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* * *
I used to ask Drew those questions, though he’d never respond. Now, due to our affair, I have no one to ask.
* * *
Affair. It sounds so dirty. I am a cheating wife. I recognize the truth in the statement, but still attempt to justify this twisted triangle, if it can be considered one. The three points of us are all so badly contorted; our emotions and lives too gnarled to have something so simple as points.
* * *
I think of Drew, in his lonely corner of the triangle, and feel such confusion. The whispered words of Rick play in my mind. “They knew everything about you.” They. Drew included. He has been involved since the beginning. He is the one, when I tried to decide whether to sign my life away, urged me forward, spelling out my pathetic life and dire financial situation.
* * *
I have slept with the man, yet he has never shared why I am here, why they walked into Sammy’s and asked for me. He has never answered my questions, hinted into my situation, or looked the other way so that I could bend a rule. He is my jailor as much as Nathan.
* * *
He seems entitled to sample from my body—but, unlike Nathan, he offers nothing in return.
CHAPTER 35
Nathan has spent the day at home, working in his office. I’ve watched him through the windows, disguising my snooping behind a swim, then a few hours poolside with a book. Two men came at noon, going over documents with him and then leaving, Nathan returning to his seat, his hands running through his hair, frustration marring that beautiful face.
* * *
I feel like a voyeur, watching him from behind my sunglasses, marveling at how I still find him sexy, his loosened tie and rolled up sleeves, the darkness on his face when he barks into the phone.
* * *
I am getting turned on, a ridiculous side effect of boredom and Nathan’s presence, and I set down the book, stretching my arms upward, in the most attention-seeking move I have. I coil my hair into a knot and wander toward the edge of the pool, taking a long moment to adjust my bikini bottoms before I dive into the pool.
* * *
He is a sickness. I decide that on lap twelve. A virus that I cannot combat. Despite his incredible talent at being an asshole, I want his touch, want his approval. I want a cure but fear I would hesitate to take the medication.
* * *
I come up for air and he is there, standing at the edge of the pool, his hands on his hips. “Get out.”
* * *
I duck underneath and smile, swimming toward the edge and pushing up and over the side. My exit is less than graceful, my sexpot moment passing, but I manage to stand, water running off of me and staining the pavers underneath my feet. His eyes take in my bikini, the thin cords that run to small triangles, my breasts practically bare before him. He steps closer, his eyes flicking upward and meeting mine.
* * *
We stare at each other, our connection unwavering as he lowers both hands to my breasts, sliding his palms under the wet fabric and squeezing. My eyes close slightly, pleasure sweeping through me, and he rubs rough thumbs over my nipples. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”
* * *
I respond, opening my eyes and looking up, his blue depths studying me, noting the hitch in my breath when he squeezes, the slight drop of my bottom lip as need grows.
* * *
“I’ve been working,” he says roughly. “Trying to work. Do you have any idea how hard I get when I see your body?”
* * *
He waits for a response, my mouth moving without sound. I clear my throat, almost whispering the words. “No sir.”
* * *
“Feel it. Now.”
* * *
My hands move quickly, jumping into action, anxious for what awaits them. Wet hands on expensive fabric, unzipping and unbuttoning, reaching in and grabbing impressive, hard heat. Rock hard. Ready.
* * *
He bats my hands away, pulling at the strings of my top and letting it fall on the pool deck, the sun hitting my swollen breasts, the nipples hard and aching from his touch, then steps back, looking my body up and down. “Go in my office and get on your knees. You’re going to finish what you started.”
* * *
I move quickly, his presence behind me, my skin tightening as I move into the air-conditioned house. My feet cover the distance, turning corners and then stepping onto the plush rug of his office, my damp feet sinking into its mat.
* * *
“Before the chair. Kneel.”
* * *
His order comes from behind me, and I do as I am told, my knees hitting the floor, his steps coming beside me, my eyes looking up to find him staring down at me.
