Panting, my need to be inside her reaching a breaking point, I push her skirt up to her waist. Like I said I would. Her gasping breaths fanning the flames, I hook my fingers on the hem of her flimsy black panties and pull them down. Like I said I would.
“Jesus, baby,” I say roughly. She’s utterly exposed to me, her magnificent rounded ass in the air, her bare pussy swollen and glistening. I want to bury my face down there, to savor her taste and her smell, and I want to stay there until I’ve made up for all the time we’ve lost.
Reverently, I stroke her ass cheeks, slipping my thumb in between and brushing it down across her opening to her clit. She arches and gasps, pushing back into my touch, and when I feel how wet she is, all the blood in my body drains into my cock. In hurried and jerky motions, I undo my belt before popping the button on my pants and pulling down the zipper.
I’m gonna fuck her.
Like I said I would.
After shoving down my pants and boxers just enough to free myself, I hook my hand behind her knee and force it to bend, lifting it up onto the back of the sofa, spreading her legs more. And then, because I can’t stand it anymore, because I fucking need this now, I nudge her opening with the tip of my dick, wetting it before guiding myself inside her.
We groan in unison. I drive myself deep, and I almost lose it at the feel of how easy it is, at how her slick and tight pussy welcomes me. Closing my eyes, I just stay there for a while, buried inside her, inside Paige—the only woman I’ve ever loved, the only woman I’ve never stopped wanting, the only person I’ve allowed to own me, body and soul. I thought I’d never have this again. It’s a humbling moment. Overwhelming, almost.
Arching back into me, she rolls her hips and whimpers impatiently. Still holding her knee up, I grip her hip on the other side, arresting her movement. Then I pull back and plunge again, and goddamn, she feels so good. Too good. I’m gonna lose it too soon if I don’t calm down.
So I slow down, gritting my teeth as each unhurried thrust feels like sweet torture, as her breathless moans threaten my sanity. Her knuckles are white where she grips the love seat frame, hanging on and bracing herself, pushing back to meet me as I drive myself inside her again and again. This is where I belong. I was meant to be joined with this woman.
“Harder,” she grinds out, frantic and demanding, shoving her ass back up against me. “Do it harder.”
Hissing out a breath, I grab her hips to keep her still. Shit. She has no idea how closely I’m skirting the edge here, or she wouldn’t be so pushy.
“What’re you doing?” she wails, bucking and wriggling against my grip on her. “Don’t stop! Are you kidding me?”
“I’m not,” I say, letting go of her hips to run my hands over her ass cheeks, stroking and squeezing. “Take it easy.”
She lets out a growl of frustration. “No. I wanna come.” Twisting her neck and shoulder, she looks sideways back up at me, her pupils wide and shiny, her teeth bared. “I’m ready. Make me come, Logan. Now.”
God help me. She arches up and does a little jerk that draws me deeper inside her, as deep as I can go, and I’m fucking lost. With a grunt, I bend over her, digging my fingers into her hip with one hand and burying the other in her hair, curling her blonde strands within my palm and pulling them tight. And then I start thrusting again.
“Oh, God,” she moans against the sofa cushion, meeting me, beat by beat. “Yes. Like that. It’s so good. Oh, my God.”
“Paige,” I gasp, fucking her hard and fast, just like she wants, even though it’s killing me, my cock so ready to burst, the pleasure is almost painful. “Baby.”
“Oh, my God!” she breathes out again, her pitch higher, a choked near-squeal. Then I feel her go still and rigid, and her pussy grows tighter, pulsing and squeezing me.
Groaning, I close my eyes and let go, coming inside her, so hard and for so long I start to feel like it’s never going to end, and that’s fine. More than fine. It’s bliss, pure and raw and sweet.
God damn.
I can hear her ragged breaths above my own. Bracing myself with my hand above hers on the sofa frame, I release her hair, dragging my fingertips down her neck and lower, down the ridges of her spine. Goose bumps spread across her skin, and I feel a shudder rack through her.
