constant drama of your fiery disagreements, or you are just so exhausted that you say to hell with the entire marriage. Ceasing to argue didn’t even seem like an option for us; it was who we were. It was what we knew. I smiled in the early light of the winter sunrise, remembering my very first tangle with him.
    Doctoral studies at NYU placed me in Keith’s ‘Culture in Late Antiquity’ course. I think he decided from the moment we met that he was going to relish challenging me to within an inch of my sanity. There I was, with my rather well-developed sense of self, and he was all but pre-coming from the prospect of knocking me off my high horse. With just a few more credits to hook under my belt before my dissertation, I was feeling more cocky than usual.
    Keith was new to the professorship, but he was well respected in the Anthropology department for his two books on the cultural rituals of Ancient Greece. I had read them both and found his descriptions of matriarchal ritual to be blatantly sexualized. Just like a man, I thought and vehemently made my position known, if not in so many words.
    I can still hear his response: ‘Sabrina, your opinion is merely born of your contemporary perspective. Women of Ancient Greece were considered dangerous for their sexual power; therefore, their sexuality is the most poignant topic to explore.’ He took off his glasses, sizing me up for the challenge with an unwavering glare. ‘Perhaps you will learn something in this course after all.’
    As it turned out, I would have plenty to learn from Keith – especially how a man could come to know my body better than I did.
    It started with one seemingly innocent invitation to share a table at the corner coffee shop before class. The energy between us was undeniable, and I even hesitated a bit before sitting down with him. I wasn’t a rule breaker, and something told me that I would be tempting fate if we gave ourselves a reason to violate the non-fraternisation policy. Still, I spent an hour with my espresso just as captivated by his confident smile as I was by our cerebral acrobatics. I could tell he was enjoying himself too, and it wasn’t long before sidelong glances and witty double entendres turned into secret meetings for a more hands-on approach to learning. By the time I earned my degree, we had been fucking for months. And with the conversation as stimulating as the orgasms, I agreed to marry him a year later.
    Many of those late evening romps in his paper-laden office began with a debate that had spilled over from class. Nothing seemed to get either of us hotter than a healthy battle, and somehow, no matter the tenacity or thoughtfulness of my argument, I found it most arousing when Keith turned out to be right. The relaxed certainty in his specific point of view would bite me as much as ignite me. Though I would never freely admit that he had the upper hand, he knew when I’d been outdone and preferred to take his spoils in the sound of my pleasured sighs. Disputes always led to sex. Arguments equalled passion. With Keith, it was an outright brawl every time; one that made my eventual submission a delectable turn-on for both of us.
    I wasn’t used to being one-upped and foolishly thought I could turn the tables on him one evening at the end of the semester. He argued that modern society draws its contemporary standards for women from the notoriously jealous and exceedingly vain Goddesses of Ancient Greece. I challenged that only his chauvinistic perceptions were revealed in his point of view. Turning on my heel, I threatened indignant superiority and flipped him a dismissive retort: ‘If that’s how you want to see women, then we have nothing else to discuss.’
    He grabbed my wrist,