by Pam Godwin
With a deep groan, he holds my gaze and slides his hands around my breasts, massaging, caressing, his touch like velvet magic.
“Feel me inside you? You’re as far as I go.” He buries himself to the root and grinds while tasting my lips. “Now until forever, you have all of me.”
I have his heart, his breaths, and every hard inch that pulses against my inner walls. It’s more than I deserve, and I can’t let go.
I glide my hands down the lines of his back, following the hard-sloping curve of his ass and slipping beneath his jeans where they hang low on his hips. And that’s where I hold on, gripping handfuls of solid muscle as he rides me languorously into orgasm.
When I fall, he chases me over the edge with a muffled grunt against my mouth. Connected in ecstasy, lips fastened, and hearts roaring as one, we reach for each other, lost in the rhythm of our breaths.
It’s only after I come down from the blissful high that I start to panic.
“Was I loud?” I glance at the door and wonder if it’s hollow or insulated. “Oh God, I moaned, didn’t I?”
“Shh.” He kisses my lips and steps back, tucking himself away. “No one heard us, and we’ve only been gone ten minutes.”
Knowing Trace, he started a search party thirty seconds after he lost sight of me. I slide off the vanity, straighten my clothes, and slap cold water on my flushed cheeks. I should probably try to clean the come from between my legs, but every second I dally is a risk.
“I’m going out first,” I whisper, reaching for the door. “Give me a few-minutes head start.”
He narrows his eyes, and his mouth curves downward. I lean up and kiss that pout. Then I hit the light switch, blanketing the bathroom in blackness.
With a deep breath, I swing open the door and stride into my sister’s L-shaped bedroom. As I round the corner, Trace enters from the hall, and dammit, I freeze up like bugged-eyed, guilty-as-fuck deer in headlights.
“Where have you been?” His head tilts, seeing too much in his millisecond glance over my body.
“Bathroom.” I walk past him, head high and heart thundering. “I’m ready to go. To your place.”
I expect him to jump on that suggestion and follow me. Instead, he continues into the bedroom and leans around the corner, staring in the direction of the bathroom.
Panic, fear, shame—all of it crashes through me in breath-shaking waves. I’m going to confess everything about Cole, but not like this. Not here. Bree and her family don’t need my selfish drama unraveling in their home and spoiling their Thanksgiving.
Trace straightens and folds his hands behind his back, his head angled down and brows pulled in. Then he paces back to me and laces his fingers through mine. “Let’s go.”
Composed as ever, he leads me into the hall with confident, relaxed strides.
I’m not relieved. If anything, his unflappable dispassion makes me nervous as hell.
As we say our goodbyes in the kitchen, Cole enters with my coat, slipping it over my shoulders and pressing a lingering kiss on my brow.
If Trace saw Cole in the shadows of the tiny bathroom, he doesn’t mention it on the drive to the casino. Doesn’t say a word as we enter the penthouse. Doesn’t stop me when I head to his master bathroom and take a shower.
I dress in the button-up shirt he left on the vanity. By the time I step into his bedroom, I’ve worked myself into a gutless fog of misery and guilt.
He sits on the foot of the bed, still clad in his handsome suit. Knees spread and head down, he’s bent over his lap, staring at his hands. In the background, the mournful vocals of Say Something by A Great Big World croon about giving up.
It’s not a song in my playlist. He chose it deliberately, knowing that music is one of the ways I communicate. His expression is blank. His mouth doesn’t move, yet he’s telling me exactly how he feels through the heartbreaking lyrics.
The sad piano melody shivers through me, raising the hairs on my neck. It’s an end-of-the-rope song. A last-chance, this-is-goodbye, I’m-walking-away song.
He’s done with me.
My knees buckle, and my hand flies to my quivering lips.
No, Trace. Please, no.
Tears rise hard and fast, blurring my vision. Dread twists my stomach, and I can’t breathe. Can’t find my voice.
Say something. Say something. Say something.
Cold, emotionless, he lifts his arctic eyes to mine. “Say what you came here to tell me.”
