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You put their needs before your own.
You take the rain, so they can dance in the sunshine.
You place a bandage over the gaping hole in your chest, so blood doesn’t spill on their shoes.
I’ve done it for her before, and it might take time, but I’ll do it again. Really, it was so stupid of me to think she would ever want more from me. Her enemy. Her husband’s best friend. A man who was so caught up in his desire he didn’t even think about what would come after the spell broke.
She deserves so much better than that, and the best thing I can do is get out of her way and give her a chance to find it.
Tossing my phone back in my work bag, I square my shoulders and let the resolute vow to leave Sloane Kent the fuck alone wash over me. I don’t expect it to bring me peace, but I’m caught off guard by the ferocious way my body rejects the old promise made new.
My skin tightens, and my fingers ache at the thought of never holding her again. My shoulders grow tense and another pound is added to the millstone around my neck. I pull in a deep breath and push it out slowly, willing my body to give, begging for the pressure to let up just a little, but it doesn’t happen.
Frustrated, I turn and walk towards my guys that are still working. I grab another ladder and position it underneath them then climb up to hold a corner of the large drywall slab in place. With my help, the job is done in minutes, and we all silently agree to move on to hanging the next slab.
After the ceiling is completely covered, I tell the guys to take a break and start taping the seams myself. It’s tedious work, but the monotony is exactly what I need to get my mind off of losing Sloane before I got the chance to have her.
* * *
Every muscle in my back is coiled tightly, protesting the excessive amount of work I put in today, as I hop out of my pickup and walk into my apartment building. It was close to eight when I called it quits at the hotel, and by the time I left, every inch of drywall we’d cut for the Presidential Suite was installed, taped, and ready for mudding—a job I decided to leave for Andre, my second in command.
I should be happy, but I’m not because throwing myself into work didn’t do a damn thing to ease the pain of existing in a world where the one woman I want can never be mine. At this point, it feels like all I do, all I’ve ever done, is get over her, and I’m exhausted at the prospect of having to do it again.
The lobby is surprisingly empty when I make my way to the elevator and press the call button. The car comes quickly, and I let out a sigh of relief when I step inside and find it empty. My neighbors are friendly enough, but most of them feel compelled to engage in small talk during elevator rides, and I’m not in the mood.
I tap my fingers on my thigh impatiently as the car shoots to the tenth floor, anxious to get home and wash this day off. Well, some parts of it. Other parts I want to ink into my skin and keep with me forever. The taste of Sloane’s skin, the sweet smell of her desire curling in the air around us, my name on her lips.
Stop thinking about her.
It’s a useless directive. One I’ve issued to my brain multiple times today because it won’t get the damn hint. Instead of erring on the side of self-preservation, it’s chosen to focus on the few minutes of heaven I got to experience today, stretching every second into immeasurable units of time until I can’t be sure how long the actual encounter lasted.
And when it was done, it lingered on the moments that followed, obsessing over the tears that slid down Sloane’s face and the sobs that rang out around us while she cried in my arms.
It’s been damn near impossible not to reach out to her just to find out how she’s doing, but I’ve managed to stop myself every time the urge to text or call her prickled at my fingertips. I know she doesn’t want to hear from me. Hell, for all I know she’s pissed I sent Mal to check on her.
Mal.
Now there’s someone I could contact and get all the information I want and some I don’t. The girl is a chronic over-sharer, and that’s never been limited to details about her life. My heart lifts at the prospect of exploiting my only viable option for figuring out what’s going on with Sloane. I’ll have to be careful though, keep my phrasing vague and be sure to sound uninterested because if Sloane didn’t tell her what happened, I sure as hell won’t be the one to let it slip. With my decision made, I pull out my phone and text Mal.
Dominic: Hey. Was everything okay with Sloane? We can’t afford to lose our lead designer at this point in the project.
There. Let it sound like I only care about her well-being as far as it relates to her job. Asshole Alexander, indeed. The elevator doors part and I exit, thankful my door is only a few steps down at the end of the hall. I waste no time getting inside, toeing off my boots and leaving them by the door so I don’t track any worksite debris onto the hand-scraped hardwoods I just installed last year.
I make a beeline for my bedroom with my phone in my hand. I toss it on the bed, so I don’t spend the rest of my evening desperately waiting for a message from Mal, and strip down before heading into the bathroom and starting the shower. With the water on the hottest setting, I step inside. Steam billows around me, enveloping my body and making a futile attempt at easing the tension in my muscles. I let the scorching water run over my muscles for long moments before accepting that relaxation just isn’t in the cards for me and scrubbing myself clean.
When I emerge from the bathroom, clean but as tightly coiled as ever, my phone screen is lit with text notifications. I scoop it up and see three notifications: one from Kristen, one from Angie, my dad’s nurse at the assisted living facility, and another from Mal. The gallop of my heartbeat demands I bypass Kristen and Angie’s messages in favor of getting a small update on Sloane, and I obey it without question.
Mal: She’s fine. Don’t tell her I said this, but I think she’s just freaking out about the date she has on Friday. I keep telling her Eric would want her to be happy but….
The rest of Mal’s overly expressive message blurs in front of me as red tints my vision. Sloane is going on a date. Unbidden, the moments we shared play back in my mind—Sloane’s eyes half-hooded with lust, her breathy little moans, the way she bit her lip while she used me to find her release—and my blood roars in my ears.
Just the thought of someone else seeing her like that has bile rising in my throat. And the moments after… Jesus. I can’t even think about some random asshole making her feel like shit because he doesn’t understand what giving her body to someone else means to her.
Rage, white-hot and consuming, fills me, and without thinking I send my phone flying across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack as the glass screen splits into tiny shards that refuse to let go of each other even though they’re shattered.
I pull in shallow breaths, feeling the rise and fall of my chest even though no oxygen is making it into my lungs. This isn’t happening. There’s no way in hell this is happening.
And what are you going to do to stop it?
