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What happened?
“Sly?” Loni asked, her patented plump lip pout in place. At one time, that pout could conjure sympathy and an erection, and they’d fuck as a way to deal with whatever was bothering her—sex was easier than conversation. Now, though, her pout only reminded him how much he’d spent on her lips.
Sighing heavily, he ran his fingers through his hair, the exhaustion of the day hitting him at once. “I changed my mind. I’m not going up to your room, Loni. If you want to talk, we’re talking down here.” The last thing he needed was to be in an enclosed space—with a bed—with his ex-wife. Not only was that asking for trouble, but the idea of being alone with Loni made his stomach lurch. Sally had left without saying anything, which meant she was still pissed, which meant he had explaining to do on top of what already needed explaining.
For fuck’s sake, when would he catch a break with her?
“My room is much more comfortable, darling,” Loni persisted, reaching out to touch his bicep with the hand not already pressed to his chest, just above his heart. A heart that wasn’t his anymore. He pulled back and scowled at her.
“And I know that as soon as I get upstairs and the door is shut, you’re going to pull some shit and try to get me into bed with you.”
She smirked, her pout gone. “And that would be so bad?”
Shaking his head at her audacity, he stepped back.
“Is there really something you want to talk about? Because fine then, we’ll talk, but if this just you pushing for more, we’re not going there, Loni.”
Loni’s smirk fell, replaced by a hurt look on her now pale face. “I don’t need a ruse to see my husband,” she said, a tremor in her voice.
Shit.
“Ex-husband,” he reminded her, sighing. “And if there isn’t a real reason to talk to me, you shouldn’t have asked me to meet you here. This is a waste of my time and yours, Loni. I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to be honest with you. You know that.”
Loni crossed her arms over her chest, which only helped push up her already large and practically naked tits. Her top was low enough that he could almost see her areolas, and the bottom of her dress was high enough, he was sure there wasn’t a centimeter of space between a naked pussy and every man’s gaze.
“Look, Sly. I know we aren’t married anymore, but before we were married, we were best friends. I miss that. I miss you. And I hate to think that our amicable divorce has somehow turned us against one another forever.”
Again, shit.
“I think that Jake would want us to still be friends, Sly. Can’t we be friends again?”
Dark, slimy, cold, piercing, long-rooted guilt reached up to choke him. Yeah, they’d been friends—best friends, though? No, that had been him and Jake, best friends since birth. Loni had been the hanger-on, the little shadow that followed them around until she hit puberty, and the following became persistent flirting. He should have realized then that what she felt for him was more than friendly. He should have seen that her bids for his attention weren’t a little sister seeking head rubs from her brother.
And once they’d gotten married, and he’d finally realized that she’d been angling for their union all along, he should have come clean about his feelings for her. Or lack of them. But he hadn’t.
Because he owed it to her, to Jake, to make sure she was happy. That the pain and grief and anger were assuaged. It was his duty as the man who’d survived the accident he’d caused to do the right thing, to make sure Loni was taken care of because Jake wasn’t there to do it.
And, Lord, how he suffered.
But his suffering was supposed to be over. His penance was supposed to be up, his life of self-flagellation had ended, and the time for him to truly know pleasure and light and love had come.
Goddammit, he was so fucking tired of feeling guilty, of the aching and hollowness that came with what he’d done. But no matter how much he wished it was different, he was still trapped.
Speaking through a thick fog, he answered, “Yes, we’re still friends, Loni. We’ll always be friends.”