He already knows.
“Trace?” I force my feet to move toward him as overwhelming shame streaks down my face in salty rivers.
“Say it.” His tone is calm, so deadly composed it stops me in my tracks.
The song he chose, Say Something, shudders through the room, and the haunting piano notes bang through me. Bang. Bang. Bang. I close my eyes, draw in a shredded gulp, and meet his gaze head-on.
“I had sex with Cole.” My confession stumbles on a choked sob.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “How many times?”
My chest caves in. I cry harder and shake my head jerkily, over and over, pinning my lips together to muzzle the helpless noise clawing from my chest.
“You don’t know?” His jaw twitches. “Or you don’t want to say?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, clutching at my neck, my throat swollen with grief.
He shoots from the bed, his movements graceful yet lightning fast. Prowling toward me, he rests his hands in his pockets.
My shoulders hunch as he circles me, his hulking frame edging close enough to brush against me. But he doesn’t reach out, doesn’t try to soothe me. Why would he? I’m spineless and selfish, and I don’t deserve either one of them.
“You fucked him tonight.” He steps into my space, towering over me, his eyes aglow with unfathomable self-control. “In the bathroom.”
My face crumples, my tears thick and ugly as they roll down my face.
“You chose him.” His voice breaks, forming a crack in his coldness.
“No.” Tears strangle my whisper. “Trace, I didn’t! Please, believe me.” I sob and rub the heels of my hands against my temples, curling my fingers and fighting the need to cling to him, to hold him. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m trying…I’m trying to do the right thing, but I’m stuck. I can’t let go of him, and I can’t…” Wracking cries garble my voice, and I grip the lapels of his suit jacket. “I can’t lose you.”
“You’re a fucking mess.” He pries off my hands and sets me away, glaring at me with disgust.
“Don’t quit me.” I wrap my arms around my waist, tormented and shaking violently. “Please.”
“Is this regret?” He touches a thumb to my cheekbone and catches a tear, staring at it with unblinking eyes. “Do you regret fucking him?”
If I slept with any other man—any man at all—I’d regret it till my dying breath. But I was with the one I never stopped loving, the man I never moved on from. As complicated and painful as that is, there’s nothing confusing about my feelings for Cole.
The song ends, and deafening silence moves in, slithering and strangling and ticking down the seconds. Every breath carries me closer to the end—a finality I’m not ready for.
Trace studies my eyes, his scowl lined with a sadness I’ve never seen there before. His heartache is palpable in the stiff line of his shoulders, in the way he holds himself rigidly still, and in the very air coiled around him, keeping me at an agonizing distance.
I hate myself for hurting him. Doesn’t matter how much he lied or deceived me, I’m the one who delivered the most painful blow.
“I regret…” I feel cold, defeated, worthless, as I stare up at him. “I regret hurting you.”
He closes his eyes and tips his head back, his expression…lost. Then something crosses over his features, tightening the muscles in his face.
“Prove it.” He lowers his head and tunnels his gaze into mine.
My breath stammers, and my mind races to understand. Do
es he want me to choose between them? Right this minute? I grasp the sides of my neck, swaying and dizzy with bubbling panic.
His eyes dip to my borrowed shirt, and realization stops my heart.
“You want me to…?” I touch the placket of buttons on my chest.
“Take it off.”
He turns toward the couch in front of the fireplace, slides off his suit jacket with meticulous movements, and folds it over the arm rest.
He’s going to fuck me. He’s going to take my body while he’s hurting and probably far more pissed than he’s letting on. I’m willing to do almost anything to make this right, but I’m not sure sex is what he needs.
Or maybe that’s exactly what he needs. Reassurance.
When he shifts back to me, his eyes narrow at my still-clothed body.
“Your no-sex rule is fucked to hell.” He stalks toward me, loosening his tie. “Remove. The shirt.”
The cut of his voice makes me jump, but the heated promise beneath his gruff tone sends my fingers to the buttons. Maybe he just wants to pound all his loathing and bitterness into me, make me feel how badly I hurt him, and purge it from his system.
