Straightening my spine, I stand. “Of course it is.” I look from her to Noah, then to the two sleeping beauties slumbering peacefully in each other’s arms on the love seat, dead to the world. “Thanks for having me. I really should get going. Wes is expecting me. I’ll see you all Sunday for dinner.”
I begin to retreat, praying they can’t read through my lies. Wes isn’t expecting me. I have no idea if he’s even home or if he’s working late tonight, as he so often does. It’s never bothered me before. His busy work schedule gives me space and time to devote to my career and friends. Now, I’d love to be able to go to his house, have him wrap me in his arms and assure me this is the right thing for us.
“Brook, wait!” Molly calls out, jumping from the couch and hurrying toward me as fast as her pregnant little body can carry her. “I didn’t mean anything by that. And I’m sorry I keep asking if you’re sure about Wes. I trust you know what you’re doing. I trust you’re smart enough not to just marry someone because you don’t think you’re deserving of better.”
Her words are kind and full of compassion, but within them lies all the hidden meaning necessary to make me doubt everything. And that doubt stays with me as I make my way home, as I draw myself a bath, as I struggle to fall asleep. I need to do something to make that doubt disappear, and there’s only one person who can help do that.
Damn Aunt Gigi and her admonition to never go to sleep without reconciling your differences.
Chapter Six
DREW
My shoulders hang low as I walk from the athletic center toward my car. The campus is quiet, no late-night revelry to celebrate the team making it to the championship game. I’ve spent the last hour in my office, staring at my desk, beating myself up. I allowed my anger to consume me, and my team paid the price. We were favored to win not just tonight, but the entire Frozen Four. But by the time they dropped the puck, the events of the day had reached a boiling point. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Aunt Gigi and Molly had told me, how they said I’ve been using my daughters as an excuse not to get close to anyone, how I may have just lost the one woman I could love. And I do love Brooklyn, just not like that. I can’t. Not after the last time.
I hop into my car, but instead of driving home to an empty house, I text Skylar, telling her I’ll be at her place in fifteen minutes. No question to see what she’s doing. No checking to see if it’s okay that I come by. That’s not how we work. There’s no small talk. It’s better that way.
After the short drive, I climb the steps of Skylar’s brownstone in the Back Bay and knock on the door. Within seconds, a slender body appears in the doorway.
“Tough break, Andrew.” Her voice is low and husky as she crosses her arms in front of her ample chest.
I rake my eyes over her. Her long blonde hair is curled, falling to her mid-back. She wears a black kimono robe, loosely secured with a sash. The short cut of the flimsy garment makes her legs look like they go on for miles. Her makeup is fresh, obviously applied right after she received my text. Sultry red lips. Dark shadowing around her eyes, almost swallowing them. Shading on her cheeks to accentuate her high cheekbones.
“Can’t win them all,” she adds.
“I suppose you’re right. I feel like I let the team down tonight,” I say in an uncharacteristic move, at least where Skylar’s concerned. We don’t get personal with each other. There’s no talk of feelings, hopes, dreams. Our conversations are kept light, a means to an end—her bedroom. It’s worked for both of us for the past several months. We have an understanding. No promises for a future. No hope for something more. Just a physical connection when we need it.
Instead of offering a compassionate word like most people would, she reaches for my crotch and grabs. “I’ll help you get back up.”
Snapping out of my momentary lapse of judgment, my eyes narrow on her, becoming heated. “That’s why I’m here.” I lean into her, brushing my lips against hers.
There’s no fluttering in my stomach. No uncontrollable need to spend my time with her. No undeniable craving forming deep in my core when her skin touches mine. I feel nothing, other than a primal desire to lose myself in her and forget everything else. Am I using her? Maybe. From the beginning, I was blunt and straightforward, saying this wasn’t about romance, about sweeping her off her feet and offering her the world. She didn’t care about any of that stuff when we began our arrangement. She still doesn’t.
