I want to apologize, but she makes it impossible, brushing me off with her polite chatter right until we get to her door.
She turns to face me and crosses her arms over her chest. That is not polite, smiley, perfect manners Pressly. She’s barely holding her shit together, and it’s all my fault.
“Thank you for the lovely dinner. The sole was perfect.”
Her brittle smile looks like it’s going to shatter any second. I should let her go so she can shut her door and lick her wounds, cry on her pretty couch. But I can’t help myself.
“Press, I’m sorry, that was—”
Her mouth tightens and I think she’s going to make more polite excuses, but instead her chin trembles and she might burst into tears. “Never has anyone made me feel so dirty, Slade.”
Out of all the filthy things I’ve said to her, my stuttering gratitude made her feel dirty? And not in a good way? Rey said there’s a fine line between turning someone on and hurting them and I think I just crossed it. Shit.
“If you would’ve played along, it could’ve been so much fun. So goddamn sexy. But instead you made me feel…repulsive.”
“I thought I was taking you out to dinner. I thought we were going on a date. I didn’t realize—” That this was going to be another kinky fuck-fest?
“I get it. I’ve got to be one thing or another to you. And if we’re out in public, you expect me to act every ounce the lady, every bit the political wife you wanted. How about this, Slade? You text me in the morning and let me know who I’m supposed to be for the next twenty-four hours. Because I can’t tell from one day to the next what you want from me, and I’m tired of trying to figure it out. I keep hoping, and you…you keep hurting me. I have to go.”
She opens the door and darts into her apartment before I can even touch her, try to apologize again, and the door slams in my face. I lay my hand on the solid wood, fingers splayed around the peephole as I lean my forehead into the door.
“I’m sorry, Press,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
*
The office is abuzz, and I’m doing my best to keep my shit together. I sent Pressly flowers the day after the panty fiasco and every week since then. Pink, white, yellow, and yesterday purple ones that were a bitch to find and cost a fortune. If she’d forgive me, I’d get her flowers every week for eternity, but I haven’t heard from her. I don’t blame her. I was an ass.
The more I think about it, though, the more I don’t quite understand what happened. Press has always been the more confident one of the two of us, the one who seemed more comfortable in her skin. But maybe I was wrong about that. She’s definitely more at ease than I am with the kink, but she’s had more practice, more time to get used to it. As for the rest… I’d always thought she enjoyed the DC political machinations, forming alliances and influencing people. But maybe she doesn’t like it as much as I’d thought. Maybe it’s just an obligation. I can understand if she has a bit of a hair trigger over thinking people only want to get close to her because of what she can do for them. Because the truth is she can do things for them.
Whatever it is, I’m sorry for it and I want another shot. I’m downright crawling out of my skin with the unrealized hope that she’ll be willing to give me another one.
Every time one of my staffers shuffles a paper wrong, I want to snap. But I try to keep a lid on it because I’ve been better. Even though it’s hard, it’s satisfying. To be more under control, to not feel like I’m spewing all of my emotions all over the place, leaving the people and objects around me dripping with the angry bile of my self-loathing. Yeah, sometimes swallowing that shit and trying to manage it inside myself instead of outside is better. And going to the club helps too.
But as of now, I don’t know the next time I’ll be there. Maybe on a Tuesday, since I’m sure Press doesn’t want me invading her space. I’ll keep giving her a break, and maybe she’ll build up a tolerance to talk to me again. But how many times can I screw up before she stops giving me another chance? Even Press has her limits. I hope I haven’t finally run into them.
Jenny comes in and hands me an envelope. Soft lavender linen paper with a gently sloping script I’d know anywhere. Press sent me a letter? Maybe the fourth bouquet was the charm.
I don’t even have to open it to know it’ll smell like her. We used to have boxes upon boxes of this stationery in our home. Even when I didn’t have the money to get it for her, her mother would send sets on her birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day for god’s sake. The colors changed, but the style of the monogram never did. The letters, though—those are different. It’s gone back to the PGA of our dating days instead of the PAL I loved, even though anyone thinking of Pressly as “pal” is ridiculous. A shower present from Ma Allwyn that Press had beamed about when she’d showed me.
“See? She likes you.” I’d grunted because a monogram on some ridiculously expensive pieces of paper hardly seemed like a ringing endorsement, but it had delighted Pressly. Now the PGA hits me in that spot somewhere near my heart I thought had healed since the divorce but has become increasingly raw and sore since Pressly came back into my life. Pressly Grace Allwyn.
I rub my thumb over the embossed letters on the back of the envelope one more time before I rip it open, my finger dragging through the luxe paper. And when I pull it out, yes, there’s that scent of her. Makes me wonder if she spritzed it with her perfume or if it smells so sweet because it was in her general vicinity. Press has that effect on things, rubbing off and making them better than they are.
I should probably at least be pretending to pay attention to the meeting going on around me because, well, it’s important, but all I can focus on is the card in my fingers. I hesitate to crack it open because I have no fucking idea what’s going to be inside.
A thank-you note? An invitation to fuck off? Whatever it is, I know it’s going to be in her impeccable handwriting.
