We come apart together, an erotic explosion of sex and shadows mirrored back in high definition until we both sink, breathless and undone.
Luca doesn't give me a moment to recover. He reaches out, his fingers locking around my forearm with a proprietary grip, and pulls me down. I stumble forward until my knees are straddling his hips, my skin buzzing where it meets his.
“Now,” he whispers, his breath hot and smelling of salt and surrender against my lips. “Help your husband to bed. I want to show you exactly how I like you to ride my dick.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bourbon, Besties + Mind-Bending Sex
Aspen
Istare at my phone, the screen glowing with the latest lecture from my mother.
Bertha:I know you’ve seen how many times I’ve called. I know you saw that picture I sent of Leanna Thompson’s ugly baby. And I know you miss hanging out with me as much as I miss you.
It’s easily the sweetest thing she’s texted me since she found out about the “Vegas incident.” And the reality TV thing. Every other message has been a cocktail of condescension and chastising. They’ve done nothing but make me want to retreat further into my new life, no matter how much a small, traitorous part of me actually misses her.
Then, the three dots bounce for a second before the next bubble appears.
Bertha:I know you think I’m being hard on you, but I truly believe things would be looked at differently if you were to just get an annulment and do this the right way. Have him comespeak to your father and me. We could even meet his parents over a nice meal. I’m sure they feel the same way we do. We just want you both to be sensible, Penny. Being drunk on television and married to a stranger is anything but sensible.
There it is. The “sensible” plea. I knew the sweetness was just a sugar-coating for the same old…her.
“You’re staring at that phone like you’ve just seen another episode of Black Mirror, Aspen,” Tatum says. “Spill. You’ve been vibrating since you walked in.”
I blink, forcing my eyes away from the screen. “It’s my mother,” I sigh, tossing the phone onto the velvet chair beside me. “She’s officially entered the ‘get an annulment and have a home-cooked meal’ phase of her grief.”
Tatum looks up from her laptop, one eyebrow arched. “Come again?”
We’re currently hauled up in her office at the Atlanta Strikers complex. I’m not usually the type to be star-struck by architecture, but this place is a futuristic fantasy. Since Luca has been coming in more frequently for training and physical therapy, and I’m his designated driver, I’ve taken to colonizing Tatum and Eslin’s office whenever I don’t have clients of my own.
“My mother is now suggesting—insisting, really—that I get a divorce or an annulment so Luca and I can do things ‘the right way,’” I explain, using air quotes.
Tatum frowns. “And what sense does that make? Even if you and Luca weren’t already planning to do that.” I don’t miss how she sounds likethat’sa silly idea, too.
“It doesn’t make any sense at all! Regardless of what Luca and me are planning, she just wants a say in my life the way she has always had, and I won’t back down.”
“She really is having a hard time adjusting to your boundaries, huh?” Tatum asks.
Eslin walks in just in time to chime in. “That’s not a boundary,” she says, dropping her bag with a heavy, judgmental thud. “That’s immaturity and an inability to have hard conversations.”
I mean, I’m not avoidant to the point of total denial, but she really didn't have to go for the jugular like that. She didn't have to point out the fact that I’d dropped a truth-bomb on my mother and then immediately sprinted for cover to avoid the fallout. Apparently, “going off the grid” is only a boundary if you aren't doing it out of pure, unadulterated cowardice.
Who knew?
I stick out my tongue. “Seriously? You’re supposed to be on my side!”
“I’m on the side of whatever keeps us from talking about anyone’s family drama for five minutes,” Eslin retorts, though her eyes are teasing. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”
I raise a brow, a slow smirk spreading across my face. “So, you don’t want to hear about the mind-bending sex I’ve been having with my husband?”
Tatum freezes. “Hold please!” She practically sprints to her bar cart, rattling decanters until she finds the good stuff. She returns and hands us each a glass, pouring a healthy two fingers of the brown liquor that keeps us both hydrated and inebriated.
“Wait,” Tatum says, pausing before the glass hits her lips. “Nobody is going to pop out and say they’re pregnant, right?”
We all look around the circle, the only pregnant one among us, Marlow, noticeably absent. “Nope!” we say in unison.
“Good. Then drink up,” Tatum commands.
