by S. Layne
“My point today is that…if this is all for nothing, if there’s no way you think you can move past all of this, I’ll let you go if it’s what you really want.”
I close my eyes and inhale. He’s giving up.
A week ago, it’s what I wanted.
Now, uncertainty swirls inside of me.
I still don’t trust myself, or him.
He stands, and somehow I think the moment to reassure him or give him some sort of hope has passed when I see the dejected look in his eyes and his posture.
Leaning over me, he brushes his lips across my forehead. He’s there and gone before I ever really feel his lips on me, but I can’t help but breathe in my soap on his skin. It only barely masks the scent of James that is so completely him.
You could put me blindfolded in a room with a thousand men, and I would know James by his scent alone. I used to love resting my cheek on his shoulder and just…breathing him in—his cologne or aftershave, or whatever it was that always smelled so good.
Made me feel so comfortable…so safe.
It was ruined in a moment. The moment I heard him and Becky discussing their affair in my own kitchen months ago.
“Just let me know what you decide,” he whispers and pulls back.
I call his name when he reaches the doorway and he turns, one hand raised on the doorjamb, and lifts his eyes to meet mine. His shirt rises and I get a tiny hint of his tanned skin above the waistband of his pants and a slight shadow from his “V” muscle. A speckle of his hair dips below the band.
My cheeks warm, staring at him. I know every inch of this man in front of me.
“Yes?”
I meet his gaze and I don’t know who looks more sad right now. “I just don’t know.”
“I understand.” He nods. “Call someone if you need help. I brought you your pain meds, but you’re still supposed to stay off your foot as much as possible. Rest it, ice it, elevate it, okay?”
I see his pull to stay and help. The pain of leaving. I can’t take it and my chin begins to quiver when I tell him I will.
And then he’s gone.
Leaving me feeling more alone and more confused than I ever have since I can remember.
“James called and said you might need a friend.”
I shuffle uncomfortably on my crutches, giving Talia room to enter my house. She’s holding two large bags of Chinese takeout in one hand and gripping two bottles of wine in her other. I don’t bother hiding my smile as I follow her to the kitchen.
James might have said he was walking away, letting me go if it’s what I wanted, but he’s still trying.
It is the first good thought I’ve had all day.
Needless to say, I don’t do well with being cooped up in a house with nothing to do except constantly stream Netflix and overindulge on the Internet. By lunchtime, I was sure I’d visited every site possible.
I hadn’t even bothered calling Talia yet, knowing she was busy with her own job.
But I’m glad to see her and as she pops the first cork on the wine and pours two glasses, helping herself to my kitchen because she’s been here often enough to feel comfortable doing so, I make my way to the living room, leaving enough room on the couch for her to join me.
“You’re the best,” I tell her and take my first sip of wine. “Mm. Chocolate wine.”
“I thought it’d go good with the beef.”
I snort. It’ll taste horrible with Chinese food, but it’s chocolate and wine so I’m not complaining.
“So…” she says and raises a brow. With her fork, Talia spears her first bite of food and then waves it toward me.
“Oh. Am I supposed to talk?”
“Spill it. Start with the foot.”
I grimace. It’s still swollen and painful. Bruising has started and you can see it where the splint ends at the base of my ankle. I haven’t walked much today, haven’t felt much need to move at all, but I know it’s more sore and tender than yesterday. I imagine it will be days before it doesn’t kill me to walk to the bathroom.
Which I’ve tried to avoid doing, because every time I’ve entered the room today, all I can think of is James’s hands on my skin, his rough voice, and the way it felt when his fingers touched me last night.
It’s more confusing than not. More tempting to forgive him than let him go.
“I met James at a therapy appointment last night, freaked out, tripped on the sidewalk.”
“And our loving James rushed to your rescue.” She’s teasing me, slightly.
“Something like that.”
I dive into my dinner, Styrofoam container balanced on my lap, and try to formulate all my thoughts. But they’re all a jumbled, confused mess, and I don’t know what to talk about first.
“You seem more confused tonight,” Talia finally says, breaking the silence. She can read me like a book. Although I suspect that’s partly due to her social work, too.
I tap my finger on the top of my fork. “James said he’d let me go if I wanted him to.”
I still see his eyes when he said it—the defeat in his posture.
“And you’re thinking?”
I shrug. Take a sip of wine. Push my food around the container. “How do you say goodbye to someone after as long as we’ve been together? How do you know when it’s really over?”
I shake my head in thought. None of it makes sense. A month ago when I came back from Chicago, I was so certain. So sure that what I’d done over the weekend with Liam had finally cemented my future with James.
But I still can’t deny the pull James has on me, either. I no longer know if it’s simply because there’s history or if it’s because there’s something left to salvage.
“You wouldn’t be a fool for giving him another chance,” Talia says softly, watching me carefully.
“I can’t imagine being that woman who takes a man back after an affair.”
“Maybe you need to swallow your pride then, like James has been doing.”
