Trillion

by Renshaw, Winter

  “As expected,” Trey answers. He hates small talk, so I imagine this is torture. “How long are you staying here?”

  “As long as the wife would like.” Nolan chuckles. “Lately I’ve been letting her call the shots. She’s the one pushing for me to retire. The kids aren’t getting any younger, and neither are we. Sasha will be graduating high school in ten years and Enzo will be right behind her. I’m sure that time will fly.”

  He peers at me from across the table. It was a directed jab, I know it. He probably thinks I’m here on purpose, that I’ve leaked the details of our NDA. And in a way I did, but I kept his name out of it. After all, that’s what mattered most to him. As long as “Nolan Ames” is detached from that scandal, his secret is safe.

  The sliding door whirs and Anabelle returns with a pitcher and four empty margarita glasses. “I hope you don’t mind agave for the sweetener. I used fresh limes, but I’ve got strawberries inside I can puree if you’d like?”

  “Lime is fine,” Trey says. “No problem with keeping it traditional.”

  “Wonderful.” She places the tray on the table, pouring and passing out drinks.

  “So how’d the two of you meet anyway?” Nolan asks.

  “At work,” Trey answers, looking to me. “We bumped into each other in the hallway and I was immediately smitten with her. Called her into my office and we hit it off.”

  Nolan sips his drink. “Psh, come on. I think you can do better than that.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” Trey squints but keeps his tone jovial.

  “No offense to you or Sophie, but that doesn’t exactly scream love at first sight,” Nolan says.

  “I guess you had to be there,” I say, taking Trey’s hand. He rubs the top of it with his thumb, offering me a loving half-grin. “When you know, you know.”

  “Exactly,” Trey says.

  “Have you set a date for the wedding?” Anabelle asks, taking a seat next to her husband.

  “September,” I say.

  “Can’t come soon enough,” Trey adds.

  “That’s wonderful.” Anabelle’s arched brows rise as she smiles. “September is a beautiful time of year, perfectly straddling summer and fall. Have you planned your honeymoon yet?”

  “Florence,” Trey says without pause. “Sophie’s always wanted to visit, and I haven’t been since childhood. Should be a treat seeing it all over again through her eyes.”

  The sincerity in his words blankets the tightness in my core. I exhale, more relaxed than a moment ago. And while I never wanted to see Nolan again, with Trey by my side, it’s not as unpleasant as it could’ve been otherwise.

  The faintness of a child’s scream passes through an open kitchen window and Anabelle chuckles. “Sounds like there’s a fire I need to put out. Probably arguing over magna tiles again … Excuse me for a minute please.”

  She doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by this, and I take comfort in witnessing her patience. Nolan claimed she was a pediatrician. Whether that was a lie or not remains to be seen, but her love of her children is evident in the serene smile on her face and her unhurried walk inside.

  “She’s amazing with them,” Nolan says, watching Anabelle disappear inside once more. “Truly.”

  My heart breaks and mends at the same time, two sides of a conflicting coin.

  Trey squeezes my hand. “We hope to have a family of our own someday. Soon, God willing.”

  Nolan peers at me, gaze heavier than before. “Yes. God willing.”

  I haven’t seen my daughter’s face since she was born, and I’ve never seen a picture of Enzo. It wouldn’t surprise me if Nolan knocked up some other poor, unsuspecting girl and did her dirty too, but I’ll never know. If he did, I’m sure she signed an iron-clad NDA. But that’s none of my business …

  I sip my lime margarita, the organic aftertaste lingering on my tongue.

  Anabelle returns, breathless. “There is once again peace in the valley.”

  Nolan grazes her backside as she sits down. Intentional, I’m sure. While he wears an agreeable expression on his face and colors his tone with gentle cordialness, his eyes flash with irritation.

  “I’m making lobster for dinner,” she announces. “My grandmother’s recipe.”

  “Anabelle makes the most amazing lobster,” Nolan adds. “You’ll never have any better than hers.”

