Maybe Next Time
Vegas Nights
Christina C Jones
Copyright © 2021 by Christina C Jones
Editing by Trim+Polish
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Dedication
Author’s Note
About
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Did You Enjoy This Book?
About The Author
Other titles by Christina Jones:
Dedication
To all my A1s since Day 1.
Thank you.
Author’s Note
I did not want to write a married couple.
I was adamant about it.
But, in an effort to make the point that I am not the one in control here, my brain gave me Denver and Kensa.
I love them, very much.
I hope you do too.
--CCJ.
About
What started as a wildfire has been diminished to a flicker by unspoken fears, perceived betrayal, and a breakdown in communication.
Can either of them tuck their ego away long enough to rekindle their flame?
One
What a damn day.
As soon as I was on the other side of my front door, a deep sigh pushed its way up from the depths of me, making my chest heave as I dropped my purse and keys into their appropriate places. I peeled myself out of my blazer next, grateful there was no one around to see the utter gracelessness of my mannerisms.
I was too tired to keep it cute.
I didn’t plan on changing bags before tomorrow so I left it there, retrieving my phones–business and personal–from it before I headed to my bedroom to properly stow my blazer in the closet. I didn’t even bother with the lights–no point, when I was heading straight for a vibe that required none. I kicked off my shoes on the way, tucking them under my arm in a delicate balance as I turned on the screen of my personal cell to check the notifications.
There were several, but not the one I was anticipating.
Wait.
Anticipating would imply that I was looking forward to the inevitable nasty text or phone call, which couldn’t be further from the case.
No.
I was, in fact, downright dreading that shit, but… I was a big girl.
I could handle it.
“Long day?”
My heart lurched to the front of my chest at the sound of any voice other than my own in what should have been an empty condo, and everything in my arms went clattering to the floor. I swallowed, hard, and turned to the source of my disquiet.
“What are you doing here, Denver?”
Instead of answering my question, he simply smirked, barely illuminated by the glow of the city glittering on the other side of the windows encompassing most of the room. My eyes fell to the tumbler in his hand as he lifted it to his lips, taking a sip of what was undoubtedly my liquor.
Obviously, he’d decided not to text or call to voice his displeasure–he’d shown up instead, looking better than I wanted him to. He was probably not too far removed from the office himself, still dressed in slacks and a button up, with his tie gone, top buttons open.
Even half undone, he was dapper–his fingers and wrist glittered as he moved, shifting positions for another drink. I could tell by the way he was holding his shoulders–he wasn’t pleased.
At all.
“I got an interesting visit today.”
His gaze locked with mine in a challenge–who would look away first?
“Oh?”
His eyes narrowed, dangerously, and his full, velvet-soft lips spread into the kind of slick smile that preceded the kind of chuckle that left little to no ambiguity–there wasn’t shit funny. “Is that how we’re doing this? Really, sweetheart?”
“I’m not your sweetheart,” I snapped, moving past him to stalk my way to the bar he’d apparently already helped himself to. “And you’re not supposed to be here.”
“Okay.”
His voice came at a distance, letting me know he hadn’t moved from his perch in the door to my home office, where he’d probably been waiting.
In the dark, like a fucking creep.
I’d walked right past that door and hadn’t even registered his presence, too exhausted and distracted to be as on my toes as I probably should’ve been.
Otherwise, I might have tased him.
Instead, I just poured myself a drink–what I’d been planning to do anyway, after a long shower, before his rude interruption.
“You may want to eat something,” he spoke up, from closer this time. I could feel him moving in, the heat emanating from him making my nipples harden.
I hated myself for it.
“I can handle myself,” I snapped, tipping my hand to let a little more of the Kimble bourbon drop into my glass, as a way of making… some kind of childish point, I guess. When I turned around, drink in hand, he was right in front of me.
He was pissed.
Maybe not obvious to anyone else, but clear to me from the tight set of his jaw, the darkening of his irises, and just… his energy.
“So you remembered to eat dinner today then?” he asked, even though we both knew the answer to that.
Defiantly, I took a hearty swig from my glass, staring right at him as I did so.
And then I stepped around him, setting a course for my refrigerator.
An argument could be made that I was a brat, but I wasn’t a stupid one.
“You’re really a piece of work, you know that?” he asked, following me into the kitchen.
I huffed. “And you’re really a piece of sh—” I stopped, turning to face him, and he was right there, waiting on me to finish that statement. I didn’t, but shook my head. “Again, you aren’t supposed to be here.”
“Where should I be then, huh?”
