Mend (Waters Book 2)

by Kivrin Wilson

  Just a few hours ago, I had her in my arms. I was tasting her and touching her for the first time in what feels like half a lifetime, and it was glorious. No, I hadn’t meant for that to happen, not so soon. When she suggested our entire relationship was a mistake, though, restraint went out the window. Nothing mattered except proving her wrong.

  Clenching my hand, I rub it across my mouth. If he goes inside with her, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

  He puts his hand out, and she takes it. Okay. That’s innocuous enough. Seriously, though. He’s got Paige—gorgeous, sexy, amazing Paige, my Paige—staring at him like that, and all he does is shake her hand? Guy’s a pussy. Thank God.

  I shift restlessly, taking deep breaths through my nose, inhaling the woodsy smell of pine trees and earth. Not gonna lie, I’m feeling like an idiot, a stalker. It’s an ugly thing, one that prods at a darker, uglier secret shame. What else am I gonna do, though? Walk away and have no idea what happens between them? No.

  Now he reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out his wallet, hands her a card. His business card? Really? I swallow a snort. Paige looks at it, and then she looks at him and says something, and I’d probably sacrifice a limb to be able to hear it. Well, at least a toe, anyway.

  Paige steps closer to the guy, putting her hands on his shoulders. My stomach drops. What the hell is she—

  She’s kissing him. Fury and bewilderment explode behind my eyes, blinding me. I watch, helplessly, as their mouths stay locked for what seems like forever. My chest is heaving, my breaths going in and out in loud, angry puffs. The guy puts his hands on her back and her hip—touching my wife, kissing my wife—and it’s so maddening I’m about to burst out of my skin.

  Then she moves back. He speaks, she speaks, and she starts walking up the steps. Without him.

  Halle-fucking-lujah.

  I watch him watching her enter the cabin, and suddenly it hits me I need to decide what to do: hide or confront him? If it’s the latter, I need to get moving. Now.

  Feeling like I’m making the less mature choice but unable to help myself, I step back out onto the path, just in time to avoid him catching me as he turns and starts strolling toward me. The moment he spots me, his gait slows and his forehead creases. I have no idea if he recognizes me. Not that it matters.

  Stopping when we’re a few feet away, I give him a frown of fake concern and force my light tone as I ask, “Can I help you? Do you need directions or anything?”

  He pauses, hesitates. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

  I let my lips curve slightly. “Here’s a hint: You were just kissing my wife.”

  The asshole blanches, his posture stiffening. Yeah, he wasn’t expecting that. “She didn't tell me you were here,” he says after a few seconds’ pause, and I have to give him credit: there’s no defensiveness in him, and he stands his ground.

  “Right,” I comment mildly. “That'd be kind of a buzzkill, wouldn't it?”

  His eyes narrow. “She did tell me you’re separated.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod, widening my smirk. “But she left out the part about us sharing that cabin?”

  He looks surprised, arrested. Then he glances back at the building before mirroring my cautious, taunting smile. “Pretty sure if she was still yours, you'd be trying to beat the shit out of me right now.”

  Trying. Trying to beat the shit out of him? I let out a breath, a humorless laugh. “Only if I actually thought you were a threat.”

  His smile fades, his eyes shifting. “I saw you in the lobby the other day. That look you gave me… Is that what you look like when you're not feeling threatened?”

  So he does recognize me. Is he trying to piss me off? To shut me up? Good luck with that. “I didn't know then that you were the kind of guy who’d give her your business card, let her kiss you, and then walk away.”

  Eyes glinting, he challenges, “And how long has it been since she kissed you?”

  Oh, yeah. He thinks he just delivered his coup de grâce. Fucking pussy. “Just this morning, actually,” I tell him, which is the goddamned truth.

  A faltering uncertainty enters his face, and it’s obvious his resolve is cracking. He’s thinking Paige played him, used him to make me jealous.

  Which she probably did.

  “Trust me,” I deadpan. “You don't need this in your life.”

  And I make that my parting comment, brushing past him to continue walking up toward the cabin. I don’t look back.