Something sharp jabs my ribs. “Ugh,” I grunt, flinching and grimacing at the unreasonably intense pain that bursts and radiates up my rib cage.
“Get off me,” she snarls, drawing her arm forward like she’s planning to elbow me again.
I rear back, jerking upright—and immediately I’m grieving the loss of her warmth and wetness, the feel of her body beneath mine.
As she plants her feet on the floor and starts angrily tugging her dress back down, I put my own clothes back in order with a cold foreboding sinking down into my gut. Yeah, I seduced her, knowing there’d be a reckoning.
I just had no idea it’d happen so quickly.
Swiveling, she pins me with a withering look. “I hope that was enough for you to get it out of your system, because it’s not going to happen again.”
I press my lips tight, staring at her in silence. There’s a slight slur to her words, a reminder of her intoxication and of how I may or may not have just taken advantage of that. I try to feel shame about it, but I fail. Maybe I will later?
“Keep telling yourself that,” I say at last, forcing myself to curve my lips in a faint smile, doing it only to piss her off more, because I’m feeling just about the opposite of amused and nonchalant right now.
Releasing an angry breath, she says nothing to that, only bends down and plucks her panties off the floor. Then she grabs her water bottle and marches across the great room to her bedroom. Of course she has too much dignity to slam the door; it shuts with a soft click.
Fuck. Blowing out a sigh, I throw myself down in the armchair, pinching my eyes shut.
As amazing as that was, there’s nothing left now but remorse. It’s as if I’m seeing the day’s events as a member of the audience in an extremely predictable show. I pushed her this morning. She pushes back tonight, and I snap—and what have I accomplished? Nothing except proving her point that there’s nothing left between us other than sex.
She knew exactly what she was doing, playing me with that guy. She knew I’d follow her. She knew shit would hit the fan.
She did all of it to make me jealous.
And jealousy…
Well, that’s the crux of it all, isn’t it?
Chapter 18
Logan
Three years ago
The park I’m meeting Paige at for lunch is a small green plaza lined by trees, an urban oasis that feels like it exists in a vacuum, as if there’s an invisible wall around it that keeps out the noise of the city. I stroll down the palm-tree-lined path, past some moms with babies and toddlers having a picnic in the grass, past workers on their lunch break playing soccer on the open field, and past a green statue of a Spanish explorer I’ve never bothered to learn the name of, except I know he has some significance to San Diego’s history.
I spot my wife on a bench in the shade of a big fig tree, looking neat and professional: her blonde hair in a smooth updo and her black-and-white dress suit impeccable. I rarely get to see her like this, because by the time I get home for the day, she’s long since changed into casual wear. Mom clothes, she calls them. MILF clothes, I always correct her, which makes her eyes sparkle and her lips curve in a smile.
The work attire, though. It reminds me of our exhilarating first year together—the secret looks, the stolen moments in the copy room or the break room, and the rare but precious times we managed to sneak away for long lunches and never made it farther than the back seat of my car in the parking garage.
And the sexting while we should be working. Which we still do.
The memories put a smile on my face as I approach her. Two paper bags sit next to her on the bench, hers open and mine closed, hopefully containing the sandwich I told her I wanted when sh
e said she’d stop at the deli on the way here. We have these lunch dates maybe a couple of times a month, when she happens to be downtown for work and it fits my schedule. It’s precious time for us. There’s an almost exhilarating sense of freedom in being by ourselves, without the kids, in the middle of the day on a weekday.
She looks up and notices me, and I get only a ghost of a smile in return. Which usually just means she has a lot on her mind. I don’t take it personally.
“Hey,” I say, bracing on the back of the bench as I lean down to kiss her. Tilting her head back, she returns the soft pressure of my lips, but she pulls away almost at once, and this time it’s harder not to be offended. I straighten, my brows furrowing.
“You’re late,” she observes, picking up what’s left of her sandwich and bringing it to her mouth. “I’m almost done already.”
Deciding I’m imagining her less-than-enthusiastic greeting, I plop myself down next to her. “I almost didn’t get away at all. An associate left a zero off a settlement, and Hammer’s shitting bricks.”
