Trashy Affair Duet

by Gemma James

  God, do I want to touch him.

  I want to come again even more.

  The fact that he brings that out in me is astonishing, but when I think of how strongly I’ve reacted to him from the beginning, I wonder why I’m so surprised. Deep down, I’ve known all along that sex with him would be mind-blowing.

  Life-changing.

  The chemistry between us is too powerful to be denied, and right or wrong, we’ve gravitated toward each other from the beginning.

  He moans against my core, and the vibrations from his mouth make me arch into him. I know I’m whimpering, despite trying to hold it back. He’s driving me fucking insane.

  “You’re so close, Jules.” Kissing my inner thigh, he slides his finger out of the one place no one’s ever been before pushing in once more.

  Cash is a contradiction in bed—a seductive mixture of commanding and tender, deviant and traditional. I sensed the hidden layers underneath his CEO persona. He wears those suits like armor, cloaks himself in stringent responsibility that shelters the passion raging inside him. I can’t help but wonder if his wife made him retreat into himself. Did she make him bury all of that fiery passion? Or is it a part of him that only comes out for me? I want to believe it’s the latter.

  Even more, I want to forget he has a wife. I shove that elephant into the dusty warehouse of my mind and lose myself to the sensation of his lips closing around my clit, gently sucking until I’m bowing over the bed again.

  “Please,” I say, moaning as I thread my fingers through his hair.

  He pulls back, and his stormy gaze pins me to the mattress. “I told you not to move your hands.”

  “Don’t stop.” Reluctantly, I return them to the bed.

  I want him so badly I’m about to burst with it. The more I fall into the vacuum of loving him, the more I realize there isn’t a line I won’t cross to be with him. Not anymore. Not after fighting to keep my distance and watching it all crumble the instant he touched me.

  There are no lines left between us.

  No boundaries.

  No rights or wrongs.

  No fucking shame.

  Just him and me and this bed, and his fingers and mouth and the heat in his eyes sending a wrecking ball through the last of my resistance.

  “I like watching you squirm,” he says, slowly withdrawing his fingers. “Do you have any idea how many times I thought about this? Hell, Jules. I jerked off to the fantasy of you in the bathroom the day I hired you.”

  If I had a response, it scatters because his mouth is feasting between my thighs again. Between his tongue and fingers, it’s fucking sensation overload. I ball my hands to keep from moving them, but I’ve never wanted to grab someone’s head and hold them to me the way I do now.

  It just isn’t enough. As much as his tongue is making me come unglued, I’m throbbing for his cock. My breasts ache for the hardness of his chest. I might go crazy if I don’t have him on top of me.

  “I’m about to fall the fuck off the edge, Cash. I need you inside me.”

  I want to open myself to him and let him live inside my heart. Deep down, I know he won’t break it. Despite the ring that’s still on his finger. Despite the complications in his life. I know he’ll protect my heart as fiercely as I’ll protect his.

  The smile he gives me arrows straight to my soul. “Who can resist you when you talk like that?”

  Grabbing my hips, he slams into me before I take my next breath. He drops his forehead against mine with a groan. But instead of closing his eyes, he pierces me with his thunderous stare, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. Pulling me deeper into the vortex of him.

  “I love you.” The declaration is out of my mouth before I even thought of saying the words. Before I was ready to tell him. My cheeks flush hot as hell, and I veer my head away.

  He tugs my face back to him until we’re gaze to gaze. “I’m so in love with you. Don’t doubt that for a second.” The fact that he says it in a raspy melody of need while our bodies are joined is somehow…everything.

  My eyes fill with tears, on the verge of overflowing, just like my heart is, but I can’t find any fucks to give. All I find is the safety of our connection, the sizzle of his skin on mine as he buries himself in me.

  “Jesus, Jules,” he groans, nipping at my lips. “I can’t get enough of you.” Arms shaking under the weight of everything crashing over us, he slows his thrusts, teasing me with the head of his cock.

  “I need you.” My words tumble out in a continuous plea for more, and I arch my hips to bring him deeper.

  “I’m right here,” he says, plunging home. “Everything I am is inside you.”

  Holy hell.

  His mouth eats up my soft cries as I writhe underneath him, powerless to stop. We come in a tidal wave of emotion, forehead to forehead.

  Body to body.

  Heart to heart.

  He holds me as the fever calms and our heartbeats slow to a normal cadence. We don’t bother showering again, because when I look into his eyes, I know he’s going to take me until he can take me no more.

  Fuck me until he’s had his fill.

  Love me then leave me.

  After a while, he sits at the edge of the bed and grabs his cell from the pocket of his discarded shorts. But his attention is on me instead of his phone. I prop myself up on elbow, unashamed of my nudity.

  “Are you gonna leave?”

  “I don’t want to leave you, Jules.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I need you to know something,” he says as he turns his phone to silent. “I’m going to tell Monica I want a divorce.”

  That was the last thing I expected him to say, and though it fills me with hope, part of me is skeptical. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “Nothing matters to me as much as you do.” He’s watching me as if he’s ready to devour me all over again. He sets his phone next to my wilting sunflower bouquet, and my gaze flickers to the gold band on his finger.