  For the sake of my dignity, I’m happy I stayed civil. But I kind of wish he’d given me an excuse to punch him in the face.

  My pulse is still racing, and I know I need to calm down before I go inside to confront Paige, but I have no idea how I’m going to accomplish that. The image of her kissing him has been seared into my brain. It’d take a lobotomy for me to let it go anytime soon.

  The wooden boards creak as I step up to the patio, and my hand feels icy and numb as I push the key card into the slot. There’s a click, and I grab the handle and push the door open, letting it slam behind me as I stride inside.

  Halfway into the dimly lit living room, I catch sight of her in the kitchen. She’s by the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water. Turning, she eyes me calmly while the fridge door shuts with a soft snap.

  Deep breaths. Do not lose your shit.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” I roar at her.

  Eyes bugging, she freezes in the middle of unscrewing the cap on her bottle. “Excuse me?”

  I stalk toward her. “Walking off into the night with a guy you met in a bar? What the fuck, Paige?”

  “Are you for real?” She blinks at me. “How is that any of your business?”

  Scoffing, I cross into the kitchen, not stopping before I’m in her space, looming over her. “So you’re saying,” I say quietly, tightly, “I’m supposed to not give a shit if my wife and the mother of my three little kids puts herself in dangerous situations?”

  “Give me a break.” With an eye roll, she continues opening the water bottle. “I met a perfectly nice guy who was polite enough to walk me back here. If anything, I was safer than I would’ve been without him.”

  “They all seem like nice guys,” I bite out. “Until they don’t.”

  “Right.” She makes a face at me, and then she eases around me. As she walks away, she fires back over her shoulder, “I forgot, you know predators. It’s your job to keep them out of prison.”

  “That barb is getting dull, babe,” I say with a snort. “You should diversify your insults.”

  Ignoring me, she ambles into the living room, and I follow close, scowling as she plops down on one of the luxuriously rustic armchairs and tilts her head back to take a drink of water. Then she kicks off her high-heeled shoes and puts her bare feet up on the oaken coffee table with a nonchalance that’s unlike her.

  I squint, examining her face. Despite the lack of light in the room, I can see that her eyes are glassy, her cheeks flushed. Which means she’s had more than just the one drink. In fact, she’s probably halfway drunk. All the more reason for her to not be alone with a stranger, god dammit.

  “Admit it,” she challenges pointedly. “You weren’t worried about me. You were jealous.”

  Something inside me snaps. “I was out of my fucking mind worried!” When she scrunches up her face at me, much like a disgusted teenager might, I growl, “I had to rudely interrupt my seven-figures-in-billables client before I walked out on him to follow you and make sure you were okay.”

  I pause to catch my breath. There’s a painful pressure inside my head, and her petulant expression does nothing to ease it. “And then,” I go on, “while I was rushing back here, hoping to fucking God that this was the way you’d gone, I was picturing having to search the woods for you in the dark and finding you raped and murdered.”

  A caustic chuckle escapes her. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Yeah, apparently so,” I say bitterly. “Because instead I found you sucking the guy
’s face off.”

  Her face turns to stone, arrested and surprised. Okay. Yeah. Apparently she had no idea I witnessed that.

  “It was one quick kiss. Stop being so dramatic.” She lifts the bottle to her lips again. Chugging water. She’s trying to avoid getting a hangover.

  “I saw the whole thing, Paige. You kissed him.” Punctuating each word with a pointed finger, I say, “You. Kissed. Him.”

  Anger sparking in her eyes, she slams her bottle down on the side table. “Which I, as a single woman, have every right to do.”

  My breath whooshes out, and my mind becomes a void, fury finally turning me mute and dumb. In my stupor, her naked feet draw my gaze. Those dainty feet, small for a woman of her height, evidence of her small bones. The perfectly painted nails, blood red and pretty. And then my attention wanders, up her smooth and shapely calves, past her knees, and up to where the skirt of her clingy red dress ends just below her thighs.

  Thighs that used to be mine—and only mine—to bare, to touch, to taste. And to spread.