She pauses with the sandwich at her lips, her eyes going wide. “Sounds like he’s justified being mad, for once.”
“Yeah,” I say dryly, digging my paper-wrapped sandwich out of the bag, “unlike ninety-nine percent of the time?”
That draws a genuine smile from her. Deepening her voice into a Hammerness impression, she says, “‘Cindy, why are there gel pens on my desk? Didn’t I tell you ballpoint only?’”
Unwrapping my sandwich, I start doing my own imitation. “‘God dammit, Cindy. Gel pens are for teenage girls who write in their diaries about getting their periods and how much they wanna lose their virginity to Justin Bieber!’”
Paige giggles before popping the last bit of her lunch into her mouth, and I take the first bite of mine, realizing as soon as the taste and texture of it hits my tongue that I was pretty hungry.
My wife uncaps her bottle of water and takes a drink. “How does he even know who Justin Bieber is?”
Chewing and swallowing, I shrug. “He’s got granddaughters the right age, and I think he actually spends time with them.” Crossing my ankle over my knee and eyeing her sideways, I add, “It’s probably his only redeeming quality. He genuinely loves his kids and grandkids.”
My wife’s face stiffens, and quickly, she averts it, looking across the lawn at the guys running around, kicking their soccer ball.
What the hell? What did I say? Yeah, she despises the Hammer—don’t blame her—and can’t comprehend why I’m still working for him. But that’s the difference between us. Her ambitions have their limitations. Mine don’t. And she married me, knowing that and accepting it.
That can’t be the reason for her reaction. It has to be something else.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
“No. I’m not.” Her voice sounds brittle. She starts fiddling with her balled-up food wrapper. “I went to the doctor this morning.”
A jolt goes through me, and my stomach drops.
It’s cancer.
First thing that pops into my head, of course. As illnesses go, it’s the biggest and baddest boogeyman.
Swallowing hard, I drop my arm, resting my sandwich in my lap. “Which doctor?” I hear my voice as if from a distance, and it sounds choked, hoarse. “What’s wrong?”
Eyeing her pallid face and turned-down mouth, the questions in my head don’t end there. Why didn’t she tell me she was going to the doctor? Is this why we’re at lunch together? So she can give me the terrible news? What the hell am I gonna do if she dies? How will I go on? I can’t be a widower, a single dad.
No.
Jesus fuck.
I can’t live without her.
It feels like my last bite of sandwich is coming back up into my throat. I might actually vomit.
“I’m not sick,” she says firmly.
Well, okay. That should be a relief. Excerpt there’s so much misery in the look she pins me with that I’m still dreading what comes next.
“I’m pregnant,” she says. “Again.”
“What?” I blurt out, blinking at her. “How…?” My mind going blank, I’m unable to finish the thought. How can she be pregnant? It makes no sense. Someone’s obviously made a mistake.
“I had a vasectomy,” I point out, and I might as well be saying that the sky is blue and snow feels cold for all that I’m stating the obvious.
Her lips twist. “It must’ve failed.”
I shake my head. Because, no, this is all wrong. “I did the test afterwards. It came back negative. I remember distinctly—”
“The vas deferens can grow back, Logan,” she interrupts, going into lecture mode. “It’s rare, but it happens.”
There’s a sinking feeling within me, a faceless monster looming. The germ of a suspicion.
I’ve been seeing someone else, Mike. My mom’s voice is in my head all of a sudden.
“How rare?” I ask her coolly.
She squints at me. “Like”—she waves a hand—“less than one percent?”
So it happens to one in a hundred guys? Or one in two hundred? Or fewer?
Yeah. Those are some pretty low odds.
I hate the thoughts flitting through my head right now. They’re terrifying, and I don’t dare let them take full shape. Like a raging wildfire, they’ll burn me if I go too close.
Hey, Logan, heard your mom ran off with another guy.
With ice in my veins, I let the words spill out. “And what percentage of women fuck around on their husbands?”