I flinch. She might be right. I’m sure a part of my anger toward James has been my pride, underneath all the other completely rational fury and loss of trust. But love? Have I ever stopped loving him?
No.
I don’t think so. It’s why it hurts so much.
“What about Liam?” Talia asks, braving the subject, and my shoulders tighten.
“I think I hate him.”
She snorts. “I don’t blame you for that one.”
“The thing is, Liam was never a long-term thing, even if I think I started wanting it. He did things to me…” My voice trails off and I blush, not wanting to admit to the things he brought alive in me sexually. He took me to heights I’d never imagined, and I mistook that for some sort of deeper emotional connection.
I think.
“I think I get it,” she mutters and sips her wine. “No details. Please.”
“Like I’d do that, anyway. He came over the other night,” I tell her when I realize she doesn’t know. A part of me smiles at the way I slammed the door in his face.
Talia does too, when I tell her.
“So that’s over.”
Is it? I’m mad. And I told him it was. But he’s still my boss.
I groan into my hands, watching as the tips of my hair dip into my beef sauce.
“Gross,” I mutter, lifting my head and cleaning it off with my napkin. “I think I need some closure there, with everything. I still can’t believe my dad and my mom. Or him, I guess. And I didn’t fully give him the chance to explain.”
She’s silent for several moments before she nods in understanding. “Closure. Maybe you should hear him out, let him explain, and then fix the things you can. You can end things with him, decide about your job, and have some of your recent mind-fucking complications taken care of.”
“God, it’s amazing you have a job with the way you speak.”
She snickers. “It keeps me real with the peeps.”
I laugh. And damn, it feels so good. “Gangs
ta Talia. Yeah, you’ve got crazy street cred.”
“Mad skillz,” she mutters, her voice deepening like a male’s.
I shake my head, laughing at her, and soon we’ve finished both bottles and called Talia a cab, and I shuffle on my aching ankle—the pain dulled by the wine, I’m sure—escorting her to the door.
“Call Liam, Laurie. Get the truth and then you can deal with it.”
“And James?” I ask, hoping for some secret words of wisdom to fix my biggest issue: my marriage.
She simply leans forward and kisses my cheeks goodbye. “You’ll know what to do when you have to decide. You can survive without either of them—a divorce isn’t the worst thing that can happen. But only you know what’s best for you.”
I grumble “thanks” and she laughs, swaying slightly on her feet out to the cab that’s pulled into my driveway.
Exhausted, I take myself to bed, clomping up the stairs like a fool with one crutch and bracing myself against the hand railing.
It takes me forever, the alcohol most likely not helping the endeavor at all.
I fall asleep with two sets of eyes dancing in my dreams—one dark as night and the other bright as the ocean.
His strong hand slides down my skin, brushing tenderly along my ribs until I quiver beneath him.
A whimper escapes my lips.
I crave him. Want him.
“Stop teasing,” I gasp. My hands are clasped tightly in one of his and his other hand brushes across my abdomen.
My skin prickles with awareness that I can’t see this man through the blindfold he wrapped around my eyes as soon as I entered the room.
But I know his touch.
My hips arch up and I feel his silken hair brush against my inner thighs.
“Leave your hands where they are,” he whispers, and my thighs tremble.
Needing him.
Wanting him.
God, he’s so close…so far away even as I feel his breath caress my sensitive skin.
“Please,” I beg. My mouth is dry.
“I’m going to taste you,” he murmurs. “I love the way you taste. Love the way you feel when your pussy clenches around my tongue.”
Moisture seeps from me and his deep, rumbling chuckle tells me he notices.
“Please.”
I hardly ever beg. But with him, he is bringing it out of me, waiting until he’s driving me completely insane with need for him.
It’s new, different from in the past, and my body wants it—wants him just like this…he’s dark but smooth. Wicked but tender.
I love it.
Love him.
His tongue brushes against my tender skin and I instantly moan, trying to arch into him, but his hands press my hips into the bed.
My head thrashes from side to side as his tongue continues licking and teasing before he takes one long slide of his tongue from my front to back and my entire back bows off the bed.
“Please! Now!” I cry out, my voice hoarse and almost unrecognizable to me.
He gives me what I need when his tongue finally begins pushing inside me. He fucks me with his tongue, his nose and facial hair rubbing against my clit in the most intimate and amazing ways.
The sensations of his prickly hair and his tongue inside me, feasting on me, drive me over the edge faster than I’d think possible.
My hands slam to his head and I grip his hair, ignoring the fact I’m disobeying.
I don’t care.
And as my orgasm crests, the waves climbing higher and higher until they crash down, my entire body shatters beneath him.
And I scream out his name.
“James!”
I fling myself up in my bed. My eyes fly open and one of my hands covers my wildly beating heart.
Gasping for breath, I collapse back onto the bed.
“Holy shit,” I mutter to no one except the room. I swear I can still feel the man who brought me over the edge with a passion James and I never felt in real life.
Yet it was him.
His scent.
His touch.
It’s unforgettable.
