Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2)

by Donna Alam

  Glass mid-air on the way to my mouth, my movements are frozen, my gaze mesmerised by the dip of her spine and the elegance in her slender neck, exposed as it is by the way she’s styled her hair. Her slim fingers hover over a bottle of Hangar One, moving on to grasp the Belvedere instead. She pours herself a large shot, knocking back half of it immediately.

  ‘Quit staring,’ she says quietly and without turning.

  ‘If you didn’t want anyone to look, you shouldn’t have it on show.’

  ‘I don’t want you looking,’ she says softly. ‘I didn’t say anything about anyone else.’ My stomach turns at the same moment as her body does. ‘Besides, you said to wear something like . . . sexy. I think that’s what you meant.’ She glances down the length of her creamy, toned legs as I tighten my jaw against an answer that’s likely to be an imprudent one.

  ‘It’s not like you to pay attention,’ I reply, taking a swallow of Macallan.

  ‘Why would I not?’ Glass in hand, she rests her forearm against the cabinet, leaning back. ‘You’ve made it quite clear you’re the one calling the shots.’

  If she’s itching for a reaction, I’m not giving her one. In fact, right now, I’m reminding myself I’m not here to give her anything. And that includes the satisfaction of my hard dick. I’m thankful I happen to be sitting down to avoid her acknowledging it. She looks so fucking hot. Sultry, raw, and absolutely relaxed. And that’s not how I want her to be. She’s not anxious or hurting. This isn’t fun payback. And my dick fucking aches, which lessens my fun.

  ‘Are you drunk?’ My gaze falls to the row of bottles at her back. It’s hard to tell, but my guess is this isn’t her first shot tonight.

  ‘Did you upgrade my flight?’ she asks, suddenly serious; the light in her amber eyes bright.

  I force myself not to react—not one muscle. Not in the slightest sense. Did I upgrade her flight? Sure, because who the fuck else would have. My reasons? Well, my reasons make fuck all sense. I wanted her well rested? I wanted her relaxed? I’m soft in the head?

  ‘Or maybe you’re high, Edera babe?’ I answer instead.

  She looks away but not before I see the amber dim.

  ‘Stop. You don’t get to call me that. Not anymore.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  She shrugs, bringing the glass to her mouth and shielding her cupid’s bow lips behind it. ‘Pretty sure you’re used to it.’

  Her gaze suddenly widens as I rise from the chair, following each step I take across the room until we’re toe-to-toe and I’m staring down at her.

  ‘Yes, my wife, I am. No more of this, now.’ She doesn’t resist as I take the glass from her hand. In fact, she doesn’t make a move beyond tilting her head. Her breath hitches as I lean towards her, smiling to myself as I place both our glasses down before pulling back. ‘It won’t be fun to watch if you’re comatose.’

  She drops her gaze, as though it’s too telling; as though she can hide. When her head rises again, her expression is one of malice.

  ‘You know, I hear there are specialised places for people like you—clubs where you can get off watching other people fuck.’

  ‘Baby, now I know you’re half drunk.’ Half drunk on liquor, mad, or fucking; these are the circumstances Ivy uses those lips for anything other than nice.

  ‘Or maybe I’m just really angry with you.’

  ‘Good. A hate fuck.’ It used to be that I was the only one who could make her scream curses at the top of her lungs. Whisper them breathily while I was between her legs. I’ve no intentions of fucking her, but that I can still make her curse other ways gives me pleasure. I turn from her honey eyes, making my way across the room. ‘Car’s waiting,’ I say without turning back.

  I have this night planned to the tiniest detail, and so far, everything’s going as it should. Adjusting the cuffs on my white button-down, I reassure myself this is still the case—that she’s not in the car yet because she’s grabbing her coat or reapplying lipstick. Minutes pass as the engine of the car idles. I avoid raising my eyes to the mirror, unwilling to let the driver see my unease.

  I’m going to have to go get her. Then what?

  Moments later, I breathe out a long exhale as the front door opens, the light from the hallway illuminating her lithe shape.

  ‘No.’ I motion to the driver as he makes to open his door. ‘She can open her own damn door.’ This time, I do catch his gaze, shooting him a look that says do as I fucking say.