Her forehead creases. “What?”
“You heard me.” My heart is pounding against my ribs.
Why’d your mom run off, huh? Guess she didn’t love you anymore.
“Yeah,” she says, her frown deepening. “I just don’t understand why you’re asking.”
I flatten my lips. “You know the answer, though, don’t you?”
For a few seconds, she just stares at me, and when she speaks, she sounds reluctant, cautious. “It’s hard to get reliable numbers on infidelity, but I think they figure about fifteen percent?”
“So,” I say through the swishing noise in my ears, holding out one palm, “less than one percent.” I do the same with my other hand, but lifting it higher. “Fifteen percent.”
I look back and forth between my hands, arching my brows at my wife. Who’s watching me, wide-eyed, her cheeks flushing pink with…what? Guilt? Shame? Or is it just anger at not being able to bullshit me?
“You think I’m cheating on you?” She breathes the question out, as if she doesn’t have the strength to fully engage her vocal chords.
“Seems statistically likely.”
“I’m not a goddamned statistic!” Her eyes are sparking with agitation, her pupils huge.
Saying nothing, I keep my gaze fixed on her, searching for the truth in her face. I don’t know if she’s a good liar or not, because I’ve never before thought she was lying to me.
Which might actually mean she’s really good at it.
I’ve been seeing him for months. I love him, and I’m leaving you.
“Oh, my God,” she says in a hushed tone. “You’re serious. You actually think I’m cheating.”
I grit my teeth. I don’t want to think it, but I’m also not a moron. “It makes a hell of a lot more sense than my vasectomy failing after almost three years,” I argue, and then I flash her a bitter smile. “You fit the profile. Kids in school. Home all day by yourself. Probably gets pretty boring.” Darkly, I add, “And lonely?”
Her jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? Freya is at school six hours a day, Abi is in preschool only three days a week, and I work, Logan.” While I stay silent, giving her a hard stare, she shakes her head, saying, “I’ve got almost a dozen cases right now, and you know that, because the only reason I’m even downtown today is because I have court this afternoon.”
Tapping her index finger on the bench between us with each bullet point, she goes on with, “So I carpool, I take care
of the kids, I work, I cook, I clean, and at night when you come home and want to get laid, do I say no, thank you—because I already screwed another guy that day? No, I don’t.”
“Yeah,” I retort, “you’ve always had an impressive libido.”
Her head jerks like she got zapped by static. And then I see it, the moment her confusion and disbelief turn to fury, the hardness that takes over her entire being. “You know what?” she spits out. “Fuck you.”
I release a sarcastic laugh. “Not just me, though, right?”
She starts breathing hard, panting with outrage. “This is my third unplanned pregnancy,” she grinds out, “and I’m pretty devastated by it, and instead of compassion and support, all you’ve got for me is jealousy and paranoia based on…on”—she throws both hands out—“nothing!”
“How the hell else am I supposed to react when I had surgery to make sure this didn’t happen again?” I growl. “And you come here and tell me you’re knocked up and expect me not to think another guy is the father?”
“It didn’t even occur to me you might think that!” She watches me, wild-eyed. “I’m stunned you think I’m capable of it.”
Yeah. I’m stunned, too. I feel like I’ve been hit with a truck. Sideswiped, because I sure as hell didn’t see it coming.
“What did I ever do to deserve this?” she demands harshly. “Just how big of an asshole do you think I am?”
You’re just not giving me what I need, Mike. You’re never home. We never have money for anything I want.
“Like you said,” I reply in a monotone. “It happens.”
“Not with me, it doesn’t.”
I let that go without comment, and while we sit there staring at each other in stone-faced silence, my mind flits madly from one question to the other. Who is she screwing? Where? When? Why?
Did your mom come back yet, McKinley? Nah. Of course she didn’t. All women are whores. That’s what my dad says.
“All right. I’m going to say this once, and then I’m never going to say it again.” Paige meets my gaze firmly, unflinching. “There’s no one else. This baby is yours.”
Mend (Waters Book 2) Page 24