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

by Donna Alam

  Like my wife.

  Her essence and cum coat my lips and chin as she crests again, riding my face. I suck her clit between my lips and lap with a flattened tongue—on and on until she begins to mewl, her hands in my hair like she’s not sure if she wants me to back off or push her further—harder. Devour her. Not that it matters; it isn’t her decision to make because I keep her there, balanced on that knife’s edge of too much yet not enough, on the dividing line between pleasure and pain. My arm across her stomach, I keep her weighted against the bed, eating her out until her mewls turn to curses.

  ‘Fuck. No. Fuck me.’ Her hands claw my shoulder and push at my head, her thighs twitching around my fucking face.

  ‘Not yet, baby. I’m not done eating this pussy.’

  I grab her hands. Pulling them to her stomach, I pin them in one of mine. I bury myself between her thighs, my tongue working her clit and my fingers stroking deep inside.

  ‘Enough! Please, it’s too much. Please, no. Dylan, stop!’

  But I won’t. Not until her legs shake like Jell-O—not until her stomach quivers under our joined hands.

  ‘Oh, God. Oh, God.’ She chants a litany as I push her over the edge, her body welcoming the inevitable and pushing up against me until she’s utterly spent. Her movements become more gentle without changing the tone, the gentle undulations of her body still riding my face and hand.

  Her eyes are glazed; her body spent as I pull my fingers from between her legs. Pushing up onto my knees, I lick her taste from my lips and stare down at her, taking a snapshot of this moment for posterity. My dick might be rock hard, but my heart is also heavy. We’ll never have this again; I don’t deserve it, and she’s too strong to be suckered into a repeat.

  Her body jolts as my hand drifts between her legs, my thumb caressing her sensitized flesh. Like a magnet, I bring my thumb to my mouth, watching as her eyes flare like it’s the most sexual thing she’s seen. Lips softly parted, she lets out a quiet moan; her gaze glued to mine and utterly unguarded. At this moment, I could convince myself she still loved me. Almost.

  As though reading my mind, her lids shutter closed, and she sighs again. Only this time, it sounds more like heartbreak. A better man would get off the bed and leave before causing any more hurt. He wouldn’t lie down beside her and take her full, lush breast in his hand. I groan as my mouth engulfs one pink tip, her nipple stiffening to my tongue. I tell myself I can’t stop now—the point of no return has long since passed—especially as she whispers my name, her hand cupping my head.

  It’s a tender moment.

  Loving.

  Hurtful.

  Not enough.

  Her fingers trail across my chest, branding my skin with the small points of contact. Because that’s how I feel—burned. I can’t take it, so I press her hand to the bed and work my way up her body, tasting her creamy flesh until we’re face to face. I’m angry again. With myself. With her. And as she tilts her head for a kiss, I pull back, suddenly hating her soft, full lips—the source of her lies—but mostly, I hate myself. I have her under me by misdeed. She left me for a reason I can’t fathom, beyond a lack of love. What kind of sick fuck am I to crave her attentions still? She might be back—she might be under me—but not because she wants to be. Sure, she’s turned on, but that’s animal. Visceral. Not what she wants or what she needs.

  I’m a monster. A fucking troll. A better man would leave. Apologise. Instead, I evade her lips, grab her hip, and roll her unceremoniously across the bed.

  ‘Ivy, Ivy, Ivy.’ I can barely hear myself murmuring her name over and over again, words that are soft but not kind. She lands on her stomach, the mass of her hair obscuring her face. Not that I’m looking as I climb over her and rip the remains of her panties from her legs.

  I kiss her shoulder. Bite it. Make her cry out. Rub the length of my dick against her ass cleft. Run the roughness of my chin down her spine.

  ‘Get up.’ My words are soft as I thread my arm beneath her waist. Soft but full of contempt. ‘Get on your knees like the good girl you pretend you are.’ Pulling her up from the bed, white-hot need burns under my skin, and it’s not all about sex. It’s about power and need; the manic desire to break her apart with my bare hands. To conquer. To possess.

