Trashy Affair Duet

by Gemma James

  “You got something going on with your assistant?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you look ready to murder the lead singer of my band?”

  I level him with a serious, let-it-drop stare. “Nothing’s going on with her.”

  “Not because you don’t want it to,” he says, tapping his fingers on the tabletop.

  I shoot him a scowl. The last thing I need right now is a lecture from my brother, especially since he’s not likely to say anything I haven’t already told myself. “Doesn’t matter what I want.” I hold up my left hand, displaying my wedding band. “This makes it a moot point.”

  “You mean the shackle Dad pressured you into putting on that finger?”

  “Don’t start with me, Kade. I married her because I loved her.”

  The past tense in that statement hangs between us, and I throw back the rest of my drink.

  “Talk to me, little brother. What’s going on?”

  “How about another drink?” I say, setting the empty tumbler down with a thump.

  He flags down a barmaid and orders us both another round. While we wait, the silence between us is strained, especially considering he went out with Jules.

  It was only one time.

  I’m a stranger to logic and reason tonight, so it’s best to not even go there. Instead of stewing over Jules with my brother, I take in the scene. The dance floor in front of the stage is packed with moving bodies, even though the night is early, and the band isn’t due to start playing for another hour.

  “You’ve done well here,” I tell Kaden.

  “Too bad Dad can’t see it.”

  “Fuck Dad,” I say. “Don’t let his bullshit bring you down.”

  Kaden raises a brow. “You are in a bad mood.”

  The arrival of our whiskey saves me from answering. Kaden empties half of his before giving me a questioning look, and I realize he isn’t going to let this slide.

  “How bad do you have it for her?”

  Jules is bending over the bar, giving me a perfect view of her jean-clad ass, and I can only imagine how sexy her tits look in that white halter top she’s wearing. I’m getting hard just thinking about running my hands over her bare shoulders.

  “Pretty damn bad,” I finally admit, “and that makes me a shitty husband.” I won’t even go into how shitty of a wife Monica has turned out to be. Regardless of her behavior, there is no fucking excuse for what I feel for Jules.

  “Has anything happened with her?”

  “No.”

  Not yet.

  But if I dig deep enough, I know it’s inevitable. A person can only stare in the face of temptation for so long before giving in.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’re human, just like the rest of us.”

  “Don’t try to justify this, Kade. There’s no excuse for cheating.”

  “You aren’t cheating. There’s a world of difference between wanting and doing. Trust me, you’ve got nothing to feel guilty about.”

  I want to argue with him, but one of the barmaids interrupts us and tells Kaden he’s needed somewhere. Rising, he finishes off the amber liquid in his glass then sets it on the table.

  “Duty calls. Try to have some fun, okay?”

  A derisive laugh escapes me. The only fun I want to engage in involves Jules and my hard-as-fuck cock finding home between her legs.

  Kaden disappears into the Friday night flock, and I empty my fourth drink of the night. No matter how much I try, I can’t tear my gaze from Jules. Her friends leave their perches at the bar, and I grit my teeth as Tattoo Guy grabs her shoulder again.

  I’ve never felt so possessive over a woman. So insane with jealousy. The intensity of this desire coursing through me is stronger than my rage the night I first saw that photo of Monica.

  I’m seriously losing my shit.

  Jules wanders away from the bar, making her way to the edge of the dance floor, and I’m out of my seat and following her before I can talk myself out of it. I don’t think about the fact that I’m off-kilter and armed with whiskey. Extra vulnerable to the whims of stupidity.

  There isn’t a thing in existence that has the power to keep me from touching her.

  22. When We Fall

  Jules

  The energy in Club Shadow is off-the-charts excited. The place is packed, and Les and the guys are about to burst from adrenaline mixed with nerves.

  I should be having a blast, but all I can think about is how much I miss Cash. Lesley’s talk the other day did nothing to dampen this obsession I have with him. If anything, his absence is only making me want him more.