  “You’re too sweet,” she leans over, gifting him with a tasteful peck on the cheek. “Isn’t he the best?”

  If she gets excited about a compliment about her lobster, I can only imagine all the other ways he snows her over.

  “I got a sitter for the children. Thought we could do adults-only tonight since it’s your first night with us,” Anabelle says. “Tomorrow Nolan’s taking us boating. There’s this beautiful private enclave with a little beach. We just happened upon it the other day. Thought we could let the kids play and soak up some sun at the same time.”

  Anabelle places her hand over her husband’s.

  “Sounds lovely,” I say before remembering Trey’s parents died in a plane crash over the Atlantic. I can’t imagine tomorrow will be easy for him. “Will be a new experience for the both of us.”

  Anabelle finishes her drink before rising. “I hate to leave you, but I should get started on dinner …”

  “Anything I can do to help?” I ask.

  In a petty flash of a second, my heart swells at the chance to see him sweat. His former girlfriend and his lovely wife in the same room together … it’d make him sweat bullets, I’m sure. Not that I’d do anything, of course. But it could be fun (for me). The thought alone sends a smirk to my lips, but I bite it away before anyone notices.

  “Oh, Sophie. You’re sweet to offer, but I’ve got it. Please, relax. And if you need another pitcher, send Nolan to fetch me.” Anabelle heads in and I get the sense she doesn’t sit down much. It’s probably how she keeps her svelte figure. That and she has the lean build of a marathon runner. Strange how Nolan used to worship my curves and yet he married a woman without a single arc on her body.

  “Have you seen the guest cottage?” Nolan asks, though he must know the answer already.

  “Not yet.”

  Nolan rises. “I’d be happy to give you a quick tour. I’m sure you’d like to put your feet up for a bit before dinner. I know how exhausting a day of traveling can be.”

  Trey and I follow him, hand in hand, down a bluestone walkway toward something more mini-mansion than cottage. The blue shingle siding matches the main house, and window boxes hang from the main floor window, overflowing with pink and blue flowers that drip down the sides, sweet and delicate.

  Nolan gets the door and lets us in first. It smells like vetiver and sea salt, and everything is neutral, beige and white. Fluffy pillows flood the sofa. Chic and tasteful coastal décor fills the walls. I’ve walked into boutiques before that weren’t half as nice as this. Save for the vacuum track marks on the rug, it doesn’t appear that anyone has ever set foot in here.

  “You’ll be comfortable here,” he says, confident. “If you need anything, please let Anabelle or I know. I’ll leave the two of you to get situated.”

  Our bags are already in the bedroom. They must have staff.

  The moment the front door closes, Trey pulls me against him, crushing my mouth with a kiss. I leave my lips closed, remembering that I lost the contents of my stomach a couple of hours ago on the ride here.

  “I should freshen up,” I say, pressing my hands against his chest.

  “Of course,” he says, studying me. His hand cups my face. Funny how less than an hour ago, he was watching me vomit in some random parking lot and didn’t question my air sickness rationale. Not that I’m upset about it. We came here to do a job and he’s focused on landing this deal. I can’t expect him to be tuned into me twenty-four-seven. “You’re doing amazing, by the way.”

  “Helps that I mean every word …”

  I locate the master suite and load my suitcase onto the
plush king bed, digging out my toiletry bag and tucking into the bathroom to get cleaned up. When I emerge, Trey is perched on the mattress, resting against a stack of propped pillows, shoes kicked off and hands behind his head. With eyes closed and his brows furrowed, I can only imagine how heavy his mind is. Everything he’s worked for is riding on this weekend.

  He deserve a respite.

  And I need a distraction.

  I climb up, settling across his lap, the hem of my dress tugging up to expose my thighs. Peering at me through a squinted gaze the color of an autumn sunset, he grips my hips, pushing me onto him as his cock pulses, growing firm between my legs.

  “I’ve been waiting for this all day,” he says.