Gripping her hips, I push her into the living room, our kiss harsh but without depth, jarring but forgettable, needy but lacking. That’s how it’s always been with her, with every other woman. It’s not that I don’t care for her. I do, but not in a way that will have me picking out window treatments or place settings. Not in a way that will have me offering my heart, only to watch her smash it to pieces.
I pull away, peering at Skylar. Her hazel eyes sparkle and gleam, returning my gaze with a coquettish look I imagine she uses on every other guy she brings back here. The idea should bother me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I harden my stare.
“Get on your knees,” I growl, then flinch.
While we’re not the type to whisper sweet endearments to each other, the second I hear those words come out of my mouth in such a derogatory tone, I feel like an asshole. But isn’t that what I am? A player? The type of person I’d threaten if Molly brought him home claiming it was research for one of her books. The type of person whose life I’d make a living hell if he ever laid a hand on Brooklyn with no intention of offering everything she deserves. The type of person I’d never let near my little girls, at the risk of going to prison. How did I get to this place?
Without saying a word, Skylar lowers herself to her knees, reaching for my belt, her fingers quick. Her tongue skims along the flesh of her lips as she unzips my pants, freeing me. I’m not rock hard, but she works her magic, her hand moving up and down my length, bringing me to life.
“There’s my boy,” she coos when I harden.
I peer down at her, her gaze trained on mine as she parts her lips, bringing them to my tip, her tongue teasing me. A hiss escapes and I fist her hair, pushing into her mouth. All the tension that’s built up throughout the day melts away. I need this. Need to live in the moment, to think about nothing but her mouth on me, bringing me close to orgasm, as she does so well.
Her robe falls open, nothing but smooth skin on every inch of her body. When her legs part, she reveals the slickness forming between her thighs. I’m desperate to bury myself deep within them, but right now, I need this feeling of control more.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the wall behind me. The instant I do, green eyes, hardened and angry, flash before mine. Brooklyn’s voice filters into my subconscious, telling me she’s getting married.
I fling open my eyes, my motions becoming quick and intense. I don’t want to think about today. I should only be concentrating on Skylar’s mouth on my dick. Nothing else. But I can’t stop thinking about Brooklyn. Why now? I thought I’d moved on, made peace with what happened all those years ago. After all, we were just teenagers. It was just one night. One night that sealed our fate.
Desperate to focus on the present, I thrust harder and deeper, over and over until I’m ready to explode. I yank Skylar’s head back, forcing her mouth away from me.
“That’s enough,” I pant, my chest heaving. “I need to fuck you.”
“How romantic,” she jests, but I’m not in the mood. Not tonight.
I grab her hand, bringing her to her feet, then pull her toward the couch, retrieving a condom from my wallet at the same time. Sitting, I roll it on, not even removing my pants. This is cheap and dirty, but I don’t care. When I tug her down, she straddles me. I tease her with my erection, trying to draw things out before I unravel. And right now, that’s what I need. To feel something other than the numbing ache that’s consumed me for too long.
Skylar loops her arms around my neck, bringing herself toward me. Her chest in my face, I clamp my mouth over a
nipple. She throws her head back and moans. I wonder if she enjoys it or is pretending, as I so often do with her. As I trail my mouth along her skin, I grip her thighs, finding her center and pushing her down on me. I go slow, stretching her to take my size. Then I meet her eyes.
“Ride me.”
With those two words, she moves against me, circling. Any other time, that would be fine, but all I can think of tonight is if Wes makes Brooklyn fuck him like this. If she’s sitting on his dick right now, moaning, screaming his name. In all the months they’ve been together, I’ve tried not to think about that. Now I can’t stop. It makes me want to screw Skylar even harder.
