Apparently not. At least, not according to Roger. No, according to the almighty Roger, he wasn't dead yet, and he didn't know when his wife had turned into a cold fish – those had been his actual words, the bastard – but he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life on the sofa, cuddling.
At least he'd waited until her birthday party was over. That was something, she supposed. Not much, but it was something.
Faith poured herself a glass of the Chardonnay, took a sip, and flinched at the taste. Other people talked about bouquet and legs and whatever the hell else with wine, but all she could ever taste was sour grapes.
Her fingers clenched on the glass, and she forced herself to set it down before she snapped the delicate stem in her hand.
Thirty-two years. Thirty-two years of supporting him, and working with him, and putting his career before hers, even though her mother had said, had told her that it didn't have to be like that anymore. The way Faith had sneered at her own mother, insisted she wasn't one of those women. God, how could she have been so naïve?
The delicious chocolate cake she'd ordered from her favorite bakery turned on her tongue and she thought she might be sick. She slid back from the table and put her head between her knees, pushing back the tears that wanted to streak her face.
When she had herself back under control, she stood. She picked up the bottle of wine and the delicate crystal glass that Roger had picked out. She carried them both into the kitchen. More than anything, she wanted to smash the glass in the sink and indulge in a primal scream, but that wouldn't actually change anything. She set the glass down carefully, then upended the bottle of Chardonnay into the sink. The glug of the liquid was strangely pleasant.
With that horrible drink gone, she thought perhaps she could enjoy her birthday cake.
On the way back to the dining room, she passed Roger's sideboard. He'd amassed quite a collection of bourbon over the years, and had been able to talk extensively about the aging techniques and barrels and flavors. As a girl, she'd loved bourbon, loved the smokey bite of amber liquid on her tongue, but back then, drinking wine was the feminine thing to do, the upper-class thing to do, and Roger had wanted nothing so much as to be upper-class. She'd been devoted to giving him what he wanted.
Her fingers shook as she poured herself a glass of bourbon, neat. Raising it to her lips made her body tremble, just a little bit. But the sweet-sour bite on her tongue was worth it.
She went back to her cake, and to the laptop.
Roger had taken a full suitcase with him, carrying everything he considered deeply important. She would have let him take more. It was her money that had funded both their educations, kept him afloat until his career as an entrepreneur finally began to gain some traction, but she'd never particularly thought of it as hers. Not until he screamed at her that she lorded it over him.
She pushed up the laptop's screen and typed in Roger's password without hesitation. She'd known it as long as he had the laptop; he'd insisted on her knowing it, in fact. She'd just refused to use it.
Was it meant to be an invitation? Did he want to share something with her, and she'd misunderstood all these years? In a strange way, that would be an easier thing to find out than that he was just tired of her.
Her heart pulsed with – something, she wasn't entirely sure what – as she stared at the screen. Either Roger had closed it in the middle of an – activity, or he'd left it open specifically for her to find. The browser was open in front of her, and the website it was on was some sort of...Faith struggled to find the right word. Dating website suggested that someone was looking for a relationship, and based on the pictures that were filling the screen in front of her, these people were looking for something more elemental.
Something deep inside of her stirred, twisted, and broke apart.
She and Roger had stopped having sex years ago. She couldn't remember now exactly who had called it quits. She thought it was him, when he started to find it took longer and longer for him to orgasm, and she was sure he'd blame it on her. But really and truly, the truth was that they'd stopped paying any attention to each other. The sex was perfunctory, and boring. She'd left it behind gladly, because it felt like an obligation. Not a need, not passion.
She eyed the glass of bourbon. She'd added about three or four fingers to the glass, and there was barely one left now. Was that responsible for the warmth that was spinning through her body? Or was there something else entirely. Was it the bodies that flared over the screen, splendid in their perfection? Men and women, he'd been contacting, talking to, engaging with. In text, but also, in at least two occasions that she saw as she clicked through, in person. One woman talking about how naughty he'd been, fucking her on his wife's side of the bed.
She expected to feel anger. Disgust. Fury. But what was spinning through her now was something much closer to – desire. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but it wasn't unpleasant. No, not in the least.
Chapter Two
A knock at the door jolted her out of her ponderings. She snapped the laptop closed and stood, finding that she swayed just a little on her feet. She was still wearing the heels she'd worn when she taught class earlier in the day; she stepped out of them now and went to the door.
Through the window by the door, she saw a tall, slim man, his back turned to the house. She recognized him easily, though; Jackson was one of Roger's partners. He was about ten years younger than her, fifteen younger than Roger, and had worked far harder than Roger had for the firm's success. The number of times Roger had come home saying that Jackson was taking care of whatever emergency had arisen had infuriated her.
And it would have been a lie to pretend that there hadn't been something in Jackson's dark brown eyes that drew her attention. He always watched her carefully, almost gently. Almost hungrily. The way a person watched someone that they wanted, very much. She'd always put that thought aside, because she thought of herself as an old, married woman, but now. Now, everything was different. Now, it turned out that her husband had been carrying on multiple affairs with both men and women, and maybe she didn't have to be so damn old already.
