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“Why do you think?”
She shook her head, unable to comprehend, unable to offer any answer that made sense.
“You were my wife, Alessia.”
The statement was sobering. “I was a woman you married, not your wife. There’s a difference.”
“And what is that difference?” He pushed, moving his hips so she felt the hint of his arousal and had to bite down on her lip to stop from making any kind of verbal response to that.
“You know the answer to that.”
“Sex?” he prompted, moving his hips once more.
She swept her eyes closed, unable to think clearly, unable to speak when her pulse was hammering so wildly inside of her body. She had wanted him in a way that had made her desperate and almost mad with longing. And he’d rejected her again and again.
His rejection had critically undermined her confidence and belief in her sexuality – she’d never been with a man because deep down she knew herself to be completely undesirable.
So having Max here now, proof of his desire hard against her belly, she wanted to scream at him, to claw at his chest and she wanted, almost more than anything, to go to bed with him.
And she hated that weakness.
“A lack of sex was one reason our marriage failed.”
“Actually, our marriage failed because of the presence of sex,” he reminded her, the words firm like stone. “Specifically, you having sex with another man.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to deny that – she’d let another man kiss her, in a childish, drunken attempt to make Max jealous – but that had been the end of it. She’d hated it. She’d hated the feel of another man’s lips on hers, his hands on her body. She’d pushed him away just as soon as the journalist had got their photo.
“What did you expect, Max? That I’d wait until you realised I was a flesh and blood woman?” Much better. Bringing it back to his disinterest in her was safer than discussing her alleged infidelity.
“I expected you to honour our marriage vows, at least.”
Five years ago, she’d been glad for Max to think she’d cheated. She’d relished throwing it in his face, hoping it would inspire a reaction of some kind from him. Five years ago, she’d been hurt, wounded and childish, acting out of pain and heartache. What was her excuse now?
Desire might have been burning through her, making thought almost impossible, but she had better instincts now. She was a grown woman and letting him believe her capable of that no longer sat well with her. Especially when she knew how he felt about infidelity, and why.
“I did honour them.”
His laugh was harsh, but he stayed where he was, so she was losing her grip on sense and rational thought. “Sure you did.”
“No, you don’t understand.”
His eyes were fierce though, the anger and emotion she’d desperately wanted to see five years ago deep in his expression now. Had it been there then and she’d missed it? Had her own wounds been too deep?
No. He’d been cold. Emphatic. We shouldn’t have done this. Our marriage was a mistake. I’ll find another way.
She’d never known what he meant by that.
“I understa
nd.” His breath was warm on the side of her face, his body something she craved with all her senses. “I – along with the rest of the world – saw the pictures.”
She closed her eyes a moment, those damned photographs as real now as they’d been then. It had looked like a passionate kiss, as though they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
“The pictures painted the wrong story. It was just a kiss.”
He stilled for a moment and she forced herself to look at him, saw the emotions wrestling inside of him. Surprise, disbelief, cynicism. “Sure it was.”
“It’s the truth. I didn’t sleep with Andrew. He kissed me. I let him.” Pink lifted in her cheeks. She’d known there were photographers at the A-list hotspot. She’d been glad to have her picture taken, glad to think her inattentive husband would see it.