Fire in my veins, I tighten my grip on her hips, forcing her up and down on me faster, more punishing, more brutal. Her moans fill the room, interspersed with my occasional grunts. My lips are tight, my jaw clenched, every muscle in my body ready to snap with the building tension. I do everything in my power to think of Skylar, not Brooklyn, but it’s impossible. Even when I come hard and fast as Skylar shatters around me, I have to bite back my desire to scream out Brooklyn’s name, waves of ecstasy washing over me.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was content with the way my life was going. I have two little girls who mean the world to me. I have a great job where I can finally pursue my passion again. I have the perfect arrangement with a beautiful young woman who’s happy with what I’m willing to offer. Now it all seems lacking, superficial.
In less than a day, my entire world’s been tilted on its axis. All I hear is Brooklyn’s voice.
“Wes asked me to marry him. I said yes.”
It brings me back to the day I left for college, Brooklyn’s father warning me to stay away from her. His words crushed my soul that morning, just like Brooklyn’s did today.
The warmth of Skylar’s lips on my neck brings me back to the present. I look at her. “Stay?” she asks in a languid voice.
I shake my head, lifting her off me. “Rule number one,” I remind her as I stand, removing the condom and throwing it into a nearby trash can. “No spending the night.” I zip my pants.
“Of course. Rule number one,” she hisses, stalking across the room. She grabs her kimono from where it fell to the floor and shoves her arms into it, violently tying the sash. “God forbid you stay the night for once.”
“Let’s not fool ourselves, Skylar.” I sound like an asshole, but that doesn’t stop me from continuing. “We entered this arrangement knowing what we both wanted. I don’t do romance.”
“You can at least stay the night once in a while.” She glares at me, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “You come here, make me suck you off, fuck me harder than you ever have, then leave? Makes me feel like a whore.”
I still, cursing under my breath. Even if I’m not interested in a committed relationship, I hate for her to think of herself that way, hate that I make her think of herself that way.
Softening my expression, I approach her and rub my hands down her biceps, soothing her as I kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry. You’re anything but. You’re a strong, independent woman who knows what she likes. I appreciate your offer to stay the night. Maybe another time. It’s been a difficult day.”
“Then let me help you forget.” She wraps her arms around my shoulders, rubbing her body against mine.
“I’d love to, Sky, but—”
“Let me guess,” she interrupts, stepping away. “You can’t. You need to get home to your girls. Or, better yet, you need to get up early to hit the ice.”
I shrug. “Yes.”
She shakes her head, blowing out a breath. “You know, I haven’t slept with anyone else. Since we started…whatever this is…” She gestures between our two bodies, “it’s only been you.”
“It’s only been you, too,” I say, masking my surprise at her admission.
A thoughtful expression crosses her face. “No, it hasn’t. It’s never been only me.”
I remain unmoving, my eyes fixed, not reacting to her words. I should have known we’d be getting to this point in our arrangement. In my experience, women are only happy with no commitment for so long before they want something more. All their other friends start getting engaged, and they want that rock on their left hand, too. That’s why I usually go for younger women. Twenty-five seems to be my target age. Old enough to be done with the college scene. Young enough to just want to have some fun.
Commitment isn’t in the cards for me. Dating is difficult enough, let alone finding a woman I connect with who’ll welcome my kids with open arms. Even if she does initially, at some point, it will become too much, too real. I can’t let my girls get attached to someone who will eventually leave them. Then they’ll wonder if it was their fault. I won’t put that on them, not when they’re still so young.
“Those girls are my life. Nothing will ever change that. Not even a ridiculously hot rack and dripping wet pussy.” My statement comes out harsher than I want, but it’s the truth.
“I’m not asking you to make a choice, Andrew. Just leave yourself open. That’s all.” She lifts herself onto her toes and leaves a soft kiss on my cheek. Then she turns and heads toward the staircase. “You can show yourself out. You usually do anyway.”
I watch her disappear, then walk out the door. A part of me feels like shit for never staying, but it’s not enough to keep me here, the memory of explaining to a two-year-old Alyssa where her mommy went overshadowing everything.
