Breathe (Hollow Ridge Book 2)

by C. L. Matthews

  It no longer burns.

  If it did, I numbed it out. How could I not? It’s supposed to suppress pain, not conjure it.

  She said thirty minutes, which means I have at least twenty to drink and get my dick prepared. Taking the entire bottle with me to the bedroom, I lie back and open my phone, hoping for some type of memory.

  When Joey and I were together, there was no faking. Getting hard was expected and impossible to ignore. But with these women I use? It’s nearly unbearable. It makes me drink more, makes me hate myself with each breath, and the loathsome reality that I’ve become my father settles in me each time.

  I open my Google drive, seeing all the images of Joey and me from our short happiness together. When she smiles, it’s radiant, glowing as brightly as her fiery hair. I start with the selfie she took of us when we flew to Paris, deciding to pave our own path together. We’re standing in front of the coffee shop that meant the world to her. Even with the tainted memories, she wanted me to fix them, change them, and make them better. So I did. Wherever she felt trapped, I remade memories with her. And in turn, she did the same for me.

  Seeing myself in this picture causes my heart to pang. Happiness lines my eyes, my smile is full and bright, and the way I’m looking at her as if she hung the goddamn moon only makes the disgust for myself rise.

  “What have we done, Sous?”

  She can’t answer me. She’s twenty floors up, probably drinking, or maybe... just maybe, she’s fucking the man I thought was my best friend. Why would he do that to me? He hated Jase for what happened with Ellie, so why would he do the same to me?

  Our friendship ended that godforsaken day. He tried reaching out, maybe to apologize, possibly to gloat, but either way, I didn’t give him the chance to explain.

  “Where do you want to go?” I ask her, seeing love swirl in her warm eyes. Unlike I thought when quitting for her at Mi Casa, she took it well.

  “Paris,” she hums. It’s such a beautiful sound leaving her throat. The contentedness in her voice has me aching in places I didn’t realize could ache.

  It’s the soulful kind, the one that lets you know it’s real love and it’s fucking pure.

  “I’ll book us flights,” I offer immediately. “We’ll travel, and I’ll work from a laptop.”

  She smiles innocently, but after the two weeks of pure unadulterated fucking we’ve done, I know she’s anything but innocent. Taking the kid gloves off changed us both, making us inseparable and desperate for each other’s touch.

  Climbing off the bed, she prowls toward me in the swivel chair. She’s wearing a pale pink nightie that rests high above her knees, barely covering her pussy. She’s watching me like an animal does its prey. That’s what I’ve become—her meal for the taking—and fuck, she’s incredible when she takes charge.

  It’s not often as her tastes are more for me pounding her while holding her down, but sometimes, she switches roles, and I’m weak beneath her fingertips.

  She saunters over, biting her lip in the most sensual way. Taunting. She’s fucking taunting me. After she comes over to me, she places both thighs over mine, and I hold her down as she straddles me. The chair whines with our shared weight. It’s old. A vintage piece she bought from the little shop in town.

  It’s hideous. Floral patterns that not even my grandmother would want. And it’s pink and beige. It matches nothing in our home, but we keep it.

  Seeing the sparkle in her eyes is worth every moment of staring at the ugly thing.

  She wiggles above me as I contemplate how long to make the trip to France for. My dick hardens instantly as she keeps her pace. I peer into her gaze, and she smirks. My little Sous. The best part of my existence.

  “You don’t play fair, Sous,” I mutter, thumbing her lower lip. The need to bite and taste it is strong, but if we want to get the ball rolling, I need to set dates, dive into details, and get everything in place.

  “Guess you should try to calm your dick, old man. It’s giving me ideas,” she teases, biting my thumb. She widens her mouth, and I press into it. She sucks on my thumb, and my cock throbs with the idea of having her mouth wrapped around it instead.

  No, behave.

  I mentally smack myself and pull my thumb out. She pouts, her little lip outward and adorable as she flares her nose at me.

  Rotating us, I open the laptop and start looking at flights. “How about we leave tomorrow?” Weekdays aren’t as busy, and while we’ll be flying in a private jet, it’s still better to be there when it’s least eventful.

