Page 15 of Merging Wright

A suitcase drops to the floor behind me, and I flinch. Slowly turning to face Mach’s mother, I force a smile while sincerity fills my voice. “It’s beautiful.”

Pride shows in her returning grin and guilt settles deeper inside me. “Thank you, lovey. I decorated it myself.” The curve of her lips brightens her face as she scans the room, wistfully taking in the space. “I have big dreams for this place.”

Mach and I briefly lock gazes before I question, “Bathroom?”

“In there, dove.” Camilla takes two steps and opens a door where a tiny bathroom sits inside what might have once been a closet. The tight space only allows for a sink on metal legs and a miniature clawfoot tub. There’s no way Mach would be able to stretch his legs in the base, but something tells me Mach isn’t a bubble bath kind of man.

I smile graciously at Camilla and reach for my suitcase.

“I’ll give you kids time to settle in. Let me know if you need anything. Tomorrow will be a long day.” Camilla pats her son’s chest, tipping up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek and then bids us goodnight.

As soon as she leaves the room, closing the door behind her, Mach hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got some work—”

“I’m going to shower.”

His Adam’s apple bobs, and his gaze roams my body. Then, he spins on his heels, offering no further words.

I sigh in relief when he exits. Another scotch, like his mother served before dinner, might take the remaining edge off. Instead, the warm water of a shower soothes my mind along with the ache of my upper back and the cramp in my legs from sitting so long while driving. With my eyes closed, my thoughts flit through images of Mach. Just the casual slideshow I hold in my head of him until my lower lips throb and my fingers find their way between my thighs.

The moment feels deliciously wrong in my quote-unquote mother-in-law’s home, but her son drives me mad, and the need to quell the throbbing between my thighs becomes too much. I imagine Mach on his knees, begging me to be his wife, begging me to let him please me. My fingers lazily stroke my clit at first until the fantasy shifts to me on my knees, my center balanced over Mach’s face. His tongue laps at my slit. His grunts of attitude merge into moans of desire. My breath accelerates as my fingers move faster, and I bring myself to a quick release.

My head tips forward. My mouth opens in a mute scream.

The orgasm alleviates some of the tension within me.

And I need to relax because the next few days are going to be excessively long and disheartening, as second to cheaters, I hate liars. And now, I’ve become one.

10

Playlist: “You Are The Reason” – Calum Scott

[Jane]

In the middle of the night, something heavy falls onto the bed beside me, and I’d scream if I didn’t instantly recognize Mach’s scent—spicy, mountain, expensive. Being in a small town, the night is excessively black without overhead streetlamps. Inside the dark room, I can only make out the outline of Mach’s broad form as he lies on his back. The heat coming off his body suggests he’s no longer wearing a shirt. Reaching out for his arm, my hand hesitates before retracting.

Mach shifts, restlessly twisting his body until he faces me on his side.

“Jane,” he whispers.

I hold my breath as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Can he see me? Does he know I’m looking at him?

Trembling, fumbling fingertips come to my forehead and brush back my hair, scooping it around my ear. “You’re so beautiful.”

My mouth falls open but quickly shuts, noting the slur in his voice. That smoky scotch-scent slaps me in the face.

“Why must you tempt me?” he murmurs.

He has no idea what he’s saying, and I have no idea what time it is, other than late.

His shaky fingers tickle the side of my neck and round down to my shoulder. His hand curls over it and then he traces the length of my collarbone. A single finger coasts lower, straight down my sternum.

My eyes close. This is not what I want. Nor does he.

When that finger reaches the swell of my breast, skirting along a hint of cleavage above the tank top I’ve worn to bed, I grip his wrist.

“Stop.” The command is soft but earnest. Mach needs to stop before he does something he’ll never remember, or worse, regret.

I gently push his arm away from me, holding his wrist down to the mattress for an extra second. When I’m confident he’ll stay put, I release him.