Page 116 of True Blue

“Oh, but don’t take too long, darling,” Petra purrs to Indie, wrapping an arm around her waist and nuzzling her cheek into Indie’s shoulder.

The heavy weight on my chest keeps me from breathing easily as that green-eyed monster settles on it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

It’s like my greatest fear being played out in front of me as Petra bites her lip, and drops her voice as if it’s a secret between the two—but she still wants me to hear.

“You said you would show me your hotel suite so we can get better acquainted.”

Petra’s dark eyes meet mine, and she smirks in victory. And my entire body burns, my fists clenching at my sides, my teeth grinding together, and my back tensing.

When we would go out to bars and men and women would look at her with interest because Indie is beautiful—that’s objectively true—but she’s also an accomplished doctor.

She’s kind, funny, and so fucking sexy it makes me stupid.

I used to think I’d had good sex in my life, with previous girlfriends who never commented negatively, or if they did, I fixed it.

Then I met Indie, and was given the right to touch her, and realized that those experiences were nothing. Less than, even.

Indie was pure sensuality, confident in bed, communicative, and told me what she liked and what she didn’t like. And that throaty, husky voice she used made me hard as steel as she guided me to her pleasure.

More than that, though. Indie was the most incredible partner, and anyone would be lucky to have her.

So I would feel proud when men and women checked her out, puffing out my chest and wrapping an arm around her waist. I’d pull her closer to me and kiss her sweetly, smiling against her soft lips.

And I would think to the people looking at Indie, yeah, go on. Look your fill, but it’ll be my head that her legs are wrapped around. It’ll be my name on her lips when she comes. It’ll be my bed she’s sleeping in.

I’m the lucky bastard she chooses to love.

My stomach burns with a jealousy I’ve never felt before, making every muscle in my body lock.

I had her.

And I allowed mistreatment that pushed her away.

Nope—I pushed her away first. I broke her heart first. So many times, so many chances that I stomped on. Indie saved herself and followed my lead.

“Admitting that is an important step,” Dr. Meyer told me at the end of our first session. “It’s why men will stay in relationships they’ve checked out of emotionally, because they don’t want to look like the bad guy. They want to tell everyone, ‘See, she left me, I’m the injured party here!’ You’re taking responsibility, Theo. That’s important.”

“Why doesn't it feel important?” I asked her, my voice choking. “Why doesn’t it feel like I’m doing anything?”

“You are,” she assured me. “Doing this—healing yourself—will do a lot more than groveling on your knees.”

Admittedly, I’m half tempted to drop to them now that I’m in front of Indie. I would if it meant anything to her. I would drop to this pub floor like a groveling idiot, begging and pleading for a second chance.

But Dr. Meyer says that’s not the way to heal a relationship. It needs to be mutual; the other party needs to want to heal the relationship.

But first and foremost, I need to heal myself.

Another loud roaring cheer goes up as someone scores another goal, and Indie sighs, leaning down to whisper something in Petra’s ear. The dark-haired woman nods before smirking again and pressing a lingering kiss to Indie’s cheek.

“Don’t take too long.”

It’s like acid in my mouth as Indie laughs softly before walking right out the door, not waiting for me to follow. But like I’m on a leash, tethered to Indie, I do. I always will. Even if she’s not mine, I’m hers.

Indie leads us to an area outside the pub for privacy, but not in a way that blocks people walking down the London street.

When I landed yesterday, it just made me ache that I didn’t experience it with Indie as I should have. Sitting on the plane together, anticipation building between us the closer we got.