  “That soon?” She perks up, and her ass grinds onto my stiffness again. Letting out a ragged sigh, I give her my full attention, gripping her hips.

  “You’re a fucking menace, Sous. My cock isn’t a fan of your wiggling.”

  “Liar, he loves it when I—” She presses down, the wetness from her bare pussy rubbing on my boxers more apparent. “—rub all over him.”

  “Fuck,” I hiss. She leans forward, taking my mouth, and I let her. She consumes and tangles our tongues. She takes and gives and fucking moans in the best way.

  My body vibrates with untapped lust, barely tampered by the need to get details in order. She knows what game she’s playing, and I love that we can do this back and forth.

  “Paris,” I grouse. “Three weeks.”

  “Cock,” she deflects. “Inside me.”

  Those words are the only push I need before sliding my dick out and impaling her while on the swivel chair.

  I keep drinking from the memories, feeling the warmth settle in my gut. Booze doesn’t affect me like others. It’s not so much a relaxant when I can’t sleep anymore. Being blackout drunk is the only way I can survive these days. I’ll binge, drink and maybe fuck someone, then I’ll hate myself so much that I attempt to asphyxiate on my own vomit.

  Usually, I wake up days later, numb and depleted. You’d think I’d become numb, fix myself, go back to AA—to my sponsor, Bobbie—something. Anything.

  I don’t.

  This pain is what I deserve. It’s my fault.

  Seeing the folder labeled private, I open it using my pin, and my breathing catches. Joey and I used to do this thing where we’d take images in super public areas and send them to each other. It all started in Paris when I went searching for a new winery for my French expansion back home. She was at the hotel and sent me an image of her in a kimono that rested open, split in the center, showing me a lot of side boob and her bare pussy.

  She asked for an image in return. So I excused myself from the Frenchman explaining the grapes and plantation. Surrounded by grapes in a remote area, I took a picture of myself gripping my cock while grapevines surrounded me. It was our new game. One I could fully commit to. It got hotter and hotter. Her at our restaurant, me at the corporate building in Hollow Ridge, and more and more and more.

  Nothing stopped us, and the thought of being caught was thrilling. She drove me mad. Following that first true initial time after she told me her story, it was hands-on all the time. We’d sneak quick fucks in the industrial fridges, in the pantry that housed all the stuff for cooking, and across my desk as she soaked all the papers with her pleasure.

  We burned, and eventually, that wasn’t enough.

  It crashed.

  It dissolved.

  We were ruin.

  My dick stands rock hard thinking of her and seeing all these pictures of our sexcapades. The one video I stop on is one of her squirting. Who needed porn when your wife willingly reenacted every dirty fantasy you could ever wish for?

  She’s spread wide as my fingers pump into her. Her hips bow off the bed, and her soft mewls of satisfaction ring out, making my cock ache from the memory.

  She holds her tits, pinching the little barbell in her left tit while rubbing her right with slow and sure movements. I block the camera’s view as I lean forward and take her cunt with my tongue. Her flavor is unlike anything I’ve ever had.

  Even now, I won’t go down on anyone, kiss them, or giv
e them more. It’s too intimate. It’s something reserved for someone I love, not some woman who probably fucks every guy she wants.

  The throbbing in my shaft becomes painful as an almost tangible fog settles over my eyes and I watch myself move away from my wife and rub her little clit until she’s screaming my name. She’s lost in her ecstasy, not even able to open her eyes as she comes and leaks all over the bed.

  Fuck.

  She’s so fucking beautiful.

  Even now when she’s not mine. She’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the horror of loving. No one is her. No one compares. No one ever will. I shut down the app and slurp back my friend Jameson, knowing he’ll help keep my mind off the pain and focus on that video.

  "Tell me something, Sous."

  "Like what?" She lays on the opposite of our loveseat with her feet nestled on my lap as I rub the tenderness from them. She's been working non-stop since starting at Mi Casa. Her work ethic is unparalleled.

  "Tell me something you're afraid to say, even to yourself."

  She closes her eyes a moment, running a hand through her tangled hair. Then her gaze locks with mine.

  "I'm terrified of losing myself. I'm one to hide from myself and protect my heart. People always leave, Toby. Always."

