by Amelia Wilde
Adam.
I’m in bed with Adam.
I’m not training anymore.
The triathlon is over.
Tomorrow is Monday and the restaurant is closed.
For a moment I can only smile up at the ceiling, flush with a weird sort of triumph. Slowly, my exhausted body wakes up a little, tiny little twinges of pain from the race, and the steady background throb of my ankle, still asserting itself even through the massive amount of ibuprofen Adam managed to scrounge up. Those feelings are on the back burner though, because right now, in the silent darkness, the only thing I am feeling is the tender rasp of my lips, abraded from his kisses. I’m feeling the throb of my pussy, gentle but greedy. I’m feeling the way my nipples brush against the unfamiliar sheets, tender from being kissed and nibbled.
My body is singing.
Adam shifts again, mumbling something I don’t catch, and then his foot jumps. I have to stifle a laugh, because it’s like he’s trying to run. “Too late,” I whisper, gingerly rolling onto my side. I fling my arm over his chest. “I caught you.”
He mumbles something that could be my name. I kiss his shoulder and he sighs in his sleep, then shifts again, so that his heavy arm flops over my body. He sighs again, and this time he definitely says my name.
“That’s right,” I murmur. “It’s me. I’m here.”
Tomorrow is Monday. My day off. I have laundry. I have chores. I need to catch up on all the online classes I’ve fallen behind on. I have no groceries in the house except these weird detox shakes I thought would help my training and ended up tasting like burnt dirt. I have a full fucking day ahead of me and I could really use an early start to...
He is so warm. My eyelids start growing heavy again.
I have so much to do.
But there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here.
27
Adam
Reggie’s face is lit up with the golden glow of the late summer morning, and I don’t bother to draw the shades. I want to see her just like this, cheeks pink, dark hair tossed back against my pillow, mouth open in a round O.
“Oh, fuck, Adam,” she breathes and I thrust in again, her thighs tensing around my waist. It’s a delicate balance, you’d better bet it is, because I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to put any pressure on her ankle, which is still swollen and has to be painful. But she’s wrapped her legs around my waist anyway. I’m not going to fight her on it. Not after I woke up with her back pressed against my chest, her ass against my cock, through a thin layer of fabric. She insisted on sleeping in my boxer shorts and an extra t-shirt. One perk of being a billionaire: being able to rush some clean laundry to the hotel room last evening, and such a gigantic order of Chinese food that I think they thought I was having a wild party.
No. Just the two of us.
This morning, when I slipped my hand up under that shirt and swirled one finger around her nipple, it was like pleasure dawning. She’d rocked her hips back against me, turning gingerly to face me, and then—
She’s soaking wet, hands up above her head, pressing against the headboard. “God, you’re gorgeous.”
Reggie opens her eyes just long enough to give me a wicked grin. I think she’s planning a wicked retort, but instead she gasps in another breath and all that comes out is oh.
I bow my head down to her neck, her skin smooth under my lips, and put my tongue to work. It’s just enough to push her over the edge and she comes, quietly, her face pressed into my shoulder, hips jerking with it. I want her to be able to scream, if that’s what she wants, but something about this hidden orgasm, a secret just for the two of us, sets me off, too.
When it’s over—God, I hope it’s not over for long—I roll carefully to the side and gather her in. We breathe together under the covers. I want to say a million things, but none of them seem worth breaking the silence for. I can hear her smiling.
My phone rings just as Reggie has started to slip her hand down toward my hips, my cock already responding, and it’s like a sudden thunderstorm.
“Shit. Hang on—”
Hang on. The worst. I scramble for the phone on the bedside table, not letting her go, and squint at the screen.
Cole Granger.
“Not now, Cole.” I toss the phone back onto the table and roll over, facing her, and trail my hand down the curve of her waist. “Tell me, Reg. Where were we?”
Her dark eyes are clouded, though, the desire already fucking fled. “Cole, huh? Cole Granger? You’re selling the house, then?”