  She’s not wearing a fresh layer of lipstick, and she doesn’t have a coat, but what she does have is a glass in her hand. Pretty fucking full; ice, limes, and a liquid that is very obviously vodka. Her tipple of choice since when?

  ‘Take it easy.’ I take the glass from her hand as it precedes her entrance, the contents spilling onto the leather upholstery. She all but collapses into the seat, shocking the fuck out of me as she reaches out to rub a finger between my furrowed brows. I don’t think she notices me flinch at this tiny piece of physical contact. A first touch after so long.

  ‘Don’t be such a grouch.’ Her head hits the back of the chair, and she tilts her chin, oblivious to my reaction, clearly unperturbed and very obviously buzzed.

  This is an issue. A big fucking issue. Why can’t she do as she’s bid? Why is nothing simple with her?

  ‘Gimme my roadie,’ she says suddenly, snatching the glass from my hand.

  ‘Sir?’ I raise eyes to the driver, nodding my assent, and the car begins crawling down the driveway.

  ‘How much of this stuff have you knocked back?’

  Her button nose scrunches, causing my chest to pinch at the familiarity. ‘I think . . .’ she says, pondering, ‘the answer to that question has got fuck all to do with you.’

  I laugh, unexpectedly, shocking us both.

  ‘Whatever you tell yourself, baby girl.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ Her words are more like a groan. ‘We’re not fucking now.’

  ‘We’re not fucking period,’ I recount. ‘Remember, you’re here to secure a divorce. After tonight, you’re free to return to the pristine Ivy. Ivy, the unsullied.’ Tonight, though, she’ll play Ivy, the whore.

  She exhales long and loud, refusing to look at me now. ‘After tonight,’ she repeats, taking another sip of her drink. She sits bolt-straight, her gaze swinging to mine. ‘Exactly what are your plans for tonight?’

  I smile, and I know it’s unnerving. I can see the evidence of it in her gaze.

  ‘I told you. Tonight, you’re going to get fucked. And I need to be sure you’re telling the truth this time, which means I’ll be there, watching.’

  ‘I never had you pegged for a voyeur.’ Her words lack conviction—an automatic comeback as her gaze falls to anywhere but me.

  ‘You’d be surprised by the sick shit I’m into these days.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ivy

  The vodka turns to cement in my gut. Yes, I’ve spent the afternoon drinking while thinking, somehow convincing myself his intentions were nothing but fear. Never in a million years, I didn’t think this was his real plan.

  ‘Y—you’re really going to watch?’

  He nods his head, full of faux sincerity, like he’s reassuring me when the opposite of his intentions are written across his face. ‘A better alternative than the whole internet owning world seeing you give me head in our home movies. How would you keep your pristine image, then? Imagine your family—your brother—watching. Now that would make for some awkward family gatherings.’

  If I didn’t feel sick before, I do now. If Nat saw the first video, then no doubt Mac already has—something that hadn’t occurred to me until right now. I could truly hurl—vomit my guts out at the thought. My only conciliation is that he won’t know he was watching me, his sister. Being shagged. Not now and not ever because after tonight—

  ‘You have to delete all copies of the recordings,’ I say suddenly, the vodka from my glass splashing the leg of his pants.

/>   ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to negotiate.’

  ‘I’m not negotiating. I’m telling.’ I slap my free hand on the upholstery. ‘This is a hard limit for me, Dylan.’

  ‘I think you mean hard line. Those are clearly not the same.’

  ‘Limit-line—lemon-lime! Clearly, you can’t be trusted, or else you wouldn’t be blackmailing your wife.’ Take that, you bast—cad.

  ‘My lying wife.’

  The inflection in his tone almost renders the statement a question. He quirks a brow and shoots me a half smile, and I’d like to say it does nothing for my libido, but I’d be lying. I’m blaming the vodka. And my proximity to him. Plus, isn’t there supposed to be some correlation between love and hate? They’re both extreme emotions—passionate ones.

  Blame the vodka and pheromones. His aftershave? And maybe the fact I’ve always had a thing for the alpha dog, especially this one.