  Jerking into motion, I advance on her. When I’m standing before her, I lean down and slap my hands on the back of her chair, framing her head. With obvious reluctance, she bends her neck back to look at me. To glare at me, her jaw clenched.

  “How many guys have you fucked since we broke up?” I ask, so low it’s nearly a murmur.

  Her nostrils flare. “Again, none of your business. How many women have you been with?”

  “Not one. You know why?” I angle my face closer, so close that another fraction of an inch and her face would go out of focus. “I only want you.”

  She releases a whistling breath. We stare at each other, neither one flinching away. Except there it is, a tiny twitch at the corner of her eye. With quiet menace, she asks, “What’s your point?”

  “You were just trying to piss me off tonight.”

  “Well, if I was, I guess it worked!” Yanking her feet back down to the floor, she ducks under my arm and pushes out of the chair. “Grow up, Logan.”

  Before she can move out of reach, I grab her arm. “No. That’s not the end of this.”

  “What is the end then?” she demands fiercely.

  I tighten my grip on her, suddenly and achingly aware of the soft, warm skin within my hand. “We finish what we started earlier.”

  She wrenches herself from my grasp. “You’re so full of shit!” Her voice deepens in mockery. “We can fix it. If sex could fix anything, we’d still be together. But we’re not together anymore, and still, here you are, flipping out on me because I’m moving on.”

  No. She can delude herself all she wants, but I’m not buying it. “Answer my question. How many guys?”

  Unblinking, I bore my eyes into her, observing with satisfaction as hers shift and flicker, revealing the truth.

  “None,” I state firmly. “Right?”

  She flattens her lips and refuses to answer, which is answer aplenty.

  “You’re not moving on,” I say with a sneer. “Don’t fucking look me in the eyes and lie, telling me you’re moving on.” Even as she huffs, I forge on. “I know you. You want to finish what we started.”

  For a while, I can see that she’s holding her breath and wrestling with how to respond, her gaze wide and wild. Then, in a dead voice, she says, “Just because I still want to fuck you, that doesn’t mean I want to be with you the rest of the time.”

  Oh, Christ. I still want to fuck you. Doesn’t matter what else she just said, because that’s all I heard. My dick is taking it as encouragement, while the remnants of the rational parts of my brain recognize that it’s the alcohol talking, because sober Paige doesn’t use language like that.

  I should probably leave her alone. Tell her to go to bed and sleep it off. That’s what a decent, caring man would do. Pretty sure I consider myself to be both those things.

  And still, I can’t do it. I’m hanging off a cliff’s edge here, and I’m not ready to let go.

  “I guess we’ll just have to take what we can get then,” I tell her, my eyes burning, my limbs growing taut with desire.

  “No.” She shakes her head, face shuttered. “We tried that. It didn’t work.”

  I let one corner of my mouth dimple, watching her through heavy lids. “I don’t know. Worked pretty well for me. And you kept coming back for more.”

  “Not anymore. We’re done.” Shuffling back to the side table, she picks up her water, opens it, and swallows another long drink, avoiding my gaze. Taking the indifferent approach now. And I’m still not fooled.

  “The hell we are.” I say it mildly, and that apparently catches her attention. She lowers her bottle. Her tongue comes out, licking drops off her bottom lip, and then her gaze flickers along the floor to the master bedroom that she appropriated for herself. Mapping an escape route?

  Good luck with that, babe.

  I take a step toward her.

  “Logan,” she admonishes, setting her water back down and backing up.

  “Paige,” I murmur, pushing forward.

  The backs of her thighs connect with the love seat, and she grasps behind herself for balance. With a withering look, she says, “It won’t change anything.”

  “Maybe not,” I concede as I reach her, crowding her where she’s half sitting on the sofa frame, “but it’ll feel fucking amazing.”

  Her breath spills out, shaky and raw. I reach for her, but she swats my hand away. Ready for that—expecting it, in fact, and knowing I’d be disappointed if she hadn’t—I capture her wrist, shackling her. And then I watch her eyes darken with that familiar amalgam of anger and lust. The rush of pleasure that grips me is part arousal, part vindication. This irresistible need for each other, it’s how it’s always been between us. It’s how it always will be.