She cuts right to the chase. I swallow a painful lump that’s appeared in my throat. “Yeah.”
Reggie bites her lip, and that’s almost enough to make me take it all back right then. But I can’t do this. I can’t get pinned down again in Reckless Falls. For one thing, my businesses are in the city. For another thing, even if the town has changed, how am I supposed to just...shrug off everything that happened? Every time I walk through downtown, I think of my mom’s things loaded into the back of the cheapass car she bought after everything went sour.
And my father, walking through the same sidewalks with that whore on his arm, grinning like he hadn’t torn apart all our lives.
“So,” Reggie says, and her voice is skimming the surface of a kind of sadness that will drown us both if she lets it. “You’re never coming back here again?”
I can’t answer her.
“This is it,” says Reggie, making a sweeping gesture into the little house on Mill Street where she lives now. It’s tense between us, like an electric shock waiting to happen.
“Nice, Reg,” I say with a smile. It really is. The house might be small, but it’s neat, with a cozy feel that I think she would deny trying for. In typical Reggie fashion, there is no clutter, but the few things that are here are well-worn and comfortable. Like the couch she sinks down onto, face pale.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you a tour,” she says, and then the moment hangs, like she’s waiting to see what I’m going to do.
“I can give myself a tour.” I slide out of the living room doorway, a move designed to make her laugh, but she only gives me a courtesy giggle.
The kitchen is the same way, everything ferociously clean, tucked away in its place. I make the small circuit of the house, skipping the bedroom, and am back in the living room in a few minutes. One of the only truly personal things in the entire room is a framed photo of Reggie with her sisters. Reg stands in the middle, and Maria and Christina have their arms thrown around her neck, squeezing, grinning at the camera. She smiles with lips closed, like she doesn’t believe their enthusiasm for her.
“How are they doing?”
“Who?” Reggie stirs on the couch. “Oh, my sisters? Good.” Her voice is carefully neutral. “Maria’s getting a PhD.”
I laugh. “That sounds like Maria. Any excuse to overachieve.”
“Says you.”
I turn around and mouth the word me? Reggie laughs a little and shifts just enough to make room for a second person. Maybe it’s not an explicit invitation, but I’ll be damned if I don’t take it.
The night of lovemaking has taken it out of me, and it feels good to sink into the cushions. “I’m not an overachiever. I have just enough business savvy and leverage to make it work.”
Reggie rolls her eyes. “Sure.”
There’s nowhere to go with that conversation. I don’t want to talk about money with Reggie. I want to fucking shower her with it, until she never has to think about any of it again. Until she doesn’t have a care in the world. But Reggie probably wouldn’t like having no cares. Even if she claims not to care, she’ll always care, fiercely, about something.
That something could be me.
No—no, it can’t, because how am I supposed to stay here? How am I supposed to forget? Clean slates are bullshit.
“What’s Christina up to these days? Is she a nun?”
She really does laugh at that one. “No. She’s a party girl. Get her in a room, and s
he’ll turn it into a rave.”
“I knew it. Nobody is ever really that sweet.”
Reggie smiles wryly. “My parents were totally taken aback. They believed the legend.”
I want to ask here where they were yesterday, but Reggie moves on the couch, trying to pull her legs up, and winces. That ankle needs actual attention, not just a tape job from a guy who stopped running track years ago. “Come on, Reg. You should go to the doctor. I’ll take you.”
“It’ll be fine.” So dismissive. How does she know?
I’m almost a little irritated—I want her to feel better, damn it—but I try not to let it show. “Well, if you won’t let me take you now, at least elevate it.”
“Fine.” Her mouth curves up in a devilish smile, and she rearranges herself on the couch, dropping her leg into my lap. “That better?”
