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“So why do I feel so fucking bad?”
“Because you love your wife.”
I do.
“That will never change. No matter how many women you fuck, it doesn’t change how much you love her.”
I grind my jaw. I know if things were reversed and he had lost Kat, I would say the exact same thing. But I can’t bring myself to believe it. Anya and I were different.
ChapterSeventeen
MIA
My mind races with unanswered questions. What the hell just happened in the library? I take a seat on the wooden bench in the kitchen, and the slight ache between my thighs tells me that I didn’t imagine any of it. All those weeks of pent-up sexual tension, and now it’s over. I guess it’s not that unusual—unfortunately—for a guy to not care about a woman’s pleasure as long as he finds his own, but Lorenzo didn’t strike me as that type of guy at all. But the worst part is that he walked away without even checking if I was okay. It seems so at odds with the man I’ve been getting to know.
I shake my head. We shouldn’t have gone there. I mean, it was great sex—hot sex—right up to the point where he left me hanging. I was literally on the verge of a mind-blowing orgasm, and he just stopped. Everything about Lorenzo Moretti screams sex wizard, but that’s the problem when you fantasize about someone for so long—the reality never measures up.
The sound of the door opening interrupts my inner chatter, and a flush creeps across my cheeks as Lorenzo walks into the room. Well, holy shit, this is awkward.
“Mia,” he says gruffly, his brow furrowed.
“Lorenzo.” I give him a forced smile, wondering how I can extricate myself from this room and avoid having this conversation.
He clears his throat. “About earlier.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “We don’t have to—”
“We need to talk about what happened,” he insists and sits on the bench opposite me.
I swallow the ball of anxiety lodged in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his expression so full of guilt, sadness, and pain that I want to wrap my arms around him.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I assure him. “We’re both adults.”
“We didn’t use”—he clears his throat again—“protection.”
“Well, we were kind of in the moment,” I remind him.
“Do we need to do anything about that?” His eyes scan my face, full of concern now too.
“No, I have an IUD. Also, just FYI, Brad was such a sleazebag that I had regular STI checks. The results of my last one came through just after I left Boston. Clean as a whistle.”
He nods and lets out a long breath. “I’m clean too. There’s been no one since Anya.”
Holy bananas! I’m the first woman he’s been with since his dead wife? I had no idea. No wonder he rushed off the way he did. Unsure what to say, I nod and look around the room for a means of escape. This is torture; I’m such an idiot. “So, we’re all good then,” I say, infusing my tone with all the chirpiness and indifference I can muster while I sit here with his cum dripping out of me.
“It can’t happen again, Mia,” he says, his voice deep and solemn. “I’m sorry.”
Wow! The arrogance of men with huge dicks. I’m technically still married and not exactly looking for a deep committed relationship here either, buddy.
He frowns. “What?”
I shrug. Shut up, Mia. Don’t say it!
“Mia?” he presses.
“It’s bold of you to assume I want it to happen again, is all,” I blurt.Idiot!