“Hell, maybe? I’m sure they’re looking for you.” I shrugged, then turned back for my original destination.
“Funny.”
“Not trying to be funny,” I told him, pulling the refrigerator open so I could survey the contents. “I’m dead serious.”
Behind me, Denver chuckled. “Nah, sweetheart. I definitely think you’re trying to be funny. Because why else would I have gotten the visit I got in the middle of the fuckin’ day, at my fuckin’ office?!” he demanded, his volume lifting with every word.
I turned to him, schooling my features into as neutral of an expression as I could, refusing to give away the fact that my heart was racing.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that, like I’m some random bitch you can throw your weight around with.”
“And why the fuck would that be, Kensa, huh?” he asked, pushing away from where he’d perched against the counter to get in my face. “What privilege do you think you have with me?!”
“I’m your—”
Shit.
I stopped just short, but a smirk had already spread over Denver’s face, and he shook his head. “You’re my what? Huh? Say it nice and loud.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, fuck me?” he chuckled. “That’s where we are now?”
“That’s where you put us,” I countered, words that made his nostrils flare with anger.
“I’m not the one who served goddamn divorce papers!”
he snapped, backing me practically into the open fridge behind me. “In my fucking office. In front of my employees. You did that shit–not me.”
“Because you said you weren’t going to chase me,” I reminded him. “You said you weren’t about to bend over backwards for anybody, remember that? Remember why?”
I clocked the exact moment he recalled exactly what I was talking about. His face relaxed, and for the briefest of moments, there was genuine remorse in his eyes. But then, his brows furrowed again, jaw tightened.
“So this is what… some kind of fucking game to you?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m not playing in the slightest.”
“This is how it is then?”
“It’s how you made it,” I challenged, unwilling to let him lay the blame for this at my feet. Not solely. “You only say what you mean, right? Well… I’m holding you to what you said and acting accordingly. Or… did you think I’d sit around somewhere sad and insecure, waiting for you to decide you wanted me again? You thought wrong, love. Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not clear to everyone else that I’m that bitch.”
His eyes narrowed. “Because I don’t see it?” he tipped his head, leaning in to get right in my face. “Why does that sound like another man has been in your face?”
I smirked. “I have a better question. Why are you surprised?”
“Stop fucking with me,” Denver growled, fisting the front of my blouse to drag me up against him. The refrigerator was still hanging open, spilling golden light that cast a soft glow onto his hardened features.
Yeah.
I’d thoroughly pissed him off.
“Or. What?” I snapped right back, my defiant glare stuck on his, refusing to back down.
A slow smirk spread across his lips as his grip on my shirt tightened, and I… fuck.
I hated the traitorous arousal building between my legs. His free hand slid down my thigh and then back up under my skirt, palming my ass. The heat of his skin was a delicious contrast against the frigid air emanating from the open fridge door.
“You are still mine, Kenni,” he sneered, just inches from my face.
I reached up between us, grabbing him by his undone collar. This close, I could smell the bourbon on his breath, and wondered just how many he’d had while he waited for me in the dark.
“For now, yes. But not for long.”
I wasn’t surprised that he kissed me.
Not at all.
In fact, a sick part of me welcomed the invasion of his tongue in my mouth, the brusqueness of his hand at my throat. He edged us backward, either unaware or indifferent that he had me braced between the inner wall and door of the refrigerator.
He was too busy trying to devour my mouth, for the first time in… forever.
Fine.
Maybe not forever.
More like months, not since before the argument that had ended with his fateful declaration.
I’m not gonna fucking chase you like we’re kids, Kensa. Grow the fuck up.
I didn’t even want to be chased.
But the fact that he’d reduced the actual issue to that, and then declared it beneath him… well… life was too short.
What he was unwilling to do, another man certainly would.
I was pissed off too.
And since he was here, I channeled that anger into getting Denver out of his shirt, not giving a shit about the future condition of his buttons as I snatched the two sides apart. He didn’t care either–his tongue was too deep in my mouth, hands too full of my ass, fingers too busy tugging my panties aside for access.
I gave his belt, his pants, the same treatment–ruined buckles, zippers, whatever, not my damn problem. I just wanted him free from his boxers, and I got that, gripping him in my hands for barely a moment before he’d lifted me from the floor, hiking my legs around his waist.
My skirt rode up over my ass, bunching around my waist as he entered me, unexpectedly foreign and deliciously familiar all at once. I clamped my lips together, trying not to gasp as he pushed deeper, stretching my pussy to accommodate him for the first time in months.