I rest my hand on her knee, a safe zone, and give myself a second to enjoy the weight of her, the fact that she’s here. I rub at her leg absently and feel her relax. “A little.” Reggie leans back against the pillow and closes her eyes again. “You tired?”
“I’m always tired,” she says without opening her eyes. “And I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night,” she adds pointedly.
The tension between us starts to lessen, fade away, and that’s when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I should just ignore it, but before I realize what I’m doing I’ve pulled it out.
A text from Cole.
Just had an appointment cancel on me. Want to do a walkthrough? I can meet you in ten.
28
Regina
I don’t want to care. I really fucking do not want to care.
But when that text alert on his phone goes off, every cell in my body rings like an alarm bell. “Who is it?” I ask, hating myself for even asking. It’s his business who he’s getting texts from. I have no right to think he owes me an explanation. I have no right to care whose message makes his smooth brow go rippled and his fingers rake through his hair.
But I fucking care.
Adam purses his lips tightly, like he’s trying to keep the words in. “Who is it?” I repeat, hauling myself onto my elbows.
“Cole Granger,” he says tightly.
“Did the house sell?” I say, hating the acid that drips from my words. “Did the deal go through while we were fucking this morning?”
His lip curls at my harsh word. “Fucking?”
“Well?” I wince as I slide my legs off of him and slowly lower my feet to the floor. I can feel how tight and hot my ankle is now, but it’s not as tight or as hot as the rage that is simmering in my veins. “What else would you call what was clearly just a one night stand?”
“Reggie…”
A sharp laugh shakes loose from my lips. ‘You know? You’re the only one who has ever called me that. My name is Regina. The rest of the world calls me that, or maybe Gina if they are lazy.” I swallow back the lump in my throat, hating the words even as I’m saying them. “I’m not even sure why I let you have your own special name for me.”
Adam licks his lips and then presses them together tightly, measuring his words carefully but fuck that. I want a fight. If he’s going to leave me again, he’s at least going to hear what I have to say about it first. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Was this one of your bets?” I hiss. “Out at the bar with your business buddies?” I lower my voice, faking a douche-y Wall Street accent. “Oh man, what a drag to have to go back to your sleepy little hometown. May as well make it interesting, right man? Aw yeah man, high five!” I slap my palm, making him stiffen a little.
“I didn’t,” he starts to say, then stops. “I’ve changed,” he says weakly.
There is a tightness along his jaw that tells me everything I need to know. "Have you, Adam Zeller?" I turn and catch his eye before he can duck my gaze again and enunciate as clearly as I can. “Did you and Gordon put money down on whether you could get in my pants?”
“Gideon,” he corrects automatically.
“Did you?”
“No!” he shouts. “I did not bet him. I mean, he wanted to, but I couldn’t do it Reggie.” he turns to me, pleading. “Not about you. You’re too goddamned special to me to do something like that.”
I smash my hand into the couch cushion rather than slap him across the face. “I don’t care!” I shout, and this time I mean it. “Go. Go finish what you were doing, wrap it all in a nice little bow and just fucking leave again, okay? Run away. It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”
He is sitting, poised at the edge of my couch like he wants to get up, but his ass remains firmly planted. “Go!” I shout, nudging him with my good foot. “And don’t worry about waving goodbye, I’m used to seeing your back.”
He turns, his face a mask of fury. “I would have come back!” he roars, so loud I wince away from him. “All you had to do was fucking ask me, Reggie and I would have given up everything to be with you!”
The tears sting my eyes immediately and I hate myself for crying and I hate myself even more for crying right now because he’s looking at me with hope in his eyes, thinking he’s made a valid fucking point, like this is an excuse, a legitimate reason, but… “Well I’m glad I didn’t,” I hiss around the lump in my throat. “Because I’m not second prize.”
His mouth tightens in confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I laugh and look away, blinking fast until the tears dry in my eyes. “I’m not going to be the ball and chain that keeps you in a town that you clearly hate so much.”
“I don’t,” he starts to say, but I hold up my hand.
