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The worst part is that I don’t even want to fuck my wife. That wouldn’t quench whatever this is. One of our hate-fuck sessions might make this feeling even more potent.
I want to hold her. I want to nuzzle my face against her skin and call her my darling girl. I want one of those moments from years ago, from before she betrayed me.
We’d lie snuggled together, and she’d give me one of those sweet, post-sex sighs. My love for her was so big I could have squeezed her to death with it, absorbed her body into mine. Made her love me by sheer closeness.
Even then, I had an inkling that the intensity of my obsession with her was toxic, and I didn’t care. Introspection would have been fruitless, because it wouldn’t have changed anything.
It still hasn’t changed, even after all these years. Even when I tell myself how deeply she betrayed me, it makes no difference. I still crave her love.
Love that I’ll never have.
There’s a light knock on my office door. “Come in,” I shout.
My assistant’s eyes are huge when she walks through the door. Lily stands in front of my desk, silently staring, and I shoot her a questioning frown.
“Camden Hayes,” she whispers. “He’s here to see you.”
I frown, searching my mind for that name and drawing a blank. “Remind me who he is.”
Her blue eyes somehow grow even bigger. “You weren’t expecting him?”
“Is he on my calendar?” The question is rhetorical. I want her to get to the point.
“He’s a musician. A celebrity. I thought maybe you were planning on having him play at the winter gala.”
“I don’t have anything to do with event planning.” I shake my head slowly, my mind fuzzy. “What the hell would he want to see me about?”
“I have no idea.” She glances at the door. “He’s standing outside. Should I send him in?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
She nods and exits. A moment later, a tall, dark-haired young man strides through the door. His stony expression sends a prickle of alarm down the back of my neck.
Oh, Christ. Please say I didn’t fuck his girlfriend or something. He wouldn’t be the first jealous boyfriend I’ve encountered over the years since Whitney destroyed my life, and it’s never ended well.
He sits down on the couch across from my desk. When his gaze settles on my face, his expression grows somehow more hostile.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, though I already know. It’s written all over his face.
Idefinitelyfucked his girlfriend.
His eyes flash. “Stay away from Lauren Henderson.”
I could almost laugh, but I keep my expression carefully blank. “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”
His nostrils flare. “She doesn’t. Not that it would matter to someone like you.”
Someone like you.It’s said with so much disdain I have to keep myself from pinning him with a glare. I don’t want the situation to get any more hostile than it already is, but fuck him for making assumptions about me.
He’s a kid. He could never understand the agony of loving a woman like Whitney Walker for twenty years. Two decades of momentary ecstasy, excruciating longing, and bone-deep despair.
“My wife knows—”
“She knows you fuck twenty-two-year-old women.” He waves a hand. “I’ve heard.”
I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes. “Did Lauren send you here?”
Uncertainty creeps into his expression. “No… She doesn’t know I’m here. She’s my brother’s friend. He told me everything about your little affair with her.”