She opened the door, and Jackson turned quickly at the sound. Offhand, Faith wasn't sure if it was the shock of Roger's leaving, the heat generated by the images she'd seen on the computer, or just sheer loneliness finally coming to the forefront of her mind, but she couldn't stop noticing what a handsome man Jackson Pierce was. His eyes were a warmer brown than she remembered, but still incredibly deep, and he had a smattering of freckles over his dark nose and the tops of his cheeks. His skin was a light brown, and the contrast between his darkness and her pale tan was striking as she took the hand he extended to her.
It was less a handshake, and more a quick and comforting grip between friends. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Desaultels," he said, and she was already shaking her head.
"Jackson, I've been Faith to you for a decade. There's no need to change that now." She released Jackson's hand, trying not to notice the little thrill that ran through her at the warmth of his touch. She stepped back so he could walk past her into the house.
He hesitated for just a moment. His voice still contained a touch of the London accent he'd picked up during his education, and the way he looked at her from under his eyelashes as he said "Are you sure?" twisted something up inside her. In a good way; she felt like someone had broken a chemical glowstick inside her torso, and heat was spreading through her as desire and opportunity combined into a glowing, heady mix.
"I'm sure," she said.
"I feel like I'm here under false pretenses," he said, running his hand through the soft waves of his dark hair. "Roger asked me to come get some of his things that he forgot. But quite frankly, Faith, if it were up to me, I'd throw it all on the front lawn and help you light a bonfire. He'd no right to treat you that way, and I've been disgusted with him for-"
He broke off, his eyes darting to the side, and Faith felt something sad loosen in her. "The affairs, you mean?"
/> Jackson looked at her, but he didn't say a word.
"How long have they been going on?"
He shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together.
"Please. I need to know."
"Too long," he said. "That's all. Too long."
"And you knew?"
He shrugged. "Roger did nothing to hide them. At first, he told us all that you'd agreed to an open relationship, and then when that became patently untrue – well, none of us quite knew what to say. To him or to you."
Puzzle pieces clicked together in her mind. "Is that why you watch me like you do?"
Those dark eyes turned to her, and Faith was quite sure she wasn't imagining the hunger in him. He had it walled far away, but it wasn't gone.
"You thought that, if Roger and I had agreed to an arrangement, that you and I might-"
Jackson shook his head fiercely. "I never," he said. "A man like me is not allowed to desire a woman like you, especially not his partner's wife. The consequences-"
Yes. She'd never thought about it like that. Roger had the opportunity to ruin him. She'd been wrong to think that she could use him in that way, take him and ask him to wake something within her. "Of course," she said. "I'm sorry."
She turned away, and her knees were just a bit unsteady again. She forced herself to walk, heading into the big dining room where she'd left the laptop open to answer the door. She took another long sip of whiskey and tried to breathe.
For the first time since Roger had left, she felt tears burning at her eyes. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, focusing on the colors that sparked there, willing the sadness away. It was all right. This wasn't some do or die moment. If she chose to reclaim this aspect of herself, she could do it. She didn't need to hurt someone else to get what she wanted.
She sensed him, walking up close behind her. He was standing there, so close that she could feel the heat of him against her back, but he didn't touch her. "I'm sorry," he murmured, "Don't you be sorry, I'm sorry."
She lifted her hands from the table and turned. Jackson was so close to her that in her 20s, the tips of her breasts would have brushed against his well pressed shirt. This close, it was clear that they would have been about the same height if she'd stayed in her heels. Looking up at him, with the table pressing into her hips, made her forget that she wasn't a girl anymore. "I don't want either of us to be sorry," she said.
He didn't move. "What do you want, Faith?"
She ordered herself to take a leap, even if it was terrifying. "It's been a long time for me. I'm scared of trying again. Would you – do you think you'd be willing to kiss me?"
He gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head, and for a moment, she was sure he would deny her. And then his left hand traced a path up her arm, trailing soft heat even through the sleeves of her sweater, and then moved up to cup the back of her neck. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and tried to show him with her expression that she wanted this. That she wanted it more than anything. But it had been so many years since she'd worn that expression, she didn't quite know how to reshape her face.
He kept his eyes open as he leaned toward her. His lips pressed against hers in a quick, dry brush of softness, and it – it wasn't anything. Nothing spectacular, nothing dramatic. He was being so careful; it was as if he thought of her as a sister.
He pulled back a little, and Faith closed her eyes for just a moment. When she opened them, Jackson was watching her carefully. He was still close; he hadn't pulled away, and he hadn't dropped his hand, but his eyebrows were tightly furrowed. "That wasn't what you wanted," he said.
She shook her head.
"Tell me what you want, then."
Her cheeks were red hot, all of a sudden. She'd never learned how to ask for what she wanted. She'd never really bothered to try. But he was watching her carefully, and she dug up some strength she hadn't known she possessed. "I want you to kiss me."
The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I just did."