  Something about her words hit me square in the chest, unraveling what little guard I had knitted over my heart, the only protection I had left for this woman who somehow changed everything for me. That little safety net was all I had left not to be open with her.

  "What about you, Mr. Secretive?"

  "I like you," I admit. "A whole fucking lot."

  A smile changes her serious expression to one I'm growing to love. I swallow the feelings clogging my throat and tell her what I've been holding back all along.

  "Giving you my heart fucking scares me." A sigh escapes her. She clutches her hands, and I know it's so she won't reach out. She's like me, a rowing boat in the Riviera wanting a destination, but gazing up at the stars, she looks for a guide, just to be greeted with a bleak, lightless sky.

  "What if we trade?"

  "Trade?" I ask, feeling my pulse pick up. The way she bites her lip is indicative of the gears in her head moving. They're always turning and trying to decipher the exact words and how she wants them to play out. It reminds me so much of myself that it keeps me feeling connected to her.

  "Yours for mine. A one-for-one deal. I steal your heart, and you steal mine."

  The pinch I feel beneath my ribs aches in an entirely new way.

  Is that what she wants, love?

  As I sit in my self-loathing, I hear the lock turn and the door opening, but I don’t care. I cradle my most loyal friend and realize I’ve already downed half a bottle.

  Tonight will be one of those nights. Where there are so many regrets to memories unknown. And truly, it’s what I’ve always deserved.

  “Toby?” Bry’s soft voice calls out to me.

  “One sec!” I holler back, hoping I can stay hard for her. It’s sad when you can’t even force your dick to rise to the occasion when choosing to cheat. If it’s not for pleasure, then what’s the point? But luckily, looking over Joey’s and my personal porn, my dick is awake and ready.

  She saunters into the room, noting my bottled friend, but ignoring it. Joey wouldn’t ignore it. She’d grab it, then chuck it at the wall or pour it down the drain, all while screaming at me to stop hurting myself.

  Because even though the hatred runs thick between us, her love still powers through. Just like before we were married, she killed me with hatred and soothed it with a bite of lust and a whole lotta love.

  I hate her so damn much.

  It runs deep.

  Intrinsic and depraved.

  But fuck, her body could fulfill every fantasy of mine, drive me through the wall with pleasure, and it’d sate me. It’d do something none of these women ever could. It’d bring me peace. She doesn’t deserve it, though, not while she shares her body with Francis.

  Is that what she’s doing right now? Riding his cock while she wears my ring? My anger builds, and as Bry drops her trench coat and reveals a lacy number, I pretend it’s her that has me hard as a rock. I imagine Joey is fucking my best friend, letting him into her tight little ass like I used to. And then I’m grabbing Bry, throwing her on the bed, and sheathing myself before sinking in. She’s wrong. Not the same tightness. Not the same heat. Not the same. Not the same. Not the fucking same.

  I growl as I think of my wife’s perfect pink pussy, how she screams for me and milks my cock. I think of her perfect real tits and not the fake bubbles I’m gripping as I thrust. It’s Joey’s whimpers and lip biting I’m fantasizing about and not the woman making loud noises that don’t turn me on.

  And as she’s getting louder, the only thing that’s pushing me forward is the thought of my wife with another man, and I have to make her feel this pain. She needs to feel what I feel. She needs to fucking hurt, and I want to be the bearer of every ounce of pain. She will feel it all and then I’ll hate myself more, pretending it’s what I want. Sadness manifests inside me, but you know what’s stronger? What absolutely overwhelms me until there’s nothing but it?

  Hatred.

  It immobilizes me, taunts me to push, and threatens to take ownership.

  So, I let it.

  Faking an orgasm, I still in Bry, pretending it’s because I’m spent. Before pulling out of her, I grab my cell and take a picture of me holding one of Bry’s tits, my eyes are closed in faux pleasure. Before thinking twice, I send the image to Joey, hating myself more. In that hate, I find peace. Because neither of us should like who we’ve become, and until one of us wins this stupid fucking game, we’re going to despise every shaky breath.

