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He laughed bitterly and mockingly. “How many times have you fucked your husband since I arrived in town?” he countered, spitting out the wordhusband.He wore his cruelness on his sleeve tonight. “How many times have you fucked your husband wishing it were me?” He stood now, kicking the bench aside. It flipped and screeched across the floor, one of the legs cracking when it made impact with the back wall.
His pants button was undone, the zipper only partially closed, and how sick was it that I took pleasure in seeing him hard, seeing his cock flexed and punching at the inner seam along his trouser leg. My ego assumed that meant he hadn’t just had sex with anyone, or at least that it meant he hadn’t had enough. Hadn’t been satisfied.
I remembered too late not to let my stare linger, and when I met his eyes again, they had darkened knowingly.
The music came to a grinding halt. The silence heightened my awareness of him. Of his height, his width, his might… Of what I could gain and lose in one single breath if I didn’t get out of there. I twisted my head toward the elevator, then back to him.
Without taking his eyes off me, he reached out and pressed a button on a tiny remote I hadn’t noticed next to the aged bottle of Balvenie, and the music started up again, this time louder than a whisper, but still too low to drown out the sound of rushing blood in my ears.
It was as if he knew he needed to soften the predatory impression he made or risk losing me. Even if his appearing human right then, or of us being able to talk or verbally fight our way through our issues without crossing that final boundary, was all an illusion. Smoke and mirrors.
“I should go—”
“I didn’t fuck him,” he said.
“I don’t believe you.”
“No,” he answered, “You don’t want to believe me because you want to talk yourself out of why you’re here in the first place.”
“Maybe you didn’t fuck him tonight. That doesn’t mean you haven’t—”
“None and no one!” he shouted. “I haven’t fucked anyone since I’ve been here. I’ve wanted no one but you since I’ve been here!”
His words poured into my cup, but I still felt empty. Still needed more. “Does that mean you wanted someone elsebeforeyou got here?” It killed me to be this pathetic, this needy, this unfair and irrational. Aftereverything,I should’ve wanted him happy and content, but I could only muster up the imperfect part of me who wanted him stagnant and mine. Even if I couldn’t give him the same. I wanted him to say he’d never wanted anyone but me,ever.
He remained silent, and I swallowed around the pain in my esophagus.
“When Daniel makes love to me,” I started, and his face contorted in pain, “he doesn’t ask for anything, and I give him less than nothing, because I have nothing to give. It’s all with you. But when you make love, Cole… You leave a piece of your soul on the table. You can’t help but give so much.”
“Trust me,” he breathed. “That only applies to you.”
“You’ve never been touched the way you—the way you touch me. You’d never understand.”
“And you’ve never been loved the way you loved me, not even by me.No oneis capable of the kind of love you give. So you wouldn’t understand how impossible it would be for me to move on. Or to give anyone even a fraction of what I gave you,” he promised.
Our anger had been replaced with something softer, something more vulnerable, and it was wreaking havoc on me. “I shouldn’t be here,” I said so quietly I couldn’t confirm if the statement was for me, for him, or God.
“But you are!” he shouted in frustration, rage returning with a vengeance. I stepped back, not in fear of him, but in fear of how aroused his outburst had made me. Cole reached me in three strides, yanking me to him by my sweater. “You don’t get to run from me tonight. You face me and tell me what you’re doing here. Because we both know you’re aware of why.”
He was right, and we were wrong, so wrong for this, but God help me I wanted it. No more running, no more pushing him and this thing brewing between us away, no more pretending the decision to risk it all was a hard one.
I lunged for his mouth, and he groaned, more like wailed in relief as he moved us over to the sofa.
“God, you fucking taste like him,” I said, thoroughly pissed. He tasted like fine scotch and the citrusy scent cloying up his foyer. They’d kissed. They’d fuckingkissed.With everything going on, I’d forgotten there was a host of other things that encompassed sex besides penetration.
He forced his kiss on me again, tearing my thin V-neck down the middle.
“What else did you two do?” I asked, no match for his swift tenacity. “Cole!” I yelled once he’d taken me down to the floor and rolled me onto my stomach, the condoms resting near my head veiling my vision red.
Cole wrestled my torn shirt down my arms, tying it around my wrists, turning the fabric into shackles. I kicked back, but he’d straddled me, making it impossible to land a kick with any meaning behind it. He finally flipped me to my back, hovering over me, the mop of hair he wore longer at the top now sweaty and flopping over his forehead. “Did you suck his dick?” I panted, wriggling my arms behind me to no avail. “Did he suck yours? Tell me!” I’d fucking kill him, kill them both if he answered yes.
He scooted lower, unthreading my belt from its loops. I tried to buck him off me, but he was stronger.
With my pants undone, he shimmied them off me, my cock springing free to slap my belly. The jeans were too slim-fitting to wear underwear underneath. “Cole!” I said, using my legs to propel me back on the rug, grimacing as the fibers scraped along my upper back and shoulders.
He was afraid and emotional; I could feel it. And everything was happening so fast. He lashed a hand out, securing an ankle and tugging me toward him, his heated stare never abandoning my stiff length.
Cole relaxed on his haunches, spreading his knees wider, his other hand rubbing along his erection through the thin layer of his pants.