So I man up and flick it open, wishing the linen under my fingers was her skin instead. How much would I rather be with Press than in this goddamn interminable meeting?
Inside, there’s a short note:
Slade,
Thank you for the flowers. All of them. I feel like I’ve been living in a greenhouse.
Meet me at seven o’clock at the Grant-Arthur Thursday evening.
xoxo Press
Well, she can’t be too pissed at me. She would’ve signed it Best or Sincerely, not those adorable hugs and kisses. But why not call or text if she wanted to meet me at the hotel? And how am I supposed to know what to do when I get there? I’m assuming this is a kink-and-sex thing, otherwise we’d be meeting someplace more public. Or more private. Like her apartment or our house. I would sell my soul to the devil to have her back in our house. But she’s signed it Press and not Sprite. Possibly because it was coming to my office and it would be weird to use her kink-verse name? Why is this more complicated than a filibuster?
But no, the hotel I think is the real clue. Guess I should pack my toy bag.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‡
Two nights later, I’m getting out of the town car that’s dropped me off in front of the Grant-Arthur. I could’ve taken the Metro but it would’ve taken longer, and I couldn’t stomach the wait. I’m practically humming as I step onto the sidewalk, and I don’t hum. Well, occasionally I would while I was making Pressly pancakes on a Sunday morning, but these days it’s far more likely curses being muttered under my breath than a tune. Not tonight.
Tonight I’ve got my bag full of tricks, and I get to use them on the most perfect woman in the world.
Once in the lobby, I ask the well turned-out gentleman behind the desk if there’s anything for me and he hands me an envelope, studiously maintaining a neutral smile. I doubt he would be if he had any idea what was waiting for me upstairs, but who knows? Some of these hospitality types have almost as good a poker face as Rey Walter. And hell, I’m starting to get hard from imagining what’s waiting for me. Will she be na
ked already? Waiting for me on her knees? Maybe spread out on the bed? Or perhaps perched on the chaise? I can’t wait to find out.
The elevator ride seems interminable, as does the walk down the carpeted hallway. It mutes the sound of my footfalls as I make my way toward her and when I get to the room—522—I slip the keycard out of my pocket and into the slot on the door.
It bleeps and gives me the green light. For some reason, that small sign makes me giddy, lightheaded with anticipation. Almost as much as I was that first time with Press. I don’t know why, because we’ve been together since then and it’s always amazing, but somehow this feels different. Like this might be a turning point for us. I would turn on a dime for her.
The lights are all on when I step in, and I stride down the short hall past the bathroom and the closet, looking for her. She’s sitting in the lounge chair, feet on the ottoman where I’ve had her in very different sorts of positions, and I stutter step just the once.
She looks tired.
Maybe the senator’s been keeping her busy. God knows my office has been hopping. I had to have Jenny block out a few hours to come here, and I know when we’re finished, I’ll have to jump right back on the laptop, phone, wherever the most urgent messages are hounding me from.
For now, though, I’ll do my best to make us both forget. I drop the bag by the desk—enough time to dig into that after I’ve checked in with her, because we haven’t planned out this scene at all. Maybe she has something in mind. When my hands are empty, waiting to be filled with her, I head over and debate where to sit. If this were some other time, I’d sit on the floor beside her and let her scratch her nails over my scalp while we talked about our days. But I don’t think that’s the precedent I want to set tonight, so I motion for her to take her feet off the ottoman so I can take their place.
When she has, I straddle it, bracketing her knees with mine and settling my hands on her thighs, fingertips delving under the pencil skirt she’s got on. Even this small incursion feels illicit, delicious—gets my blood pumping.
But the look on her face, pinch-lipped and serious, stops me from going any further.
“What’s the matter, Press?” She’s not the most subtle, and even the times when she’d try her hardest to persuade me nothing was bothering her, I could always tell. I wonder briefly if it’s something to do with Clay, the fucker, and rage swims in my stomach. If he hurt her—
“We need to talk.”
Her voice is soft and a little unsteady, not the usual brassy Press I know and love. So I brush my fingers over her thighs, hopefully soothing her. “Of course. What’s going on?”
“I—” She breathes a harsh exhale out her nose and takes a hard swallow before straightening in the seat. “I’m pregnant.”
What?
At least I have enough sense to bite down on the word before it can make its way out of my throat. But seriously, what?
“You’re…” I dip my head, angling it slightly because I want to make sure I hear this right. “You’re pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“But…” Fuck all, I knew this was about Clay. That chewed-up piece of gum masquerading as a person knocked up my wife. Fuck, dude, at least have the decency to marry the girl first. Though that pisses me off even more. “What’s he going to do about it?”
“Who?”
An echo roars in my head, louder than any echo has a right to. Who? I didn’t know she was seeing anyone else besides Clay and me. I mean, it’s her body, and we’ve never said anything about being exclusive, so she can do what she likes but…
“Clay. Who did you think I was talking about?”
“It’s not Clay’s.”
“Then who?”
“It’s yours.”
How in the hell is that even possible? We used condoms every single goddamn time. They’re not fail-proof, certainly, but why is she so sure it’s mine and not Clay’s? A condom could’ve broken just as easily with him as it did with me.