  Pulling out, I make sure to hold onto the condom, knowing I’d never fuck someone bare again, especially not this person who means nothing to me. She smiles at me with a look of sedation and yearning glistening in her eyes. I need to cut this shit off. She’s going to grow attached, and I can’t have that.

  Regardless of how much I’m turning into my father, I will, under no circumstances, become Jase.

  Throwing the condom away, I put my softened dick away, zipping up. I should stay. She likes when I stay a little longer and get her off. Pretend she matters. But I don’t give a single fuck how she feels. No matter what, she knows what she’s signed up for. There are no strings; I refuse to have a single attachment. Whether that makes me a piece of shit or not, I don’t care.

  Grabbing my bottle of Jameson, I walk away. As if she knows, she doesn’t follow or call after me.

  Maybe she’ll grow jaded too and realize love is overrated and a fucking joke. It’s not meant to have and to hold. To cherish or fucking keep. It’s meant to tear you to shreds and swallow you before throwing you right back up.

  Love is weakness.

  It’s my retribution.

  It’s my burden.

  It’s my death sentence.

  The entire way back up to Joey’s and my suite, I think of how much I hate her and what she’s done to me. I thought Lo was bad, but fucking Joey? She’s like a decomposing stab wound that will never heal. The knife dug in, leaving a forever stain on the tissue and muscles, forcing them to keep the memory of the action. Replaying it with each remembrance of the word.

  I’m so fucked, and I did this to myself.

  Why am I such a lost cause?

  When will I learn?

  Was I ever worthy of love?

  The bottle gets lighter and lighter as the elevator dings on the sixtieth floor, letting me know the entire floor that’s mine and mine alone is waiting. Maybe Joey is in there. Did she invite that cocksucker back here to pleasure her?

  He can’t please her like I can. He doesn’t know how to flick her clit the right way or how to squeeze her nipple too hard, just the way she begs for. And fuck, there’s no way his cock fills her like mine does.

  Does she let him come in her? Taint what’s not hers to offer hi
m?

  Fuck. I hate her.

  Hate him.

  Hate me.

  Hate every-fucking-thing.

  I drink and drink until the bottle is as barren as my chest. Funny how that works. Items representing ourselves. Alcohol is mine. Not just my vice, but my descriptor. Hurts like a bitch, takes and soothes momentarily.

  Lie.

  Lie.

  Lies.

  Fuck.

  Getting to my door, I hit the black pad with my wallet and watch as the light flickers. When I twist the handle, my vision blurs, revealing my worst nightmare. My stomach squeezes at the sight in front of me.

  She wouldn’t fucking dare.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Present

  Joey

  As I wallow in self-pity and attempt to drown my sorrows, my phone chirps. Reaching above me on the counter to get it, I tighten my fingers around it, realizing it isn’t the man I’m desperate to hear from. My eyes land on Francis’s text. Ma coccinelle, are you okay? It’s been a few days since we last spoke, but he keeps me grounded. Not in a way Toby used to, but in a way that shows he cares. Or at least, I hope he does.

  Yeah, just dandy. How’s Gray?

  I can imagine his disapproving glare and the forehead wrinkling as he shakes it.

  Deflection doesn’t work on me, sweetheart. He’s good, I’ll give him that. Toby thinks I find comfort in Francis. I do. It’s just not sexual. It hasn’t been intimate in any way since that kiss we shared. Once Toby and I were together, Francis became strictly a friend. Hell, he’s my best friend’s dad. I wouldn’t break that trust for anything. Not even if he was good in the sack.

  You’re ignoring what matters, Frankie. How’s my best friend?

  When everything between Toby and I imploded, Gray was going through something herself, and she hasn’t quite recovered. If I didn’t witness it myself, I wouldn’t believe a single guy could wreak as much havoc as Ace did on any given day.

  Why do men hurt the ones they love? I ask myself this daily. Regardless of how much Toby tells me he hates me, it’s a lie. It shows in the way he always comes home. Even if he spends nights with other women, he always comes home. It’s a silent promise, like no matter what, he will always come back to me. How he used to constantly fuck me after he’d fuck other women is telling too. Coming home after being inside them, then being inside me. Dirty. Depraved. Diabolical.