She could see a sparkle in his eyes, and she made herself laugh, just enough to justify lifting her chest so that her breasts brushed against his chest. His reaction was subtle, a catch in his breath, a slight tightening of his fingers – but it was there. She felt it, and she loved it. "Not like I'm your sister."
"Not my sister," he said. His fingers tightened, then slid up into her hair, teasing at her, and she felt her breath quicken, her breasts tightening into sharp peaks. "A friend. A friend who is in pain and – who could put me in some danger if she changed her mind later." There was a touch of regret in this eyes. "I know you're saying yes right now. I'm – making sure your yes won't change later."
Yes, there was that aspect, wasn't there. Her stomach twisted at the realization that Roger could take this away from her, too. And not just Roger. Society. Society said things about a black man and white woman, even now. Not as many things as they might have in the past – but still.
"I understand," she said. It hurt to say it, but she had to. "If you want to go, I understand. Take whatever Roger wanted. I don't care."
His jaw was tight for a moment, and his words, when they came, were strained. "The only thing I want is you," he said.
Enough, Faith told herself. Enough. She slid her arms around his neck, and when he didn't stop her, she lifted herself up to press her lips against his.
It had been a long time since she'd initiated a kiss that was about more than just saying good-night or good-bye. She felt as awkward as a teenager, trying for a moment to understand where her nose was supposed to go, and how to move her lips against his to show him that she was fully here, completely present in this moment. "Just for today," she said. "If that's all you want. But please. Please, kiss me."
He made a sound like a whispered groan, and then he pulled her tight against him, staring deep into her eyes for one more moment before he pressed his lips back to hers.
It was nothing like that first brush of lips on hers, that kiss between friends. It was nothing like her kissing him while he was passive, not resistant but not sure. It was something else entirely. She'd always loved romance novels, that heated moment where two bodies crashed into each other, but it had never felt entirely real.
And this wasn't a moment out of a romance novel. This wasn't two bodies crashing together because of an inevitable attraction. This was two people, getting something they needed from the other. She didn't know what would happen next, but she didn't care. She'd forgotten what it felt like to be held against another body, to be wanted. To be more than needed.
For several moments, it was just the kissing. It was his tongue teasing at her lower lip, then tracing her mouth when she parted her lips. It was his fingers pressed into the nape of her neck, and his hand tracing an idle pattern over the small of her back. She didn't feel an insistency from him, an urgent need for more. Well. She could feel his insistence at his thigh, but not in his hands, not in his mouth. It wasn't what she expected. But it was lovely. It gave her time for her body to slowly heat, warmth coalescing deep in her cells and coming together in the space between her thighs.
Almost delicately, he brought the kiss to a close and leaned back a little way from her. His pupils were blown wide, and he was smiling. "Better?"
"Lovely," she said. And then, without letting herself take enough time to think it through and find the fear, she said, "More."
She expected – maybe even wanted – him to crash towards her like an ocean wave smashing into the beach, but that wasn't what happened. He moved slowly, inexorably, but steadily. He caught her lips again with his mouth, his tongue smoothing its way back into her as his hand took her back again, but this time slid down to cup the curve of her ass, the lift of her hip.
She waited for some shame to rise up about the way that her body looked. She'd started finding that she was losing muscle over the past few years, clearly moving towards becoming one of those old women who looked like a skin bag of bones instead of old lady plump. Roger had found it delight
ful to jeer at her, commenting that she could poke his eyes out with her shoulder blades. But if Jackson thought anything of it, he didn't say anything. And, shockingly, the disgust didn't come. Yes, she was 50 years old. Yes, her breasts sagged more, and her skin was thinner, and there were places where she'd had extra padding and no longer did. But she was still herself, and he had found her interesting exactly as she was.
It was a heady feeling. Heady enough that she wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted herself to kiss him back with more force and more interest.
Finally, finally, his control cracked just a little bit. He inhaled sharply, and then his hands lifted her, setting her butt down on the edge of the table. Her thighs spread to make room for him, and he didn't waste a moment taking up that space between them. "At this moment," he breathed against her mouth, then slid to the side, kissing her jawline and tracing a heated path up to her earlobe, "do you have an idea how far you might like for this to go?"
"As far as you're willing to take it," she whispered, and he froze for a moment. Just one, and then he was pressing against her even more firmly. She wore leggings on bottom, and she could feel every line of his hard, rigid body against her.
He pulled back just a little to look her in the eye. "How long has it been for you?"
She felt her cheeks flush. "Years," she said. There was the shame. She'd known it would make an appearance, sooner or later.
He nodded, his eyes closing for just a moment, and then he was smiling. "It's not like I have a condom in my back pocket anyway. I'm sure," he said, and took a brief moment to press his hand against her butt, letting her feel his eager heat against her body, "that we can come up with something."
She shifted her hips, and his eyes all but rolled back in his head. "I'm sure we can," she said, and pride followed her words. She was making him feel special. She was making him notice her. It was unbelievable.
Passion For the Bear (Series 1, 2, 3 Compilation): White Spirit Bear Romance: Shifter, Erotic Romance, Suspense, Paranormal, New Adult Romance (Shifters Book 5) Page 195