  “Last one, then we gotta get backstage.” Garen and Zan toss back another shot, and Lesley downs the rest of her mixed drink. As Garen slides off the barstool, he squeezes my shoulder. “Try to have some fun tonight, gorgeous.”

  Guess my half-listening skills aren’t as good as I’d hoped. I shoot him a smile. “Go break a leg…or something?”

  “Or something,” he says with a loud laugh.

  “Wish us luck.” Les winks as they pass by, and I watch them disappear through a door.

  I move away from the bar and make my way closer to the stage for a better view. It’ll be a while before the band comes on to play, but people all around me are dancing to the DJ music as we wait.

  The song doesn’t reach the end before I sense him standing behind me. I know he’s there, because a delicious chill is shivering down my spine. I go perfectly still as his arm snakes around me. A warm palm flattens against my stomach, and the tips of his fingers inch beneath the waistband of my jeans. Everything south of that tempting hand flares to life, setting off a deep ache I know only he can fix.

  Pulling me against his body, he leans down and whispers into my ear. “Watching him touch you is killing me.”

  “Knowing you’re married is killing me.”

  He curses under his breath, and a hint of his woodsy cologne, along with the sweet aroma of whiskey, fills my nostrils.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Maybe a little.” He whirls me around until we’re face-to-face, and my pulse flutters in my throat as he tightens his arms around me. “Come upstairs with me.”

  His proximity riots through me, the heat of his body sizzling all the way to my fucking toes. We fall into a lazy sway, dancing but not quite, and for a crazy second, I consider following him to the VIP area in the loft. As far as I can tell, it’s empty unless a stray couple is hiding in the shadows in the very back. I doubt it though. The club is vibrating with restless energy as everyone crowds the first floor in anticipation of the concert.

  “Look at me, Jules.”

  His words jolt me to awareness, and I realize I’m staring at his chest. I curl my hands into fists at my sides, too tempted to run my palms down that broad expanse hiding underneath cotton. I bet it’s the softest material on the planet, but I won’t find out because I’m not going there.

  Nope.

  Not. Gonna. Do. It.

  Because I have zero control right now, and we’re standing in the middle of a busy club with God-knows-who watching. And if I do touch him…I might not stop.

  “Jules,” he murmurs. “Bring those gorgeous eyes up here.”

  I lift my chin and dive headfirst into the fire of his gaze. His eyes are smoldering, liquid steel. “Cash…please…”

  “Please what?”

  “Don’t make me want to give in. You’re married.” My voice cracks on that ugly word.

  “My marriage is a sham.”

  “Your marriage is your business.” I grip his arms, intending to push him away. But somewhere along the way, my brain gets its wires crossed, and I end up curling my fingers around his biceps. God, he’s built—solid man through and through.

  “I disagree,” he says, dipping his head until our mouths linger a hairsbreadth from each other. “Everything about me is very much your business.”

  “W-why?”

  “Because I can’t feel
this way about you without it being your business.”

  I eye the people around us on the dance floor. Les and the guys are backstage getting ready for their set, and Kaden is nowhere in sight. But if someone spots us like this, and it gets out—or worse, gets back to his wife—I could lose my job.

  Again.

  I could lose him…which doesn’t make any sense, because he’s not mine to begin with.

  “We’re not exactly alone here,” I say.

  “Jules, I really don’t give a shit. Please,” he says, raising his fingers to my cheek, “come upstairs.”

  “And do what?”

  “Talk.”

  “We are talking.” My tone indicates resistance, but the softness of my voice spells doom. Defeat. He must have picked up on it too, because the next thing I know, he’s leading me toward the stairs with his large hand wrapped around my smaller one.

  And I’m following.

  Putting up no resistance whatsoever.

  Because apparently one fuck-up this year isn’t enough.