Slowly, haltingly, I force out the words that I haven’t let myself think until now. “If you’d wanted to come back,” I tell him. “If you’d wanted to come back to me, you would have.”
His eyes glimmer. He looks at me, mouth open to say something and then he looks away. The muscle jumps at his jaw and it is all I can do not to reach out and touch him, to smooth away that agony.
All along I’d known he was leaving. Of course he was, I’m no fool. But I’d let him in anyway. I’d allowed him to make me feel things, to feel cared for and adored, when it couldn’t last.
I’m a fucking idiot. I’m not mad at him, I’m mad at myself.
The anger flows out of me, leaving only heavy sadness in its place. I want to tell him I don’t hate him, but I don’t think he’d believe me right now, and that thought only makes me sadder.
“Does it matter at all?” he says slowly. “That I’m here now?”
I take a deep breath. “It did,” I confess. Because it’s true. “It mattered more than you can imagine.” I slide my hand up his arm. “But you’re leaving again, aren’t you?”
He nods, looking so crushed that my own tears start again. “So then?” I shrug. “I guess it doesn't matter after all.”
“It did,” he says. “To me.” He turns. “I swear it, Reggie.”
I close my eyes. “Go now please,” I beg him. “I don’t think I can watch you leave a second time.”
“Reggie,” he says, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut so I don’t have to see him looking at me with those eyes. I hear him exhale sharply.
The couch shifts as his weight is lifted. I bury my face in my hands and I hear him pause over me, filling up my entire living room with his presence, waiting for me to look at him. But I refuse, and after another heavy moment, I hear the door click softly shut and I am alone again.
29
Adam
I close Reggie’s front door behind me, an angry disbelief thudding in my veins. I want to slam the damn thing but I’m not seventeen anymore, so I control it—I fucking control it.
How the hell did that go so badly?
I don’t know what to do, other than stand here and feel the blood drain from my face. Stick my pockets in my hands. Wait to see if she calls out.
If she calls out, I’ll go back in.
As soon as I make that decision, my entire body curves back toward the door, l
istening like I’ve never listened before. The slightest sound. The slightest hint that she wants me to come back. That’s all I need.
The seconds tick by.
There’s nothing.
She’s not going to chase me out here, not with her ankle the way it is, but all she has to do is say my name, and she doesn’t.
There’s a tearing in my chest, a wound that cries and throbs, and I fucking hate it. I don’t understand it and I don’t want to understand it. It’s just because we were close once—that’s it. That’s all this is. She was too close to the past. I put my hand in the fire and I got burned. It’s my own damn fault.
I snatch my phone from my pocket and dial Cole’s number.
“Hey, Adam, what’s—”
“Are you still free?” I bark the sentence, then try to cover it up by clearing my throat. “Hey,” I start again. “Are you still free for the walkthrough?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding bewildered.
There’s a pause, like he wants to ask more. But he doesn’t.
“Okay.” I have to swallow hard after I get the word out. “I’ll be there in five.”
Phone back in my pocket, I leap off Reggie’s porch. I need to move. I need to get the hell away from here—to the walkthrough specifically, but being in motion is the top priority. I can feel the pressure bearing down on my temples, pressing closer, knotting up in my shoulders.
I hate this feeling.
I’m not going to be able to get myself together and make a deal on the house with this throbbing in my veins, and the only way to get it out is to move. It’s sickening, this twisting in my gut, the ache in my throat, and I can’t resist the instinct to walk quickly down the sidewalk, away from Reggie’s house. It’s only five blocks to my father’s old house and I hardly have to think about where I’m going. This tension stretching across my shoulders takes me right back to before my mom and I moved out, when my father was having his affair. I’d come out and run these streets once a day, maybe twice if things were bad, if my mother’s face was drawn and pale and my dad was making loud phone calls to any business associate he could think of just to fill the silence. The fighting would come later.
