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“I didn’t make her come, Max,” I blurt out and immediately wish I could take the words back.
“Well, uh, it’s been a long time.” Giving me an awkward look out of the corner of his eye, he clears his throat. “You didn’t expect there to be anyone after Anya. That’s some deep shit to process.”
I rub a hand through my hair. “I feel so fucking guilty.”
“About Anya?”
“And Mia. I should’ve shown some fucking restraint.”
“She’s a beautiful woman, Loz. You’re both grown-ass adults. And I know you don’t want to hear this, but—”
I cut him off before he can finish the platitude. “Don’t you dare fucking tell me Anya would have wanted me to move on.”
“Okay. I won’t tell you then. Does Kat know?”
“I don’t think so. It meant nothing. I told Dante it won’t happen again, and I’m pretty sure Mia won’t mention it.”
He’s quiet for a few moments before he speaks again. “You did nothing wrong, Loz.”
I don’t answer. If that’s true, why do I feel so fucking torn up about it? Why can’t I stop thinking about how I betrayed my marriage vows?
Would I feel better if it truly had meant nothing? What if I had fucked a random woman? Because the only thing that consumes me more than my guilt is the memory of being buried inside Mia. Her taste. Her scent. The way her soft flesh yielded beneath my fingertips. How her hot pussy molded itself to my cock like it was made for me. The way it almost ripped my fucking heart out when she told me we had no chemistry—the knowledge that if I still had a heart, she would have eviscerated it.
ChapterNineteen
MIA
Isip my hot chamomile tea, eyeing Lorenzo as he stalks through the room toward the refrigerator. His brow is furrowed, dark eyes hooded and unreadable. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows so that all the beautiful art on his forearms is on full display. He’s wearing his light gray suit pants today, the ones that hug his magnificent ass like he was poured into them. I mean, no man has any right to have an ass that looksthatgood. I stare at his perfect posterior while he rummages in the fridge.
“You looking for anything in particular?”
“Dinner,” he grunts.
Placing my mug onto the counter, I wander over to him. “Sophia made lasagna and I knowshe saved you some.” I sidle up beside him so that we’re both looking into the cavernous refrigerator.
“I can find it myself,” he huffs.
“And you’re doing such a good job,” I say with a smirk after he picks up the same tub of yogurt for the third time.
I reach into the back for the glass container with the green lid. My arm brushes against his, and my breath catches. Warmth spreads across my skin, despite the cool atmosphere. He pulls away like he’s been burned by a hot poker. Did he feel that too?
“Here it is.” I hand him the food, my voice barely a whisper.
“Thanks,” he replies gruffly, snatching the container from my hand. It’s only now that I notice his knuckles are bleeding. Again.
“You want me to fix you a little salad to go with that?”
He narrows his eyes at me.
“It’ll only take me a minute while you pop that in the microwave.” For reasons I can’t fully explain, I want to soothe away some of his pain, do something to make him feel cared for, even if it is just a salad. “You like all vegetables except cucumber, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, his face softening a little.
“Because it’s the work of the devil,” I tease.
The faintest flicker of a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Exactly.”
I grab the salad from the crisper drawer and place it on the kitchen counter. Then we stand side by side, me chopping vegetables and him staring at the microwave.