  The bouncer lets us pass without a second glance, and after we reach the top, Cash grabs my hips and walks me into the shadows. He is domineering yet tender as he pushes me against the far wall. I’m caught between the hand he’s bracing himself with and the hand he’s wrapping around my waist. There’s possession in that touch.

  He leans in, and I’m helpless to move away. Not because he’s got me trapped, but I’m so glued to this spot that a fire couldn’t persuade me to leave the circle of his heat.

  “It’s your business, Jules. I’m making it your business.” He grips my waist a little tighter. “And I want you to know that I haven’t been with Monica in months. We sleep in separate bedrooms, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Oh,” I manage to squeak out, my heart pounding with violent longing. And relief.

  “I can’t get you out of my head,” he says. “I know it’s wrong. I’m breaking every moral code I’ve ever lived by, not to mention several ethical points as your boss.” His brows furrow. “And probably some laws, too.”

  “Cash, this can’t…”

  “Happen?” he finishes.

  I nod, unable to do anything else because if I open my mouth to speak, the wrong words might slip out.

  “But it is.” He brings his fingers to my lips. “Happening, that is.” The soft pad of his thumb trails along the seam of my mouth, applying just enough pressure to coax me into parting my lips. I accept the gentle quest of his thumb on my tongue and swallow a moan. His taste is intoxicating—a bouquet of pure Cash with a dash of salt. My lids flutter shut, and I can’t hold back a moan any longer.

  “Fucking hell, Jules.” Slowly, he withdraws his thumb, leaving a damp path of desire on my bottom lip. My lungs hollow out, and there’s nothing but breathless huffs escaping my mouth. I’m throbbing between my thighs, panties drenched.

  He curses again. “We’ll probably regret this in the end, but I’m having a hard time giving a shit about that right now.”

  “Do you regret meeting me?” My voice sounds faraway, as if I’m speaking from the other end of a long tunnel. Hell, I’m drunk from the spell of him, standing with my eyes closed in a lust-filled trance. And I’m terrified of what he might say because I’ve grown dependent on him wanting me as much as I want him.

  “I have many regrets, but that’s not one of them,” he says, grasping me by the nape. “My biggest regret is not kissing you on that goddamn plane.”

  His mouth is on mine in the next instant. We come together in mutual madness, gone to reality as our tongues slide together. His kiss stalls the air in my lungs, steals the strength from my limbs. There’s no buildup, no getting to know the softness of his lips or the taste of him. It’s like zero-to-sixty in two seconds flat.

  My knees buckle before I can stop them.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispers, tightening his hold on me.

  “Don’t let me fall.”

  Too late.

  “If you fall,” he says, breath shuddering against my mouth, “I’m going down with you.”

  I clutch his shirt, and the material is as soft as I imagined. He’s warm and hard against my knuckles as our tongues battle like this is the last taste we’ll get of each other.

  And maybe it is. Maybe it’s the first and last. It’s fucking everything, but even as we’re grasping and clutching, moaning in tandem in this frantic mating of mouths, I’m sure we’re both fighting one glaring fact.

  This can’t happen.

  I tear my lips away with a small cry, instantly missing the warmth of his kiss. Resting his cheek on the crown of my head, he breathes as hard as me. The rapid rise and fall of his chest pushes against my aching nipples. Shit, everything is aching, from my well-kissed lips to the space between my thighs. But my heart hurts most of all.

  The silence between us is heavy and heartbreaking, this forbidden sample of what we can’t have destroying him as much as it’s destroying me.

  “Fuck,” he mutters. “I can’t do this to you. I’ll be damned if you become a secret in my closet.”

  He’s right. I’m not cut out for being a shameful secret. The two weeks I spent wanting to come clean with Chris made me sick. Beyond sick. I barely ate, couldn’t sleep. And as much as I hate Monica for the times I’ve witnessed her leveling him with her frigid gaze, she doesn’t deserve what we’re doing behind her back. No one deserves this.