  ‘That’s it; spread your fucking legs.’ Before she can, I spread her ass cheeks with hard fingers and press my face between her legs. I lick her from clit to asshole, drawing out her groan and making her almost collapse. Straightening, I push her thighs together and bracket them with my own.

  ‘Dylan, please,’ she pants, trying to turn her head over her shoulder, which is pretty hard to do as I wrap my hand around the back of her neck.

  ‘Hush.’ It’s just a sound expelled through gritted teeth as I push her head forward and down. ‘Let’s do what we do best.’ Swiping my dick through her wetness, I push inside.

  My body jerks—shock, I think—before I pull back and slam into her again, this time with a grunt that counters her cry. I begin to move, all action and little thought for anything else but blinding myself. To every misdirection. Every hurt. Her hot walls clench around me with every hissed curse I throw at her. I want it to hurt so bad, but for which of us, I’m not sure. Maybe I want us both to end it right here—to leave us both bloodied and bruised.

  A fitting ending.

  Her hands twist in the pale bedding, and I suddenly need to own the rasp of her breath, but I can’t find the coordination to slow down or wrap my fingers around her fucking neck. She begins to slip or pull away—I’m not sure which—and I sure as shit don’t care which.

  I slide my hand under her waist, pulling her back from her collapse as my other tangles in her mane of hair.

  ‘I’m not done yet,’ I growl, grasping her hips in both hands and pulling her hard against me. Rooted deep inside, I grind against her ass. ‘You want it hard or soft? Maybe you want to touch yourself while we fuck?’

  ‘Yes!’ Her answer is more hiss than actual word as I sense a shift in her breathing, and I unravel a little more at the hot grip of her walls around my dick.

  ‘You want me to go hard. You want this to hurt.’ I underline the last with a punch of my hips. Her fingers are as white as the bedding she grasps, her pussy pulsing greedily and drawing me down to my own collapse. Curled against her back, I resist the urge to twist her face to mine—to force her to surrender from her mouth. Instead, I groan into her neck low and harsh. ‘I fucking loved you. How’s that feel for you, Edera? That hurt enough?’

  I swear the sob that rises from her chest makes the bed shake, the muscles of her tight pussy echoing her cry even as she pushes back, deepening my strokes.

  My eyes fucking sting as I approach the point of no return, every square inch of my skin prickling. I suck in a deep breath because I’m coming, and coming hard, grasping her shoulders as I fuck the life out of us both.

  Like the first bump of coke, the vibrancy of this moment is fucking crystalline.

  No—being inside Ivy is the ultimate high.

  And it has been since the very first time.

  Then I’m . . . breathing hard and fast. Staring at the ceiling with one hand under my head. The rest of my limbs? Fuck knows. Draw ‘round me in chalk, and I’m a crime scene photograph. Emotionally, physically, I’m dead.

  ‘Dylan,’ she whispers. I can feel her trembling, and without looking, I know she’s curled the other way. ‘I d-did love you. You have to know.’

  With a sigh, I draw what appears to be my hand through the wetness on my face.

  ‘Ivy,’ I reply quietly—I haven’t the energy for more. ‘Stay the fuck out of my head.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ivy

  I know before I lift my head from the pillow that I’m alone.

  Not that I have a pillow; I’m pretty much still in the middle of the bed, just curled to the left of where Dylan and I . . .

  We fucked. We didn’t make love.

  So I’m alone, uncovered, and lying on
top of the bed. And let me be honest for possibly the first time since I arrived in LA, I’m disgusted with myself. Not because I slept with Dylan; though, surely, I’m kidding myself there because it’s not like I fell asleep in his arms.

  We fucked. We didn’t make love in any way, shape, or form.

  Disgusted. And I’m not even thinking of the lies I’ve told; lies to my family, my friends—to him. No. I’m thoroughly disgusted that I’ve stooped so low. Was I really going to let another man inside me just to prove a point?

  To prove to Dylan that he was no longer the centre of my universe?

  To be victorious in the who gives less fucks war?

  He didn’t hold you. He fucked.

  I’ve told lies—lots of lies—but the most hurtful of them all might’ve been to myself. Last night wasn’t about gaining a divorce. It was more about punishing myself.

  He treated you like you deserved.