Chapter Seven
DREW
I can name three places that have always felt like home. The first, of course, is the house I grew up in. My father wasn’t well-off, but he did everything to give us a happy childhood free from worry. The next is the café. I remember Molly and I sitting at one of the many tables when we were younger, watching as our father interacted seamlessly with the many patrons, telling one of his stupid jokes or bragging about Molly’s or my accomplishments to anyone who would listen. The amount of pride he had for everything we both achieved throughout our lives was obvious, even when those achievements came in the form of getting an A on a short story Molly wrote or me being picked for the traveling hockey team.
The last is the ice rink where I find myself skating this morning, the one that now bears my last name. The same center where I first laced up a pair of skates. The same center that was nearly bulldozed several years ago before I stepped in and bought the place. The livelihood of every junior hockey league in the greater Boston area depends on this rink. I refuse to let that die. Hockey was the only thing that helped me through my mother’s sudden disappearance from my life when I was barely six years old. I need to keep this place open for all the other kids who need hockey in their lives as much as I did back then, if not more.
My focus remains glued on the stick in my hands, moving the puck around the ice, passing it from side to side as I speed down the rink. After leaving Skylar’s, I struggled to fall asleep, unable to stop thinking about Brooklyn. After hours of restlessness, I drove out here, laced up my skates, and lost myself in the game of hockey, hoping to shrug off the past twenty-four hours. And it’s working. Out here, I find a sense of clarity, of peace, all my worries forgotten as I fixate on maintaining control of the puck. The net comes within scoring distance and I draw back my stick, quickly swinging it toward the ice. The puck rockets straight through the imaginary goalie’s legs, as so often happened during my too-short career, and into the net.
I can almost hear the long-forgotten crowd cheering me on as I score the game-winning goal. I skate a victory lap around the ice, pretending as if I had, then come to an abrupt stop when the sound of clapping hits my ears. I take off my helmet, shaking out my disheveled, damp hair, and search the stands.
Lifting my eyes beyond the penalty box, my heart drops to the pit of my stomach when I see Brooklyn walking down the steps toward the ice. I’m confused at first, thinking she’d never want to speak to me again, especially after the way I treated her yesterday. Then my aunt’s words from when we were kids ring in my
ear, making me laugh to myself. No wonder I couldn’t sleep.
I skate toward the edge of the rink, unlatch the door hidden in the wall, and step onto the cement. I remove my gloves, placing them next to my helmet on the bench in the front row before leaning my stick against it.
“Hey,” I say as she descends to the bottom.
“Hey.” She smiles, looking everywhere but at me. Her dark hair is pulled into a knot on the top of her head, her complexion refreshingly free of makeup.
“Gigi?” I lift a single brow.
She nods. “Yeah. Gigi. I couldn’t sleep. All I could think about was…” She trails off, then takes a moment to collect her thoughts. She returns her blazing green eyes to mine, the same green eyes I imagined when I was with Skylar. I bury the idea of that having any hidden meaning. “I guess I just wanted to talk to you, to apologize.”
“Apologize? If anyone should apologize, it’s me.” I run a hand through my hair, blowing out a long breath. “I was a prick yesterday morning. You didn’t deserve to be treated the way I treated you. I should have congratulated you, told you how happy I am for you, not fly off the handle and accuse you of being something I know you could never be.”
“You didn’t mean anything by it.” She pulls her oversized cable-knit cardigan sweater closer to her body, the sheer size of it seeming to dwarf her slender frame. “I should have told you differently. If I had, then maybe your team—”
“No, Brook,” I insist, my voice forceful. Just the thought of her trying to place the blame for my team’s loss on her shoulders makes me sick to my stomach, the guilt for how I treated her yesterday festering even more. “You don’t get to put this back on you.” I hold her gaze, then lighten my expression. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Shoulder the blame…hell, the world. You deserve better than that.” I pause, collecting my thoughts. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, especially after last night’s game. But not about what I could have done differently regarding how I coached my players, although there’s certainly a lot, starting with keeping my temper in check.”
Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire Page 95