I can give him that. And more.
“I’m committed to this.” Clutching the shirt, I push a button through the hole. “I’m not giving up.” I release another one. “I love you, Trace.”
His eyes don’t stray from mine as I free each button and whisper determined words. When the shirt slips to the floor, it leaves me completely nude and trembling. Neither of us move.
The hush in the room presses against me, straining the few feet of space between us. He makes me suffer through it, taking his time scanning every exposed line and shadowed crease of my body.
“Bend over the bed.” He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve. “Feet on the floor. Ass in the air.”
I shiver and push myself into motion. He’s going to fuck me face down in the least intimate position possible. And I’ll let him. I’ll let him use my body however he wants as long as he doesn’t let go.
Sliding my hands over the mattress, I bend at the waist, legs straight and ass up, with my chest and cheek against the bedding.
His sharp breath sounds behind me, followed by his approaching footfalls. I tense in anticipation of his masculine heat, his expert touch, his satin lips…
“I don’t resent you or think any less of you for fucking him.” His palm ghosts across my backside, prickling my skin. “The rage burning inside me will never be directed at you.” He kicks my legs apart, belying his words. “You are the only reason that son of a bitch is still alive.”
My spine chills. “Trace, you can’t—”
“Shut up.” He caresses my bottom and softens his tone. “I’m punishing you for waiting ten days to tell me.”
Ten days?
I started sleeping with Cole the night before I took the pregnancy test. Then I was sick for four days. Then six days of bed-hopping…
Ten days.
How does Trace know that?
“You were puking and sick as hell that morning.” He bends over my back and speaks against the pounding din in my ear. “But I saw the guilt in your eyes the moment you looked at me.”
My lashes flutter against my cheeks, my guilt unbearable. He knew all this time and never said anything, never so much as looked at me differently.
“Do you know what it’s like to watch your dreams come true?” He curves a hand around my waist. “To hold the end of your story tight in your grip, only to have it unravel from your fingers and slip away?”
An icy jolt spikes through me, quaking my body with memories of Cole’s death.
“Yeah.” I crane my neck and meet his flinty eyes. “I know exactly what that’s like.”
“Then you know…” He leans in, bracing a hand beside my head. “What I’ve been feeling for the last ten days.”
I swallow thickly, choking on my tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was waiting for you to come to me, to say something, to choose me.”
The hand on the bed moves in, wrapping around my throat. His fingers press against my windpipe, not hard enough to cut my air, but it’s a vulnerable position. With his other hand stroking my bare backside, my legs spread, body naked, and butt perched in the air, I know what’s coming before he rears back his arm.
He lets his hand hover above his shoulder, building dread in my stomach. But the moment I look into the shelter of his eyes, I swallow my doubts. I trust him to know my limits.
My breath leaves me right before his palm slams down. I wheeze with shock, lifting on my toes as white-hot pain blazes across my skin. Then he whaps me again, and again, every strike hitting harder, deeper into muscle and tissue, jarring my bones.
The hand collaring my throat doesn’t tighten or loosen. He’s fully aware of his grip and the force of his hits against my backside, measuring every twitch, balancing pleasure with pain. Always in control.
Except his breathing. His chest heaves with the exertion of his lungs, rotating the air with the sounds of his hunger.
Spanking, choking, dominating—all of it makes him hard as a rock, and I feed on it, on his arousal, the rasp of his grunts, and the heat of his powerful hand colliding against my ass.
My nipples tighten. My pussy clenches, and I ache for a deeper connection. I need his confident, unwavering eye contact.
Fisting the sheets, I strain my neck against the fingers around my throat and peer back at him.
His gaze lifts, and his hand comes down, softly, tenderly, stroking my burning flesh and caressing the hurt. He holds me in the lull of his eyes for an aching moment before straightening and looking down at my fiery red bottom.
I miss his grip on my neck instantly and touch the skin there as I angle my head to follow his movements.