  Wordlessly, he takes off his wedding ring and sets it on the nightstand.

  28. Yellow Tape

  Cash

  My stolen weekend with Jules goes by too fast. Next thing I know it’s Sunday evening, and I’m having the hardest fucking time leaving her apartment. Wrapped in a sheet, Jules clutches the ends to her chest as I draw her in for what seems like our hundredth kiss. We’re standing in her doorway, and I’ve been trying to leave her place—leave her—for the past ten minutes. I’m sure we’re drawing attention, but I can’t bring myself to care.

  “I don’t want to go,” I mumble against her lips.

  She pulls me back inside, and the sheet falls to the floor as the door closes. We’re once again inside the privacy of her apartment, and just like yesterday morning, I have her up against the wall with my mouth fused to hers. For the past two days, we’ve lived on sex, takeout, more sex, and more takeout.

  I flick my thumbs over her nipples as I kiss a warm path down her throat. “You’re gonna have to tell me to leave, Jules.”

  “I’d only be lying. I don’t want you to go.”

  “The longer we put this off, the harder it’ll be.”

  Letting out a defeated sigh, her shoulders slump. “Will you come back and spend the night?”

  “I’ll try. I don’t know how this conversation is going to go with Monica. But I’ll try. I want to be with you more than anything.”

  After she wraps the sheet around her deliciously naked body, I open the door and step outside. Maybe this time, I’ll actually make it beyond her welcome mat.

  Twirling a lock of her hair, I lean down and kiss her cheek because kissing her anywhere else will only lead to me pushing her back to that wall and fucking her against it. “I’ll make this right, I promise.”

  “I trust you.”

  She’s trusting me with so much.

  Not to be a cliché douchebag who says he’s going to divorce his wife but doesn’t. Jules is trusting me not to break her hear
t, and I’m going to cherish that trust more than anything.

  “I’d better go.”

  “You’d better,” she says, nibbling her lower lip, “before this sheet ends up on the floor and I drop to my knees.” She lowers her gaze to the growing bulge behind my shorts.

  “Jesus, Jules. For sucking at sucking cock, you do it pretty damn well.” I grab her by the back of the neck and slam my mouth onto hers. As her tongue pushes against mine, all I can think about is sinking into the wet glove of her mouth again. The memory of watching her lips slide up and down my cock has me rock hard. I break away before I lose total control.

  “No more goodbyes,” I say, leaning my forehead against hers. “No more kissing or talk of sucking me off. I’m going now.” Before I lose my nerve, I tear myself away and put a few feet of space between us. “I’ll text you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Neither of us move.

  “Go inside, Jules. I can’t leave until you do.”

  She’s still nibbling on that sexy-as-fuck lower lip. And her eyes—good God I need to get out of here before I never make it home.

  And going home is important, despite the dread in my gut, because Jules and I have no future until I hash things out with my wife.

  “Why do I feel like this is the end?” she asks, her gaze veering from me.

  I shove down the urge to close the short distance between us. “Jules, look at me.” She does, and damn how I want to reach for her. “Nothing on earth could keep me away from you.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “I love you, Cash.” She draws in a shaky breath before shutting the door.

  I let out a breath. Yesterday when she said it, I had my cock buried in her. The moment was intense, the kind when emotions run high and people say and do things they might not mean.

  But she meant it. I saw it splashed all over her face before she closed that door.

  I leave her complex on a rush of happiness and adrenaline, and it isn’t until I’m passing by Pike Place that my erection settles the hell down. Even closed for the day and empty of people, the market will always remind me of her. I think about that bouquet on her nightstand and how I want to bring her a new one to replace it.

  Except maybe I’ll give her tulips next time. Maybe I’ll give her flowers every week for the rest of her life.

  I can’t do that until I face my wife.

  I’m almost home before I remember to turn my phone back on, and I can only imagine all the missed calls and texts I have from Monica. Despite everything, I feel like shit for dropping off the face of the earth for over twenty-four hours. We might not be close anymore, or even talking to each other most days, but I know she’s worried. Even with the deterioration of our marriage, she always insists on knowing when I’ll be home.

  I’ve got several missed calls from her and even more texts, all of them demanding to know where I am. There are other missed calls and voicemail messages too, but they’re likely related to work. For once in my life, I’m leaving work alone until the following morning. It’s not going anywhere. Monica, on the other hand, is waiting to lay into me.

  Turning onto my street, I lift my gaze from her frantic messages, all of which stopped today for some reason, and that’s when I notice the emergency vehicles outside my building.

  Spanning the distance seems to take several long minutes, but in reality, it’s only seconds. People are pushing me back, keeping me from entering through the revolving doors.

  Throwing questions in my face. Trying to get my attention.

  I barely hear anything beyond the thrashing of my heart echoing in my ears. See anything beyond the panicked haze blurring my vision.

  “What happened?” I’m finally able to focus on a face. “My wife’s up there.”

  “Which floor, sir?”