  What is it about arseholes?

  ‘The sensation. The limited space. That first ring of tight muscle that grips like a fist.’

  As he clenches his fist in front of me, I bring my hand to my face, hiding my mortification. Because as well as making me horny, vodka seems to have made me a gobshite—and given me a runaway mouth.

  ‘Please be serious,’ I almost whine. ‘I need to know you’re going to delete the files.’

  ‘I am not. At least, not now. But once we have solid grounds for divorce, I promise I won’t share.’ He shoots me that sly smile again. ‘I won’t even watch.’

  ‘But why would you want to keep them?’

  ‘Because I can.’

  ‘You’re a sadistic bastard.’ How come I never realised before?

  ‘You know it,’ he says, turning his gaze to the front of the car. ‘You married it, and you enjoyed it before you fucked it all up.’

  ‘We fucked it up, Dylan. You can’t pile it all on me.’

  ‘Regardless,’ he replies coolly, ‘this is your path to a divorce. The one you chose, at least.’

  ‘Some choice,’ I spit, immediately regretting the truth in my words. I promised myself I’d play it cool—play him at his own game because I didn’t believe he’d really force me to sleep with someone else. Even the video he so maliciously shared, he’d somehow kept me to himself by not revealing my face. I thought he was posturing; making me feel bad—like I need any help, given the choices I made—because sharing was never his thing. He didn’t even like other men looking at me. But now? Let’s say I’m beginning to stress, even if I am acting like having sex with another man is no big deal.

  Case in point: ‘You’re really going to watch while some random screws me seven ways from Sunday?’

  My heart literally skips a beat as the car pulls to a stop—I haven’t been watching where we were going. Surely, we can’t be there yet, wherever there is?

  Then the door opens from the outside.

  ‘Guess you’re about to find out.’

  ‘Welcome to the Copper Club,’ a deep voice intones.

  I stare up into the tan face of my one-person reception committee, contemplating the limited options I have.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse my wife,’ Dylan replies languidly, exiting the car himself. He walks around to the open door. ‘She’s a little shocked. Granted, it is an unusual anniversary gift, but she does enjoy being fucked.’ I glower up at him, despite the malicious glint in his eye. ‘By other men, especially.’

  Knees together—like my mother taught me—I swing them from the car, realising I still have the glass in my hand as Dylan takes it from me.

  ‘No more of this for you.’ His whisper is hot against my neck, his hand just as searing at the base of my bare spine.

  I step away from his touch. Continuing with the venomous looks, this time over my shoulder, I saunter towards the entrance of . . . I thought we were going to a club. Why? Probably too many kinky books read at my wee book club. Maybe I’d expected something dark, sleek, and a little foreboding. Not this.

  The house—because that’s what it is, just a house—looks like it could’ve been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. It’s all angles, glass, and exposed wood. The kind of house that could’ve been built anytime between the 1920’s and now. Modern, yet ageless. Ultra-modern yet not.

  Thirty minutes tops on the road so I figure we must be in Bel Air. 101 North. 405 South; I stopped paying attention after that. Yeah, Bel Air. It has to be.

  I really shouldn’t have drunk so much. I should’ve kept my wits.

  Although I seem to be sobering up quick.

  A stunning redhead in a tulip cut cocktail dress catches my attention at the threshold—doubly so as her eyes land on Dylan.

  ‘Welcome,’ she says, stalking towards me. Or rather towards him. I don’t turn to watch his reaction but rather, watch hers. I watch her appraise him. Recognise him. Shyly tilt her head. You’d think I’d be used to this—Dylan is the fantasy all the ladies want to turn to reality—but I’m not as her attentions create a knot in my throat. A knot I need to unravel quickly because what—or who—he does these days has nothing to do with me.

  Shouldn’t, anyway.

  ‘May I ask under which auspices you’re attending tonight?’ I realise she holds a small electronic tablet in her hand.