He steps behind me, the crisp fabric of his pants brushing the backs of my thighs. His tongue peeks out, wetting his lip as he stares at the exposed apex of my legs.
Mouth parted, chin angled down, and shoulders curled forward, he unlatches his belt. His fingers move quickly over the zipper, sliding it down. Then he shoves a hand into his boxers.
He doesn’t look at me when he pulls himself out. Doesn’t test my wetness as he pushes the broad head against my pussy. Doesn’t hold back as he shoves roughly, ruthlessly inside me.
My mouth hangs open in a soundless gasp, and I claw at the bedding, clenching and writhing around him.
He thrusts without mercy, hammering against the back of my pussy vigorously, angrily, while hissing past his teeth. Every drive rubs the scratchy fabric of his shirt against my raw backside, reigniting the burn from his spanking.
His hand twists in my hair, wrapping it around his wrist and sparking pain through the roots. His other hand presses against my tailbone, restraining my movements as he spears me repeatedly.
I stiffen against the force of his wrath, both hating and loving it. Desire smothers the pain, but I’m conflicted, confused about his feelings. Does he still love me? Is he going to leave me? Tears well up, sliding along my nose and wetting the sheets beneath my cheek.
The first time we had sex was like this. A hate-fuck, scathing with hurt and devastation. I feel all that hostility now in the relentless slam of his hips. So much pain and torment. He’s fucking me too hard, too rough, like he’s trying to brand himself deep inside me.
I can handle that, welcome it even, but not while he’s behind me. Not when he’s avoiding my eyes.
Reaching back, I shove him off and flip over.
He stumbles, shocked by my boldness. “What the fuck?”
His black tie hangs loosely around his neck, and I grab it, pulling him onto the bed with me as I scoot toward the headboard.
“What are you doing?” He scowls, following for a second before sitting back on his heels with his hard cock jutting from the open fly of his pants.
“I want to see your eyes, Trace.” I straddle his lap and wrap a hand around his length, positioning him.
“Then take a good hard look.” He grabs my waist and kicks his hips in a vicious thrust.
I lift on my knees, preventing him from ramming all the way in.
“You think you have any control here?” He grips my throat, glaring at me.
“Never. Control is your job.” I push my neck against his hand and kiss his lips. “I’m just making a request. Slow and easy? Please?”
He regards me, searching my eyes with unnerving intuition. God knows what he’s thinking, and my stomach flutters with nerves.
With a steady inhale, he releases my throat and lightly caresses my cheek, then my lips. In the next breath, his mouth replaces his fingers, and he kisses me slowly, clutching my hips and sinking me down on his cock, inch by agonizing inch.
I gulp down my moans as he makes love to me in a way I didn’t think he was capable. His hands roam everywhere, soft and warm on my skin, every brush of his tongue and roll of his hips bleeding with passion. It’s a slow-burn of sliding lips, clenching fingers, and grinding bodies, sparking with friction and sensuousness.
I don’t want it to end. I’m terrified of what follows. So when he lifts me and tosses me on my back, I panic.
I reach for him, but he’s already crawling up my body, coming for me with heat dancing in his eyes.
“Stretch your arms toward the headboard.” He kneels between my legs, watching me obey with an intimidating scowl on his face. “Good. Now hold onto the rungs and don’t let go.”
Spread out and naked beneath the power of his suit-clad body, I grip the bars and hold my breath.
He captures my knees and wrenches them wider. Then his hands move up my thighs and skim over my stomach. His lips join in, ghosting across my breasts, his tongue swirling and teeth catching and biting my nipples.
I arch and tremble, tightening my fingers around the rungs. “Trace, please…”
His mouth moves to my neck, nibbling and nuzzling, as he delves a hand between my legs.
My yelp is breathless, every nerve-ending in my body on fire and charging toward release.
Bending over me, he fingers my pussy with curling strokes. I lift my head, reaching, and our mouths collide. He kisses me with total domination, and I surrender, panting, screaming, and falling headlong into a mindless orgasm.
