His conscious is sour.
He’s not thinking straight, and I could take advantage of that, but I’m not that kind of person. I shouldn’t. I won’t.
When he starts to lean in, that’s when I realize this is wrong. He has a life. A wife, for Christ’s sake. I can’t be what comes between him and his marriage.
I refuse.
So before his lips can come any closer, I hold up a hand, pressing it against his chest. “Griffin,” I breathe.
He still holds me close, hand above my hip, the other still grasping my chin. His hold is soothing. Comforting.
“Hmm?”
“We shouldn’t get so carried away,” I whisper.
He blinks, but doesn’t react for quite some time. The breeze flows by, but it seems to completely miss us because all of a sudden the air feels thick and humid again.
Slowly, Griffin starts to pull away, but his eyes never leave mine. “You’re right,” he murmurs. “Shit, you’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten so carried away.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him, smiling.
He looks towards the table, blinking rapidly before looking at me again. “I should be getting home.”
“Yeah. I should probably try and book that flight. I might just end up staying another night or so though.”
“Oh… well, let me know if you need a tour guide. I know Miami like the back of my hand.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I smile sweetly.
We’re both hesitant, unsure of what else to talk about.
Tired of being stuck, Griffin turns without a word, fishing his wallet out and flipping it open once it’s retrieved.
He drops a stack of bills on the table, picks up his beer to finish it off, and then he gathers his briefcase and keys, smiling my way as I start to come towards him.
“Thanks for dinner, Griffin,” I murmur.
“No.” His head shakes and he takes a step closer. “Thank you. I had a great time. Haven’t had this much fun in months.”
We watch one another, and I feel a sizzle in my chest. It burns so tenderly. The heat—the pull—is undeniable. It’s so strong I can’t move.
I can’t think. I can’t breathe. It’s suffocating.
God, it’s been so long since I’ve felt such a thing. So long. What is this? What’s happening here?
“I’m so glad I could help with that. I’ve been told I’m always the answer when someone needs to have a good time.”
He laughs, deep and sweet. “I’m delighted to say that I can agree with that.” He nods, looking around the balcony area before flicking his wrist and checking the time on his silver watch. “Let me get going.” He walks around me and heads for the door. “Do you need a ride?”
“No.” I playfully shoo him away. “It’s okay. I’ll haul a cab. I think I’m gonna hang here for a little longer, have another glass or something.”
He looks from me to the empty wine glass on our table. Narrowing his eyes, he asks, “Are you sure, Angelina? I can always give you one.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl too.”
His lips press. I can tell he isn’t okay with this—leaving me here alone, but truthfully I need to be alone. I need air. I need to think about what in the hell just happened within the past eight hours. Surely, this feeling can’t be real. We were just chatting, sharing a few drinks. Laughing. Have a nice, casual time.
It was just business… at least, that’s what I want to think.
I don’t know. There’s something now that blazes in his eyes. It wasn’t there before, that fire, that heat exuding from his perfectly tanned skin. The way he watches me, the way his breathing changes when he’s close. There’s only one reason behind that.
I know now that I’m not the only one that wouldn’t mind a taste.
“Call me if you need help with anything or need ideas for a hotel.”
I nod. “Okay. I will.”
Clutching the door handle, he murmurs deeply, “Goodnight, Miss Clark.” Ahh, my business name. Formal. Cordial. I kinda-sorta hate it. I like how he says my first name, how it gently rolls off his tongue. Angelina.
But it can’t be that way.
So, I remain formal, too, by saying, “Goodnight, Mr. Boyd.”
FOUR
Griffin
* * *
It’s later than I thought when I pull into my garage. Nearing 9:30 PM.
When I left Angelina on the balcony of Swede’s I didn’t go straight home. I went to Pinkman’s, a quiet bar only a few blocks away from my house, and downed three scotches. I couldn’t get her out of my head.
Her sweet smile. Those supple pink lips. Those clear blue eyes that, somehow, gave nothing away. How can they be so clear, yet I see nothing?
It’s hard reading her, and I’m sure she makes it that way for a reason. She doesn’t want people to know about her. She doesn’t want anyone to get too close to unveil her secrets.
Makes sense. I can be the same way.
When I get home, it’s dark inside. Nothing but the light above the kitchen sink is on as I walk by the table and place my briefcase on the counter.
I walk up the stairs, taking the first right turn and looking in Colette’s study.
I expect her to be there but she’s not. Her supplies are scattered and disarrayed, a canvas with an unfinished painting of a cat or something on the easel. It’s set up like she’s been here and decided to take a break.
I sigh, walking down the hallway to get to the master bedroom. When I walk in, Colette is sitting in front of the vanity¸ brushing her shoulder-length gold locks.
She spots me through the mirror and slowly stops brushing. “Your home,” she says dryly. She’s not happy about it. Was she expecting me not to show up? Is that what she wants?
“Yeah,” I breathe, walking to my side of the bed. I undo my tie as she spins on the bench. She’s wearing her silky gold robe, her face clear of makeup. I can smell her body spray. A fruity scent.