“Why are you so sure it’s mine? You’ve been with your golden boy too.”
Her expression is fierce with challenge, and then she looks away and mumbles something under her breath, something that sounds a little like “we never had sex.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
The look on her face is nothing short of murderous rage. She might scratch my eyes out instead of repeat herself. But no. “I said, we’ve never had sex. We’ve never fucked. Did you hear me that time?”
“But you said—”
“I didn’t say anything. I merely let you draw your own conclusions and didn’t correct you when they were wrong.”
“Why would you do that?”
Her brows form an angry V and her mouth thins into a line. “I wanted to make you jealous.”
Well, well, Little Miss Perfect is human after all. I’d rather remind myself through other means that’s true, but it’s bizarrely flattering. And it makes me like Clay even less. All his posturing like some goddamn alpha at that party, and he wasn’t even getting laid. Asshat.
“Don’t think I’ve been all celibate and pining for six years, though. I’ve had lots of sex. Okay, maybe not lots. But some. Since you came back though…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what it is about you. The way you look at me—it strips away all my good sense. Which is the only thing that could possibly explain me being here because you’ve hurt me so many times.”
I’m fumbling for something to say between the guilt and the elation: she wants me still, but it’s against her better judgment. I want to be better than that for her, be the kind of man that makes me a good choice for a woman like her. Something about the ferocious look on her face stops me from getting down on my knee, though, and I’m glad I haven’t when she opens her mouth and brutal words spill out.
“Decision time, Slade. Am I a Madonna or am I a whore?”
It rocks me back, the vicious way she says it. “Why do you have to be just one of those things?”
“I don’t think I do, but you seem completely incapable of accepting that I can be both at one time. The proof is in the pudding. So what do you want? Do you want me to get down on my knees and suck you off like a pro while you tell me I’m a debased little slut? Pull my hair and shove your dick down my throat until I gag and cry and then fuck me over that desk because you know I’ll be soaking wet afterward? Or do you want me to put on maternity clothes and pearls so you can parade me around like we’re the power couple of this town and be the mother of your child? Which is it?”
The enormity of the news hits me. My child. I was starting to believe that I might someday be worthy of Press, that I might be able to earn her. But a baby changes everything. Being a parent requires infinite patience, and that’s something I have in short supply. Not to mention, what the hell kind of role model would I be? In truth, she might be better off without me, and that idea stirs up the self-loathing that always lurks beneath the surface.
“I can’t—”
Pressly’s eyes have always been cool, soothing, but now they’ve taken on a searing quality, like the bluest, hottest fire. She’s naturally mild-mannered and never have I seen her quite this angry.
“You can and you choose not to. It’s not the same.”
“You have to give me some time, Press. This is…unexpected.”
“It wasn’t exactly on my list of things to do either.”
Fuck. I’m not even going to suggest an abortion because Pressly would never have one. And there’s no way she’d give the baby up for adoption either. She gets so attached. Once she’d volunteered at an animal shelter for a week and we’d ended up with half a dozen of the sickest, oldest, mangiest animals they had living out their days in our house. If she couldn’t stand to leave animals she’d only known for a few days, there’s no way in hell she’d be able to walk away from a baby she’d been growing in her body for nine months.
But it’s not like her job pays particularly well, and I’m not sure how Ma and Pa All
wyn are going to feel about this. Her father especially is really conservative, and I don’t know how an out-of-wedlock baby will play out. At the very least, financial support is something I can help with while we sort the rest out.
“Hey. You know whatever happens, I’ll take care of you and the baby. You won’t have to—”
“I don’t need money. Mama and Daddy are going to be over the moon. They’ve been waiting for a grandchild for years. I think that’s what they were most upset about when we got divorced—an even longer wait for grandbabies. What this baby needs is a father. And if you don’t want to do that, I’ve got other options.”
“Are you talking about Clay? You’d honestly marry that guy so you wouldn’t be a single mom? What the fuck?”
“Don’t you swear at me. I’d marry him to give my child a family, a stable home.”
“And what about this?” I fling my arm out, encompassing the hotel room, the gym bag sitting oh-so-innocuously on the floor.
She shrugs and puts a defensive hand on her hip. “What about it?”
“You can’t live without this any more than I can, and your boy Clay is vanilla concentrate.”
“Why can’t I keep doing this?”
“With me?”
“Sure. Leave the baby at home with my new husband while I come here so you can beat and humiliate me before you fuck my brains out. That’s what a mani-pedi is code for, right? Don’t fret. You’re not going to lose your fuck-toy if that’s what you were worried about. I mean, for a while, unless you’ve got a pregnancy kink, and I hear the first couple of months with a newborn are pretty rough, but after that, why not? Or should I find someone else to fulfill those needs too?”
My head is pounding with rage, red and black fury hammering my skull. I don’t know what’s pissing me off more—the idea of another man marrying my wife and raising my child or another man marking my plaything, telling her what a filthy disappointment she is before sinking into her balls-deep. Trying to quell the frenzy of indignation and inadequacy, I close my eyes and rub the bridge of my nose.
True North (Compass series Book 4) Page 22