  ‘Copper for my wife and silver for myself.’ Dylan’s voice holds none of the usual charm reserved for being out in public. For his fans. Instead, he’s actually quite brusque. ‘And we have a cottage booked.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replies, all business now. From inside the tablet’s leather cover, she pulls out a length of silver ribbon, offering it to Dylan when he reaches past her outstretched hand to the tablet, snagging a copper length along with another of silver.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ he asserts, effectively dismissing her.

  ‘Cell phones must be checked on entry.’

  Dylan laughs softly, lifting my hand. ‘No need to fear the repercussion of a camera here, huh?’ Before I’ve a chance to retract it, he begins tying the copper ribbon around my wrist it in a bow.

  ‘Why do I need . . . ’ My words, meant for the redhead, trail off as Dylan stares at me from beneath those thick lashes. Lashes as black as his heart.

  ‘Copper ribbons are down for fucking. Silver signifies undecided.’ I shiver, hating myself for the way my body reacts to his trailing finger as he strokes from my wrist to my fingertip. Leaving my hand suspended in the air, he turns, his eyes suddenly raking over the woman standing silently nearby. ‘But open to the possibility.’

  He tucks his ribbon into the breast pocket of his button-down, smiling secretly as a blush colours her face from the neck up. For a woman working for a sex club—for a swingers network?—the blush seems easily brought. Or maybe it’s just a really good act. Half the population of L.A. seems to be taking acting classes. I suppose seeing the object of your desire jump from thirty feet high to six feet is a lot to get your head around. And in real life, Dylan’s so much more than he is on screen, and those moss green eyes seem to promise you things.

  Like the death of your self-respect.

  Tired of watching him make a show of himself for my benefit, I swallow a huff I can’t afford to make and begin descending a set of stairs, following the dull thud of dance music.

  At the bottom, one side of a set of double doors to a basement opens, a man, who looks like he could be working security, brushes my shoulder as he ascends the staircase. I watch as the heavy fire door closes, muffling the provocative thrum of bass. Trepidation and a sense of disbelief keep me in place as the music vibrates under the soles of my feet.

  I sense him before I feel him, his hand on my elbow, gripping tight.

  ‘You’ll stay close to me. This isn’t the kind of place—’

  I shrug him off, literally, adding disgust and betrayal to list of emotions I’m drowning in. ‘This isn’t a sex club. It’s a house in Bel Air,’ I hiss. ‘Is there going to be a bowl where house keys and spouses get traded?’

&
nbsp; ‘Don’t be so fucking provincial. It’s just a rented space. These events are exclusive events held every month—different places—hotels, resorts, multi-million-dollar rentals like this.’

  ‘And I suppose you’d know.’ As I say it, I could bite off the end of my tongue. I shouldn’t give him ammunition such as my disgust and shock.

  ‘Why, Edera.’ Amusement ripples over his face because those reactions aren’t the only emotions I’m inadvertently revealing. ‘Are you jealous?’’

  ‘Are you an arsehole?’

  Face burning, I raise my chin when his fingers catch it. ‘I’ve fucked plenty of assholes lately. And I have you to thank for that.’

  I pull away from him, turning and wrenching the entrance wide before storming into the cavernous and darkly lit space.

  The music pounds; starting at my feet, it works its way up my legs and ends in a thrum between my thighs. Maybe five or six couples are dancing. A bar is set against the far wall, and a bartender serves cocktails. The whole place, at first glance, could be any club in the world . . . until you notice the subtle flash of flesh under a strobe light, and the bodies pushed together in corners. A woman sandwiched between two dancing men. The music works its way to my centre, settling low, and though I hate to admit it, the presence of Dylan at my back is mostly responsible.

  Ignoring him—I’m sure he’s standing there purely to assess my flight risk—I keep my eyes fixed on a man sitting on a high stool at the bar. A man with a woman standing between his splayed legs. She looks familiar. Was she in a movie I watched last week with Nat? They’re not doing anything out of the ordinary; nothing overtly sexual, in any case, but there’s something about them. Something that makes it hard to tear away my gaze. The whole setting is too much—too sexual—but as she slides her hands through his hair, the intimacy calls out to me. Makes me long for the same.

  Deepens a certain flutter between my legs.

  ‘How many fingers does he have in her pussy, do you think?’