  “Penthouse.”

  He goes still, and the dread in my gut hardens to stone. Maybe I knew it all along and didn’t want to face it. Monica hasn’t been acting like herself for months, and that’s especially true these past few weeks. I open my mouth to speak, but the words catch in my throat. Swallowing hard, I squeeze them past the fear and guilt winding around my neck.

  “My wife is Monica Montgomery. Is she okay?”

  Those words seem to be my ticket inside. The cop herds me into the lobby and grabs the attention of a man in a suit. There are suits and uniforms everywhere.

  “Detective Riley. I found the husband.”

  He faces me, and I don’t like the harsh chill in his blue eyes. He looks at me as if he’s judging me. “Are you Cash Montgomery?”

  I nod. “Is my wife okay?” There’s no mistaking the tremor in my voice. Sweat drips down my temples as I wait for him to reply, the seconds ticking by in dreadful beats.

  “Mr. Montgomery, your wife is missing.”

  BOOK 2: Trashy Conquest

  1. Lawyer Up

  Cash

  I’m surrounded by four slab walls. No windows except for the small rectangle of glass in the door. A camera blinks in the corner of the room, catching everything from its anchor in the ceiling. I spotted less intimidating rooms on the way in, so I’m guessing Detective Riley wants me on edge.

  This isn’t happening.

  Those three words are on repeat in my head, bouncing off the foggy walls of my mind. Riley is talking, but I’ve succumbed to a blanket of shock since they told me about the woman they found dead in our fucking living room.

  The fact that my wife isn’t the one in a body bag right now is my only comfort. I wrap myself in that knowledge as I watch Riley’s lips move. A furrow forms in the space between his thick brows, but none of it registers. Even if it did, I wouldn’t recognize suspicion from sympathy anyway.

  His forehead creases, and I realize he asked me something and is expecting a response. But what does he want from me? Am I supposed to be shocked? Worried? Terrified for my wife?

  All I am is poleaxed, and not in a good way.

  “I’m sorry. Can you repeat the question?”

  “Do you know where your wife is?”

  “I already told you I don’t,” I say with a shake of my head. I’ve tried calling her cell, but it keeps going straight to voicemail.

  He shifts in his seat across from me. “How did your wife know the victim?”

  Lydia Hirsch.

  The woman I interviewed two months ago for the personal assistant position.

  The woman Monica said was a friend.

  The woman who’s now headed for the morgue, and I can hardly wrap my head around it.

  “I don’t know how they knew each other. Monica said Lydia was a friend.”

  “You don’t seem to know much about any of this, do you, Mr. Montgomery?” There’s a sarcastic edge to his tone that I don’t miss. “Can you at least tell me where your wife might have gone?”

  The photo of her with another man assaults my mind, and I resist grinding my teeth. “She was having an affair. I suppose it’s possible she’s with him.”

  “Do you have an address for this guy?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know who she’s screwing either.”

  “How do you know your wife is having an affair?” He’s watching me with keen blue eyes, as if searching for a telling sign.

  “Someone sent me a photo.”

  “I bet that made you angry.”

  “It would make anyone angry.”

  Riley’s expression levels out, and he gives me a slight dip of his chin. “When did you receive this photo?”

  “About two months ago.”

  “And you don’t know who sent it?”

  “No.”

  The detective’s partner enters the room, and Riley gets up and turns his back to me. A folder exchanges hands. Their words are spoken in low tones, not much more than whispers. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but it’s clear they’re talking about Monica. A minute later, the other man leaves, and Riley returns to the seat opposite me, pen i
n hand.

  He lets a beat pass. “You said you weren’t home earlier today?”

  “Correct.”

  “When was the last time you saw your wife?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  His pen pauses over the notepad. “You didn’t see her the entire weekend?”

  Fuck. He’s had me off my guard from the beginning, and it didn’t occur to me to lie because I’ve got nothing to hide…

  Except for the fact that I was with Jules. A ball of dread lands in my gut. “No, I wasn’t home.”

  He takes several photos from the folder and places them on the table. “Is that not you?”

  I lean forward to get a better look. The images are grainy, undoubtedly taken from the surveillance footage in the parking garage of my building. The man in the photo appears to be arguing with Monica as she unlocks her car door, but in the next few shots the two are kissing.

  The man appears to be me.

  I raise my eyes to the detective. “When was this taken?”

  “Earlier today after someone reported a disturbance coming from your unit.”

  A tight fist of anger clenches my gut. Betrayal storms through me, rampant in its destruction. “That’s not me,” I say, gesturing toward the photos.

  “Let me guess,” he says with a derisive tilt to his mouth. “You have a lookalike out there somewhere.”

  “Actually, I do. My twin brother.”

  Riley affords me an arch of his brow. “A twin brother, you say? I’m assuming the two of you are identical then?”

  “Yes.”

  He shifts in the seat across from me, tapping the pen against the notepad. “Where were you today, Mr. Montgomery?”

  Jesus. Dragging Jules into this mess is the last thing I want, but I don’t see any other option. “I was with my assistant.”