“Fuck, Kensa,” he murmured against my lips when he was finally, completely buried in me. I clenched around him, making him curse again before he fisted a handful of my hair, tugging my head back so I was looking at him. “You need me to remind you whose pussy this is?”
I wanted to respond to that.
Wanted so badly to antagonize him, but I couldn’t.
Before I could even open my mouth to give back a response, he’d started moving–deep, steady, insistent strokes that snatched my breath away, keeping me from formulating anything coherent. Except, of course, the involuntary chorus of “yes, Yes, YES,” that spilled from my lips because it felt so good to have my husband inside me I just couldn’t help it.
That praise was damn near compulsory, and certainly well-deserved, as much as I wished I could simply take his dick in silence instead of moaning, keening, crying my pleasure as I clawed into his shoulders, holding on for dear life.
The refrigerator was uncomfortably cold against my back, the shelves creaking to complain about our weight against them, some discordant chime alerting us from somewhere within that the door had been left open. I held on to those distractions, trying my best not to lose my mind as Denver tried his best to achieve the exact opposite result.
“Go on and cum, sweetheart,” he growled in my ear, then nipped me there before soothing the sting with his tongue.
“Fuck you,” I gritted through my teeth, trying my best not to do exactly that.
He responded by fucking me harder.
Deeper.
Faster.
And then, it was completely out of my hands, my pussy reflexively clenching and contracting around him, milking him as I came.
So, so hard.
I tried to be quiet.
I really, really did, because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
I couldn’t help it though.
It was too good not to scream, and moan, and dig my nails into his biceps as he slammed into me, his hips pumping as he emptied inside me.
I’d… needed that.
Badly.
But of course, I’d never admit it to him.
As soon as he’d let my feet back onto the ground, I pushed away from him, putting some distance between us.
“This changes nothing,” I told him, then promptly stumbled, since the feeling in my legs hadn’t completely come back yet. I refused his help, catching myself on the edge of the counter for balance as I stood up straight.
“Kensa…”
“No,” I said, holding up a hand as I carefully started toward my room again, bypassing the mess of shoes and cell phones in the hall. “Just get out. And sign the damn papers.”
Two
I woke up in a daze.
Head pounding, sore between my thighs, back aching, and completely past the time I should still be in bed, if the light streaming in through the window was any indication.
I dragged myself up, suddenly conscious of the persistent blaring of my alarm. My mind first went to where I’d dropped everything last night, out in the hall.
I never had gone back out to pick anything up, opting for the comfort of my bed after a hot shower. Quickly though, I realized the sound was actually coming from my bedside.
Where both phones were perched on their respective chargers.
But… I definitely hadn’t gone back for it myself.
I could only assume that Denver had been the one to do it. Denver who was not supposed to be in the condo at all. We’d made a silent agreement, and it wasn’t even that I was necessarily surprised he’d broken it.
Just irritated.
After our blow up–our first truly, truly major one, through the whole seven years of our marriage–I’d retreated to my corner, the condo, and he’d stayed in his, the not-yet-furnished home he’d claimed was a gift for me.
One I hadn�
��t asked for, or wanted.
With a heavy sigh, I reached for the personal phone at my bedside since it was ringing now. It was no surprise for me to see Nessa’s name on the screen. I was sure if I looked for them, I’d find several missed calls from her, between both phones.
Because I was not the first person at the Hamilton Luxury Transportation offices, as we’d all grown used to me being.
“Yes, second one?” I sang into the phone as soon as I’d answered, smirking when my barely-little sister sucked her teeth.
“Don’t start that shit,” she warned, even as the clear laughter in her tone undermined her words. “Where are you?”
“Still at home.” My eyebrows furrowed as a sound from somewhere in the apartment hit my ears–one that shouldn’t have if I were actually alone. “Denver showed up.”
“Good. It’s way past time for y’all to make up.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m getting a divorce.”
“No you’re not.”
“Nah, I am, though,” I insisted, standing to grab the robe draped over a nearby chair. “Des did the paperwork for me. I had him served yesterday.”
“Shit,” Nessa breathed, then was quiet for a long moment. “So… It’s just over for you? Just like that? You’re not in love anymore?”
“Love isn’t enough. It was never enough,” I replied, shaking my head. “Hey, let me call you back though. I… think he’s still here.”
Of course, she had questions.
If this were the other way around, I would.
Nessa and I–and our brother, Trace–were close. Too close for me not to have told them what I was planning to do. But if I’d told them, they would’ve talked me out of it.
I didn’t want to be talked out of my feelings.
Maybe Next Time Page 1