  I wasn’t in the mood for anything remotely physical after the car ride here nor was I in a mindset to fantasize about screwing Trey while I was drinking margaritas with Nolan and his wife, but now … losing myself in his wanton gaze, I’m transported somewhere else completely.

  Nothing outside that door exists—I’m ready to surrender myself in his arms.

  Leaning in, I graze my mouth against his, breathing in his familiar, comforting scent as he works the back zipper of my dress and pulls it over my head. Next, he unfastens my bra, tossing it aside, and I work the buttons of his dress shirt until his smooth, muscled chest fills my palms.

  I’m still not used to making love in daylight, but I push the nagging thought from my mind, refusing to let it harden my body and steal my breath.

  Flipping me to my back, Trey slides my panties down to my ankles using his teeth, and when he returns to my middle, he kisses my C-section scar before working lower to my mound and then dragging his tongue down the length of my slit.

  He spreads my thighs wide, tasting me with generous strokes, and I melt into the mattress, all but dissolving as I give myself to him on this bed in Nolan’s guest house.

  It’s the sweetest revenge. Poetic almost.

  But I turn my focus to the man who makes me forget who I am, who I was, to the man who adores me exactly as I am, even when I’m not quite sure of that myself.

  I grip his thick, dark hair and close my eyes.

  And for the first time in a long time, I bask in the familiar bloom of warmth that fills my heart.

  I never thought I could love again.

  But maybe … just maybe … I could love him.

  Forty-Six

  Nolan

  Present

  “They’re lovely, aren’t they?” My wife massages organic chamomile lotion into her hands before climbing beneath the covers Friday night. She sidles up to me, the way she does on the nights she’s willing to get “frisky” (as she likes to call it). “Reminds me of us when we were young.”

  When we were in college, we couldn’t keep our fucking hands off each other.

  During our twenties, medical school stole most of her time, attention, and energy. And I was constantly fending off competition. Never mind my last name or the zeroes in my back account, it’s impossible to compete with a dashing man in scrubs who can carry on an intelligent conversation about medicine without yawning.

  “Christ, Anabelle. We’re not that old,” I say, and then I slip my arm over her shoulders because I shouldn’t have snapped. She did nothing wrong. She’s never done anything wrong.

  I don’t deserve Anabelle—which is why I’ll stop at nothing to protect what we have.

  The TV flickers across the room as her fingertips trail down my chest and stomach and travel below the comforter. In the dim bedroom light, I count her ribs beneath her silk pajama top.

  One … two … three … four …

  She’s skin and bones. And it’s no surprise. She never sits still. She’s always doting on me, the kids, our guests …

  She even dotes on the help for crying out loud.

  The other day Margaux had a mild cough and Ana ordered her to bed, personally delivering her two Sudafed pills and a cup of lavender tea.

  “You think they enjoyed themselves tonight?” Anabelle draws in an exhausted breath as she pumps my length in her hand.

  “Of course.” I offer a reassuring nod. “You’re a world class hostess.”

  I can’t recall the last time my wife actually let me inside of her. A year ago? Maybe two? And it was on my birthday, so it was obviously a pity fuck.

  That’s the thing no one ever tells you about marriage and kids—if you’re not careful, they suck all the passion out of your relationship and leave a shell in its place that no amount of couples counseling or sex therapy can ever fill.

  But Anabelle’s a pleaser. She’s also a martyr, always willing to sacrifice for those around her.

  “They couldn’t stop smiling all night,” Anabelle muses. “Remember when we were like that?”

  “Baby, I smile every time you walk in the room.” We both know it’s a lie but Anabelle would never call me out on it.

  Straddling my legs, she pulls my cock from my boxers. I flick the TV off and I lean toward my nightstand to turn out the light. From the break in our blinds, I spot the guest cottage. Dimly lit. Cozy. Romantic. My jaw tenses and my mind is flurried with a dozen worrisome concerns and a side of unexpected jealousy.

  Never in a million years did I expect to see Sophie Bristol again.

  Never in a trillion years did I think she’d be the one showing up on Trey’s arm today.

