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I wanthim, specifically. The intensity of it scares me a little.
Oliver releases the piece of my hair, only to wrap all of it around his hand, pulling my entire head back. His other hand lands on my thigh, the heat of it searing into my skin like a brand. “Tell me no.”
I suck in a deep breath. But no words escape. I can feel him thickening against me, hot and huge and hard.
“Tell me no, Hannah.” His voice is deeper now. Darker. Too easy to fall into.
Ishouldsay no. We both know it. Just like we both know that he shouldn’t have called me. That we shouldn’t have gone to dinner. That I should’ve asked him to drop me off at my hotel.
We’ve both toppled dominos, then looked away as they’ve fallen. Pretended we weren’t the ones who pushed them over.
And even if we don’t admit it, this is more than amicable strangers seeking a divorce. More than staying on civil terms. More than attraction or lust.
I acknowledge that truth to myself, at least, as the firm ridge of his desk digs into my skin. There’s a flash of déjà vu as we face each other, this moment so similar to the charged one in my kitchen.
“Have you been here before?”
There’s a tiny jolt of surprise. Oliver has never brought Crew up.
He’s revealing a tiny flicker of insecurity, one I didn’t realize existed. In order to care about my history with his brother, he’d have to care, period.
“No.” I swallow, choosing my next words carefully. “He waseasyto explain to Rosie, Oliver. You’re…not.”
“I keep having this dream,” Oliver says, his grip tightening on my leg the same way it clasped around my hand. “Where you’re standing across from me in a church and your lips are moving, but I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“I’m probably promising to love and cherish you in sickness and health, for richer or for poorer …” My voice trails, dampened by the burning intensity in his gaze.
“I wish I remembered,” he confesses. His hold on me tightens, and I know the fuse is lit. Can practically see it burning, racing toward explosion.
“Drunk people do things they want to, not things they don’t.”
“What the fuck does that say about us?” Oliver asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
But what I do know is it’s no longer a mystery to me, why I married him. My hazy memories from the night we got married are still incorporeal.Thisisn’t, though. Feeling this lust and comfort and intensity every day isn’t a fate I’d shy away from. Some part of me recognized that first night we met.
He exhales as we teeter on a knife’s edge.
For tonight, at least, I know where I want to fall.
My hands press against his stomach, the ridges of his abdomen prominent even through the cotton shirt he’s wearing. I move lower, gripping the firm leather of his belt.
“Tell meto,” I whisper.
His exhale is ragged and rough, as my hand drifts lower to drag across his crotch. It’s a rush, feeling him respond. Knowing his body can’t lie, even if his mouth does.
“If you think I’ll deny you anything, you haven’t been paying close attention.” The words are low and gruff. And then his hands are brushing against mine, unbuckling his belt.
I clench against nothing, desperate to have him inside of me.
“You sure you want this, Hannah?”
“I’m sure.”
He tugs his pants down just low enough to free his cock. I reach forward, gripping his erection tightly, memorizing the shape and weight. Savoring every stroke as I draw the anticipation out.
“Lean back and close your eyes.”