  The air conditioner whirs to life as my tears begin to seep into the sheets. I don’t remember the last time I cried; melodrama isn’t my forte. I’m more your typically stoic, Scottish type. Remaining dry-eyed for so very long, I didn’t even cry the day I left home, or the day I left what was my home to return to Scotland, I should say.

  The night Dylan came home with lipstick on his zipper, I knew I deserved that, too. It was my fault he let some skank blow him. And whatever else . . . I try not to think about the specifics. My fault for being such a coward—I should’ve told him what had happened. Come clean about Ric and the things he said about our marriage. About my being a limitation to his career—a career he’d worked so hard to achieve. But I couldn’t. I let fear rule me. Fear that Ric was right. Fear that I’d never be enough for him. Because I didn’t marry Dylan Duffy, the movie star, I married Dylan, the hot guy who worked in gardens. The guy who was safe, not the guy who didn’t need me. The one who’d eventually see me for what I am—see me as ordinary. The person he’d eventually leave for someone famous and stunning and . . . not me.

  It was only a matter of time before some starlet turned his head, just like Ric said. I’d already seen the looks those industry girls—Jesus, any girl—dished out when looking at him.

  So I did what I had to protect me. I left him, breaking both of our hearts. And no matter how much I tell myself it was for the best, that I hate him, it still fucking hurts.

  He no longer wants me, and he never really needed me. And I surely don’t deserve him after what I’ve done. But there’s one thing left to do for both our benefits. It’s the thing I’ve been trying to do since I left. Stop being this lying psycho fuck-up and move on; only this time, do it honestly.

  I pull myself to sit and rub my eyes with the heels of my palms. I feel wiped out. Empty. Like I’ve cried for days.

  This is why I don’t do tears, per se.

  The room is bright, the curtains open, and it’s not helping my tear-weary eyes. Birds sing from the trees outside as I shuffle to the side of the bed, my stomach suddenly rumbling. I can’t remember the last time I ingested anything other than alcohol. I swing my legs over the side of the mattress, ignoring the tattered remains of my knickers clinging to the covers like some kind of . . . fucking flotsam.

  Kind of appropriate, I think. Appropriate to how I feel; like the tiniest of current could carry me away. Insubstantial. Wrecked.

  Regardless, I can’t take to my bed—this bed. Hell, any bed. Blessed or cursed, with a liberal dose of stoicism, I’ve also a fair helping of common sense. Believe it or not. It’s obvious some sort of cleaning crew will hit this place sometime today, which means I need to not be here.

  My shoes lie at opposite ends of the room, and I try to recall how that happened. Did he throw them? Did I kick them off? My dress lies in a forlorn puddle at the bottom of the bed, looking decidedly sadder than something cast aside in passion. I hop down and begin to gather my things, as naked and as ungainly as a newborn foal. I almost topple forward as I bend to grasp a shoe from the floor, and I’m still a little dizzy as I straighten in front of a large silver mirror, wishing quite suddenly I hadn’t.

  My reflection . . . it’s a mess. The side of my neck is a spider web of angry bite marks, and as I turn, it only looks worse. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he did this on purpose, knowing I’d be making my way out of here in a backless dress. Immediately as this occurs to me, I’m dismissing the thought. Dylan was always more at home with his animal self, consumed by the moment without thought for anything else. And last night was . . . all I asked him for it to be. A pulse had pounded between my legs, blood rushing through my veins, and I was sure he could hear my heart beating in my throat. So sure, I’d moved my head to one side as he slid his way up my body, taunting him to bite. To make it hurt. These marks on my body? I’d asked for them. With my body. With my actions. With my words.

  With my desperation.

  We fucked. We didn’t make love. He doesn’t love you. Not anymore.

  With my belongings clasped to my stomach, I glance down at my thighs. The pattern repeats in the bruise of his hips and in his angry red fingerprints. Marks that will no doubt deepen in colour before the end of the day. In the mirror, I finger the panda streaks under my eyes, distracted by the sense something isn’t right. Beyond what I’ve done and what I’m feeling, I mean. All at once, I become aware of the source of my disquiet. The gold chain I wear around my neck, the one that holds my wedding ring, is gone.