  It took all the strength I had not to come unglued. But no good could have come from acting out on my emotions. Anabelle would’ve noticed something was off and she’d have asked questions. And Sophie would’ve had the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me. It was better to play dumb, to stare through her like she meant nothing to me while doting on sweet Anabelle.

  My wife takes me in her mouth. I close my eyes. Lean back. Try to concentrate. But I’m not getting hard.

  This has never happened before.

  Ana’s vigor and enthusiasm tells me she notices …

  Eyes clenched tighter, I narrow my concentration, envisioning the redhead in that office porn video I watched earlier this morning when the kids were with the nanny and Ana was on one of her two-hour marathon jogs.

  Still nothing …

  I glance toward the guest cottage again.

  Trey and Sophie are probably in there christening the place from top to bottom—and I can only imagine the pleasure she’s deriving from all of this.

  The thought of Sophie prancing around naked mere yards from this very room, wrapping her curved thighs around a man I couldn’t have competed with in my best of years … sends a simmer to my blood and a circuitous heat to my skin.

  I rip my t-shirt off and toss it across the room.

  My cock throbs, but it’s only slightly more swollen than before.

  Anabelle sucks and circles harder, faster. The sooner I come, the sooner this will be over for her, but part of me wants to enjoy this bizarre little cocktail of sensations lacing my veins. One second I’m furious, jaw clenched and fists gripping the sheets. The next minute my cock expands so fast it fucking burns.

  Sophie was dynamite in bed, always. She had no inhibitions. No insecurities. Willing to try anything to please me. And she was exceedingly generous with an unrivaled, insatiable libido.

  At the time, I was convinced she was a phase.

  I was always going to marry Ana … we were just waiting for stars to align. I never wanted children. She did. Deep down we both knew one of us would succumb to the other’s wishes eventually.

  The stars aligned when Sophie discovered she was pregnant.

  The way I saw it, I had two options—lose Ana forever and become the laughingstock of the Ames name when word got out that I’d knocked up a high school girl … or buy Sophie off and create the family Ana dreamed of so she’d finally agree to marry me.

  The latter seemed like a win-win situation for everyone.

  So while I hurt Sophie—deeply, I’m sure—in the end, it was in the best interest of all involved. Sasha is thriving and loved and she’ll never
have to want for anything so long as she lives. Sophie wouldn’t have been able to give her that. She could’ve given her love. Maybe a leaking roof over her head and a handful of used books from the thrift shop. A questionable public school education. Ten hours a day at a mediocre daycare center. Store brand macaroni and cheese and processed hot dogs for dinner.

  But my child deserved more than that—even if she’ll never know I’m her biological father.

  I could never risk Ana finding out …

  I’d have lost her for good.

  My wife’s lithe body is hunched over me as she coaxes me to the edge as she’s done a thousand times before …

  … but this time it’s different.

  The lights go out at the cottage.

  An image flashes in my head—Trey driving himself deep inside Sophie, the excitement of new love, the insatiable sex drive of a relationship not yet marred by commitment and fatherhood. And then I think of those long weekends holed up in a Chicago hotel room, Sophie worshipping my body as I feasted on hers, content with fine diners, sweet nothings, and empty promises.

  My cock hardens, my body stiffens, and molten jealousy in the form of cum shoots into my wife’s throat. She swallows in one gulp and wears a smile tinged in exhausted relief before trotting off to the bathroom to clean up.

  Had Sophie not fallen pregnant, I’m not sure how much longer we’d have carried on, but at the time, I was taking things day by day. Did I love the girl? No. Not even close. But I loved how I felt when I was with her. Young. Exuberant. Carefree. While Anabelle made me feel loved, Sophie made me feel alive—two completely distinct experiences.

  Anabelle was, is, and forever will be my first love.

  For a brief period in my life, Sophie Bristol was my weakness.

  And now she’s his.

  But not for long.

  First chance I get tomorrow, I’m putting a stop to their happily ever after.

  Forty-Seven

  Sophie