  Her imprisoned hand clenches into a fist, but she doesn’t try to free it. “It’s not going to be pretty.”

  “I’m counting on it.” Bending down and tugging her up into me, I crush her mouth to mine. It stings faintly where she bit me earlier, but the reminder of that encounter coupled with the feel of her soft lips and warm breath sends pure, liquid heat to my dick. My balls tightening and tucking up into my groin, I go from semi to full hard-on almost instantly, the pulsing and aching as all-consuming as a starving man’s hunger.

  Mine. She’s still mine. I kiss her hard, kiss her to wipe away any memory she might have of the other guy and their little moment out front. My heart races like it’s trying to escape from my chest, a mad and violent sprint. One long year of yearning for her, feeling like I’ve been deprived of an essential need, and now my wanting is cresting, driving me crazy.

  A quiet whimper comes from her throat, her parted lips pliable and eager, as greedy and urgent as mine. My free hand seeks her leg, skimming up under the stretchy fabric of her skirt, and my thumb brushes the inside of her thigh where her supple skin grows warmer and warmer the closer I get to the sweet spot. Muscles flexing, she presses her legs together, blocking my progress.

  Pulling back an inch from her mouth, I say roughly, “You’re just delaying the inevitable, baby.”

  In response, she bares her teeth, grabs the tip of my tie, and starts winding it. What the hell? Up and up she goes, and before I can figure out what she’s doing, she reaches my throat, where she wraps her hand around the knot.

  She’s got me collared.

  I rear back, but she gives a vicious yank, and the tie tightens uncomfortably on my neck as she pulls me back down. Keeping me there, nose to nose, she sounds breathless as she asks, “Now what?”

  Goddamn. She’s so fucking hot, and I’m so fucking turned on, my cock straining against the seams of my pants.

  This is what we do. I play along, allowing her to keep me tethered. “Now,” I tell her in a gruff whisper, “I’m gonna turn you around. Bend you over. Push up your skirt. Tear off your panties. And then I’m gonna fuck you. Right here. And you won’t be able to stop me.”

  She won’t want to. But the threat is
part of the game. It pushes her over the edge. That hasn’t changed. I know it from the way she swallows hard, her breath coming out in rapid, shallow pants. I know it by the way her tits are heaving under the clingy bodice of her dress, by her puffed lips and the feverish sheen in her eyes.

  I could easily pry her away from my tie, but that’s not how she wants this to go down. Instead I let go of her wrist and seize her biceps, both of them, and then I start squeezing. At first she doesn’t react. So I press harder. And harder. Until, finally, I see a twinge in her face and with a tiny, subdued whimper, she releases my tie.

  I haul her up by the arms, my fingers pressing into her skin in a way I know hurts her, a pain she craves and relishes. Then I follow through on my promise, flipping her around, doing it violently enough that she lets out a grunt. Throwing my arm across her chest, I pull her back into my body, locking her in my embrace. When I push my crotch up against her ass, she responds with a muffled moan, curving her spine and thrusting back against me. I expel a harsh breath as pleasure surges through me.

  Brushing her hair aside, I seek her exposed neck with my mouth. She sucks in her breath as I sink my teeth in, shuddering as I bite down, digging in. In one swift, smooth motion, I slide her zipper down, and then I’m stroking her bare back while her dress straps start slipping off her shoulder.

  Wresting her arm from my hold, she reaches up behind her until her hand finds my neck. My spine stiffens and tingles as I feel her nails scraping across my skin. Touching between the fabric and her warm flesh and skimming around to her front, I cup her breast, filling my hand with the satiny and malleable weight of it. Kneading and squeezing, I pinch her nipple between two fingers, and she breathes out a moan.

  Suddenly her titillating scratching turns into a sharp pain as she drags her long, hard nails forward along the side of my neck. Inhaling sharply just as her scissor-sharp claws are about to cut into my cheek, I drop my hands. One palm on the middle of her back and the other anchoring her hip, I push her forward, and she’s forced to let go of me to brace herself on the back of the love seat.