My hand—that somehow found itself beneath my shorts during my dream—presses against my clit and shudders rack my body.
I should be embarrassed.
I just masturbated to a dream of my husband fucking me wildly, with a passion he’s never shown before, even though sex with James has always been more than pleasurable.
But this was crazy. A little bit edgy and yet his touch was still the same.
I can’t shake the thought from my mind, the dream, or the fact that even though I never saw him, it was undoubtedly his lips against my skin.
I can still feel them, and a final shiver courses through my body, making my legs tremble with a need I can’t even begin to understand. Still lost in remembering, trying to figure out what it all means, I’m jerked to the present when my phone begins to ring on the nightstand next to the bed. Its shrill sound fills the air in the room that smells like my sex.
“Hello?” I ask when I answer it, not recognizing the number. “This is Laurie.”
“Laurie, it’s Anne.”
I sit up in the bed, and it’s not easy with my sore ankle and the fact that I’ve wrecked the sheets. They’re tangled everywhere, all over me.
“Hey,” I say, my voice full of surprise at hearing her voice. I haven’t spoken to my former boss since Chicago when she told me she’d sold her company.
It felt like having the rug ripped out from under me.
“How are you? Where are you?” I ask, knowing she was planning on traveling. Apparently the settlement she received from Liam purchasing her company was enough for her to never have to worry about money again.
“Shitty. I’m in France, and it’s beautiful, by the way.”
I smile into the phone, biting my bottom lip when I think of my honeymoon, the one and only time I’ve gone to Paris.
“It is,” I agree.
“Yes, but I just heard about the merger with Parkorp to your father’s company and I couldn’t believe it. You have to know I had nothing to do with this.”
“I know,” I tell her, although until this moment I had been uncertain.
Anne knew how much I hated the idea of working for my father. He might run an empire, but I’d always wanted something that was wholly mine.
And now, if I don’t quit my job, it won’t be, ever again.
Her sigh of relief fills the phone and I relax into my pillows.
“What happened?” she asks, and I take my time filling her in.
“Apparently they’ve been planning this for a year. I don’t know, exactly. I haven’t given Liam the chance to explain fully. I’ve been too angry, I guess.”
“What are you going to do?” She cursed her way through my explanation and has now shifted into friend mode.
I run my fingers through my tangled hair and drop my head back, banging it against my wood headboard. “I’m not sure yet. Get more answers, I think, before I decide.”
Which means I’ll have to go to either of the two men who have shaken my world all over again. Liam and my dad have the answers I need, and the idea of talking to either of them makes me cringe.
She laughs lightly into the phone. “Good luck with that. I’m really sorry…about everything. And for calling so early, but I had to speak with you as soon as I heard.”
I check the time on my phone, pulling it away from my ear to do so. Five thirty. No wonder it’s still dark in my room.
“Not a problem.” And because I don’t wish to discuss anything about Liam, I change the subject. For the next thirty minutes, Anne and I laugh over the French and how they’re not nearly as rude to Americans as we like to say they are. She tells me about her trip to London and how she’s going to Brussels next.
She plans on heading back to the States in six months, and we promise to keep in touch, see each other when she returns before she decides what to do.
She’s like me, unable to
sit still, and I have no doubt by the time she returns to the States she’s not only going to go back to work full-time somewhere, but that she’ll have seen the entire landscape of Europe beforehand.
And when we hang up, I realize that I’m smiling and I’m happy for her, regardless of how horrible she feels. She’s been given the opportunity of a lifetime and she’s been able to follow her dreams.
I feel nothing but happiness for my friend, and it’s the first time in months I’ve felt anything but anger and pain. It feels good to finally be smiling and laughing.
Even if my own world is still on wobbly legs.
But it’s also time to suck it up and deal with it, because I’m not generally a pouter or a complainer, and I’ve done enough of both.
I need my answers.
I deserve them.
And until I get them, I can’t move on with anything.
My sudden burst of bravery died as soon as I hit the shower, drank some coffee, and truly woke up. But after spending another day at home wallowing, and my head spinning with questions, I finally sucked it up.
But now that I’m here, I’m wishing I would have been smart.
Chosen another place to meet.
Because standing outside Liam’s gorgeous condo building is the very last place I should be. Yet it made sense when I called him, said I wanted to talk to him, and he refused to meet at a restaurant.
He probably doesn’t want me making a scene in public.
Can’t say I blame him, really.
Unfortunately, my still-splinted ankle prevented me from dressing in a way that gives me confidence, so I did the best I could with a simple maxi dress that drags along the floor. The halter top provides only a hint of cleavage, and I’d look foolish covering it—even though I wanted to—but it was the best outfit I could wear over my splint and still stay comfortable.
I have no idea what’s going to happen tonight. I can only hope, as I lift my hand and press the buzzer to Liam’s condo, that I have talked myself into being brave enough to withstand anything he might throw my way.
I made it clear on the phone earlier that I simply want to talk. I want answers and I deserve them.
But I know myself, and I know the way I am around Liam.