Colette is beautiful with or without make-up, but by the stress that wears on her hunched shoulders, her creased forehead, I can tell something is bothering her.
I debate on whether I should ask, until she speaks for me.
“I called you earlier. Did you get it?” She stands from the stool, going to the side of the bed and pulling down the comforter. She sits down, back facing me, eyes focused on her lap.
“Yeah—sorry, babe. It was crazy today. The deal with Quarter almost didn’t go through.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t look too enthused.
I blink, studying her back. “Colette?”
She barely looks over her shoulder. “Hmm?”
“What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.” She’s lying. “I’m just really tired.”
“Your study isn’t as tidy as usual,” I note.
“Yeah, well, I started but I got exhausted. I’m sure Arianna will take care of it in the morning.”
I drop my tie on the bed, unbuttoning my dress shirt.
Colette lies down, blowing a breath and staring up at the patterned vaulted ceiling. Her nipples are protruding through the silk. I’m sure she’s not aroused, maybe just cold.
She pulls the comforter over her body as I walk around the bed, sitting by her side.
I stroke the edges of her hair and she sighs, trying to catch my eyes. I can’t look at her, not after what I was about to do to Angelina.
But I can touch. I’m a drunk, horny son of a bitch and I need pleasing.
“God, Griffin… why didn’t you call?” she whispers.
I blink rapidly. Honestly, I was too caught up with Angelina, letting her learn little things about me for God knows what reason.
It’s rare for me to speak of myself—my personal life—so openly to someone I hardly even knew and, yet, it happened anyway, like I’d reunited with a long lost friend.
I finally look up and Colette is looking me dead in the eyes with a full frown on her
face.
Pushing up on her elbows, she leans in and takes a deep whiff of me, and then her frown deepens.
“Why do you smell like scotch?” she practically spits.
I watch her frown turn into a scowl before leaning back and swallowing thickly. The taste of the scotch is still on my tongue, strong and tart.
“I caught some drinks with Neil to celebrate the deal.” Liar.
“Neil?” she questions.
“A business associate. Remember I told you he works with Stratford and Clark. He helped with Quarter a lot. Tough deal.”
“Yeah, you said that,” she mutters. “So you can go for drinks but you can’t even call your own wife back?”
I push off the bed. By her defensive state, I know she’s ready to pick a fight. I’m not up for arguing. Not tonight.
I walk towards the bathroom, unbuttoning the rest of my shirt. “I’m taking a shower.”
“Yeah,” she mutters. “Just run off and take your shower. Ignore the conversation. God, no wonder this marriage is failing.”
Her last sentence catches and hooks me and it pisses me the fuck off.
I spin around before I can make it to the bathroom, narrowing my eyes as I focus on her. “Is that what you think? That our marriage is failing? If that idea is in your head then why the fuck are you still in my house?”
Colette springs up, pushing out of the bed with a scoff. “Excuse me? Your house?” Fury sparks her eyes. “Your house, Griffin? Are you really going to try and call this your house?” Her laugh is hoarse.
“Yes, Colette. I work. I pay the bills. I’m the reason you’re wearing all that expensive shit, driving a fucking Mercedes that I paid off. So yes, my fucking house.”
She laughs so sardonically it makes my skin crawl.
Pointing a finger, she says, “Now that… that is funny, hun. I guess you have completely forgotten the only reason you can now pay those bills. If you hadn’t met me you’d be nowhere, just like your father.”
My heart sinks when she mentions him. My father, a good man that basically slaved just to keep a roof over mine, my mother’s, and my younger brother’s head.
He died six years ago. Heart attack.
I swallow thickly, allowing my arms to sag at my sides. Colette looks my way, and I expect sympathy after her statement. I don’t receive that.
Instead, she goes on, still slinging shit my way. “You are just so fucking careless now, Griffin. If I call, all you have to do is answer. I know you work—I get it—but I think I’m a little more important than that job. Don’t you think? I mean”—she huffs a laugh—“we have more than enough money to relax for a while—maybe even retire early.”
“I’m only thirty-two, Colette. I’m not retiring. Not when I can keep stacking my money.”
She blows a breath. “You know, sometimes I think you work just to escape being home. To be away from me. And if that is the case then by all means keep working, but don’t expect me to keep playing the good wife everyone expects me to be.”
She folds her arms, leaning back against the headboard.
I’m in a state—a place where if I say something now it will only ruin everything, but if I stay in here and don’t speak, I’ll blow up inside.
I can’t deal with either right now.
I’m too drunk, and I know I’ll say something wrong. I just know it.
So I rush for the closet, yanking down some attire for tomorrow, some pajamas for tonight. Then I go to the bathroom, taking out my body wash, razors, and shaving cream.
When I walk back out of the bathroom, Colette is sitting up again, watching me collect my shit.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” I snap back. I go for the bedroom door and swing it open, but before I’m gone I turn and say, “You know, Colette, you say you play the good wife, but I don’t see a single trace of goodness within you anymore. You can pretend you’re playing it, but either way you’re doing a terrible fucking job at it. I try every damn day to please you. To put a smile on your face. Make you the happiest woman on earth. You’d just rather be an ungrateful bitch and turn down everything I do rather than accept it and be happy that I put forth the effort. Fuck, why can’t you just let it go already? Why can’t you just fucking move on from the past?”