  And yet the idea of never touching Cash again is searing and soul-shattering. It’s downright debilitating. How can I walk away from this man and never touch him again? Never taste him? Never be allowed to love him?

  “Why are you still with her?” There’s palpable fear in that question.

  He doesn’t answer right away, and that only fills my gut with dread.

  “It’s complicated, Jules.”

  “What does that even mean?” I try to slip out from between him and the wall, but he won’t let me. “Either you love her, or you don’t. It’s simple.”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “Then what the fuck are we doing here?” I wince at the frustration in my tone.

  Brushing a lock of hair from my face, he holds my gaze. “Don’t you think I’ve thought about leaving her?”

  “I don’t know what to think. All I know is this hurts so fucking much.”

  “I know it does,” he says with a hard swallow. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  My heart breaks at his words. I lower my gaze, unable to look at him any longer. “Do you love her?”

  “Not like I should.”

  “But you married her.”

  “I thought I loved her, Jules. And maybe I did in the beginning, but somewhere along the way, she changed. I don’t know who the hell Monica is now, because she’s not the woman I fell in love with.”

  “Then leave her.” I’ve sunk to a whole new low, devoid of pride or principles.

  “I wish it were that easy.” He grasps the back of my neck again, his fingers sliding into my hair, our lips inches apart. “You have no idea how much I wish things were different. Because God, I want you, and no matter how hard I try, I just can’t quit.”

  “But we have to.” Despite my words, I ache to press my mouth against his again. “As long as you’re married, we can’t do this.”

  Closing his eyes, he drops his forehead against mine, and his defeated sigh billows across my lips. “Just give us five more minutes.”

  “Five more minutes?” My voice has softened to a breathless rasp, and like Cash, I shutter my eyes. Because staring at each other is too painful. So is standing like this, foreheads pressed together as our bodies meld into one.

  “Kiss me, Jules. I want the memory of your lips with me when I fall asleep tonight. If I could bottle up the taste of you, I would.”

  I clutch him by the hair, fingers sinking into soft, thick strands, and pull his mouth down on mine. He cradles my cheeks, tender at first, then with desperation as he plunders my mouth. Nicks away at my w
ill.

  Weakens my limbs with the scrape of his teeth down my throat.

  Five minutes will never be enough. A lifetime with him won’t ease the intense longing taking over my soul.

  “Let me come home with you tonight.” He’s holding me so close and tight that every hard inch of him is pressed against me, including his cock. “I missed you so much this week.”

  “I missed you too.” My eyes sting, threatening mutiny, but the last thing I want to do is cry in front of him. Or fall into bed with a married man.

  Again.

  “I can’t do this,” I say, voice breaking as I bust free of his arms. I’m practically sprinting toward escape, but as I reach the top of the stairs and risk a glance over my shoulder, I find him propping his forehead against the wall, his hands forming fists on either side of his head. I’d do anything to take away his anguish.

  To see him happy.

  And it cracks my heart in two because if he ever finds happiness again, it can’t be with me.

  23. After the Depravity

  Jules

  Voices blend together in a cacophony of celebration. The band’s house is overflowing with people and music. A cloud of smoke drifts in the air, as does the scent of beer and mixed drinks.

  I’m plopped in the corner of the living room in a beanbag chair, doing what I promised I’d never do again.

  “Girl, you are wasted.”

  “Am not,” I mutter. But even in this heady, I-don’t-give-a-fuck stupor, I’m aware of my weak denial.

  Garen flops onto the beanbag chair with me and tosses an arm over my shoulders.

  “You so are.” His breath flits across my cheek, and I catch a hint of whiskey. It reminds me of Cash tonight.

  Slightly intoxicated. Walls down. Desire running rampant.

  He has no fucking idea how hard it was for me to walk away.

  “Who has no idea, gorgeous?”

  Did I say that out loud? Shit. This is exactly why I shouldn’t drink. I say and do stuff I don’t mean to.

  “I’m not sleeping with you,” I slur.