  I’ve demeaned myself. Fucked up. And now I’ve . . . I’ve . . .

  Lost it all.

  ‘I’m such a fuck-up!’ I yell to the empty room—to my reflection.

  Beyond my distraught expression, something catches my attention on the console by the bed. A sheaf of white papers, folded and worn.

  ‘No.’

  I know what this is, even as I’m trying to convince myself it’s something else.

  ‘No, no, no!’

  In a few steps, I’m clutching the paperwork—my paperwork—to my chest, my clothing forgotten. Everything I asked for is there; Dylan’s signature next to every marked x. My legs slide out from under me. Seems I’m not done crying today.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ivy

  ‘I’m no’ the hair expert, but are you sure you’re supposed to add that much bleach?’

  ‘What? Oh, fuck.’ I tip the bottle upright, staring into the purple tinting bowl and the waste of product I’ve just distractedly half-filled it with. It’s happening a lot lately; my zoning out, lost in the memories of LA. It’s almost as though I’d left a small piece of myself there. It’s been six weeks since I woke in that cottage. Six weeks since Dylan fucked me then left me without another word.

  That morning, I’d cried myself dry before realising I had no one else to blame and no one to make it all better. I had to pull myself together and get out of there. I’d slipped on my creased dress and stepped out into the bright California sunshine without knowing where the hell I was. Or what I’d find. My shoes dangled from my fingers as I’d walked barefoot through the gardens, my free hand crushing my divorce papers and purse to my chest. The birds chirped, and the world carried on as normal, yet I’d felt no more substantial than mist. I was empty of everything; my focus has been depleted—as though being filled by Dylan as he’d fucked me had drained me of everything. I was empty. Spent. But how I’d felt and how I’d appeared were two different things, something confirmed as I’d found the cleaning crew. The way they looked at me? I knew I looked like a hoor—a whore, a hooker—for sure.

  But kindness can be found in the most unusual of places. As I’d reached the pool, arranging my hair as best as I could to cover the bite marks I could feel on my neck, shoulders, and back, the crew’s chatter came to an abrupt halt. And there among the abandoned condom wrappers, empty glasses, and discarded bottles of lube, I’d found someone who was willing to tell me the exact address and call me a cab. I was treated with such concern and care; I think maybe they thought I’d been abused in some way.

 
If only they knew.

  I’d arrived home—back at Dylan’s house, I mean—to find the place empty. I couldn’t even say goodbye to my dog because wherever Dylan had gone, he’d taken Nigel. I’m certain I’m allowed to hate him for that, if nothing else. Robbed of my dignity, I can take, but of my dog for a second time? No chance.

  But if Nigel had been there, what could I have done, short of dog-napping him? Even to do that, I’d have had to borrow the freight money from Mac, and I’m sure he’d need all kinds of shots and maybe a pet passport? No, I wouldn’t have gotten away with it, but it would’ve been nice to have one more cuddle. One more walk.

  At least the dog walker seemed to like him. She seemed to like Dylan, too.

  ‘Fuckers,’ I mumble.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says an indignant Nat. ‘Did you just say a swear—twice?’ My gaze swings to her. I’d forgotten she was there. I sigh in the face of her what the fuck face. ‘If you’re gonna start swearing regularly, we might as well sponsor one of them micro-economies, not just one kid.’

  The salon currently sponsors a child on the proceeds of a swear jar, mostly filled by Nat. It’s a failed exercise to curtail her language but with a charitable upside. I’d thought it’d help her understand how bad her language is. Instead, it seems I’m joining her.

  Unable to hold her questioning gaze, I turn and tip the contents of the bleach and tint soup into the bin. ‘Your ears work just fine.’

  She tsks, adding in a quiet voice, ‘What on earth happened to you in LA?’

  I had a wake-up call. ‘Nothing.’ Other than I had an epiphany, one where I discovered I’m not as nice a person as I’d like to think.

  ‘And this?’ She holds up a bag from the bakery. The one holding the remains of a chocolate donut. Just a smidge of chocolate icing, really. ‘I bet it was fried in animal fat,’ she taunts.