And then I’m gone, slamming the door behind me and hearing a sharp gasp pass by her lips.
I take up the guestroom. The queen-sized bed will do for the night. I shower up, lathering my body in soap.
Fuck, I feel defeated. What am I doing wrong? Why can’t shit be the same with us anymore?
All I want is the best for Colette. All I want is for her to be happy. We were happy once. Why can’t we go back to that? I mean, I know a lot of shit went down—things that were my fault—but it’s been years. Why hasn’t she forgiven me for it yet?
My forehead drops on the marble wall of the shower. Water streams through my hair, down my chest and back. My face feels smothered with warmth, but it feels good.
With my eyes squeezed tight, I try and imagine Colette and all her naked glory.
‘The woman has a banging body, even though her mind and heart is a little ugly.
I imagine those perky pink nipples, her face when I finally get to ramming my cock deep inside her. Only… it doesn’t work this time.
As I pump I can’t feel myself getting hard enough because all I can hear are her negative words. All I can think of is how we truly are failing as a couple.
All I can think about is how I almost got a taste of someone else… Angelina.
Fuck.
Blue eyes appear in my imagination, and I stroke harder. My cock hardens in my hands, the veins bulging as I imagine those aqua irises looking up at me while sucking me dry.
Lapping her tongue around my balls, flicking it across my tip. I shudder as I start to reach the brink. My body locks, palm against the wall, and all I can hear is her calling me Mr. Boyd in that sweet little voice.
She wanted my cock so bad she could taste it, and I wanted a mouthful of her pussy so much I was almost willing to completely demolish my marriage to make that happen.
“Fuck,” I bite out, stroking faster, harder, until finally I explode in my hand, squirting all over the fucking shower wall. “Goddamn,” I groan, pressing the side of my face on the marble.
God, it’s been so long since I’ve cum. So fucking long. I pant, breathing raggedly as I keep my eyes shut, still rubbing the head of my cock, releasing every drop of cum.
I can’t believe myself, but it’s the pure imagination of Angelina who has just brought out my release.
It’s her with her lips wrapped around the head of my cock, telling me to relax and to just enjoy the feel. The feel of her, right before she comes up to sit on top of my lap, allowing me to sink deep inside what I know is an eager, wet pussy.
Young pussy.
Sweet pussy.
I groan, finally letting myself go. I wash up again, cleaning my cum off the wall before getting out. When I’m in bed, I skim through my tablet and see stock numbers have gone back up.
Good.
That’s good for us.
Quarter definitely has nothing to worry about now. They made the right decision.
Placing my tablet on the nightstand, I flip on my side, and shut my eyes. I fall asleep while remembering the chime of her laughter, her smile—those fucking eyes.
God, those eyes have the power to make a man kill someone if it comes down to it.
I know I shouldn’t fall asleep with another woman on my mind, but I can’t help myself. Maybe I should hire a suitable lawyer and file for divorce. Find a fucking way out of this shithole.
There’s no point in being miserable anymore. Why are we still together if we aren’t happy? We’ve tried—I’ve tried, year after year, but its only getting worse.
If I file, I can do whatever the hell I want.
Like fuck the shit out Angelina in my office whenever I’m in the
mood and not worry about what Colette will think if she ever found out.
I can’t do it though—the divorce, I mean.
There’s a lot on the line for us. Her father is part of the reason of my success. I am forever indebted to that man. It’s unfortunate, but he saw my potential. He saw that I could be a great resource and he ran with it.
And now I owe him my life.
I owe him for being the reason I can pay for Mom’s oncology bills.
I owe him because if it weren’t for him I wouldn’t have been able to bail my baby brother out of jail for stupidly dealing drugs. I wouldn’t be able to pay for his rehab care.
I’d honestly be nowhere if I hadn’t met Colette and her father on that ferry in New York that late winter night. Absolutely no fucking where.
FIVE
Angelina
* * *
It’s a good thing I didn’t book my flight for 11 AM last night because I receive a call from Griffin at 9 AM.
“I know you have other things to do,” he says when I answer the phone, “but would you like to fly out to San Diego with me? I think Quarter would appreciate seeing a member from Stratford and Clark too… preferably a Clark.”
I giggle… and then I shake my head. I hate giggling. I only giggle when I’m genuinely laughing.
My heart flutters when I hear the bass of his laughter, but in an instant his laughter is shushed, and I hear some noise in his background. Then there is a female’s voice.
“Did you hide them?”
“Hide what?” Griffin snaps.
“My keys? Did you hide them?”
“Why would I hide your keys, Colette?”
“Because you’re probably still mad about last night. Where are they?”
“I don’t know, Colette,” he grumbles.
“Who are you talking to?” I hear her ask after a brief pause. “Why are you laughing?”
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