Unfaithful.
Which is a rich word for me, Greer Galloway Colchester, to use regarding anyone else, and I recognize that. It doesn’t make it less true. And to think my reputation has been tarnished all for him—he who the press has already forgiven, he who took up with Abilene with no warning, he who broke my heart—
Slam, slam. I move more boxes, think of more synonyms.
There’s a knock on the doorframe and I assume it’s Gavin, looking up to tell him it was just more boxes, and then freezing. It’s not Gavin.
Closing the door behind him, Embry steps into my office, his expensive watch and high cheekbones making everything look cheap and dusty by comparison, the blue of his eyes drowning out all other color. He stares at me for a moment, and I’m suddenly conscious of how sweaty and flushed I am, angrily moving books around while the swamp-heat of D.C. in August leaks in through the window.
I straighten up, pushing several stray locks of hair out of my face.
Embry bites his lip for the slightest of seconds and then switches over—as Embry does when he’s uncertain—to charm. “Was it really less than a year ago that I came to you here?” He flashes a smile at me and then makes a gesture I take to mean the Georgetown Humanities Department. His watch glints in the hot sunlight.
The smile, those dimples, the tug and pull of his custom suit against his tall, slender frame—I feel myself drawn into it all, and then I have to make myself resist.
Two-faced. Treacherous. Sneaking.
Unfaithful.
“Why are you here, Embry? I know it’s not to remember the old days.”
“I wanted to talk to you. We haven’t talked since…well, you know.”
“Since you chose Abilene over us?” I ask, not bothering to dampen the hostility in my voice.
Color dusks his cheeks, but he doesn’t contradict me.
The night before Embry confessed that he and Abilene were together, Ash had pulled me into his lap and explained, in a voice so neutral and precise that I knew he was holding back rage, exactly how he believed Abilene had betrayed me to Melwas. Exactly how he believed she’d been the one to leak the video to the press so that there wouldn’t be any traceable ties linking the video to Carpathia.
“It can’t be proven, at least not yet,” he’d said. “But please be careful around her.”
It’d hurt, knowing for sure that my best friend had been the author of so much shame and horror, but I’d found it to be a dull hurt, a punch rather than a stab. Where Abilene had been concerned, my heart had too much scar tissue to feel much more than a distant ache.
But then Embry told us that he’d started dating her, and it felt like my world slid sideways. Knowing what she did, how could he look her in the face? Touch her? Kiss her? Fuck her?
That night, I crawled into Ash’s arms and pressed my face to his chest, unable to cry but desperate for the release it would bring. Where Embry was concerned, my heart didn’t have enough scar tissue. His leaving us for Abilene sliced and severed more than any knife.
Here in my office, Embry gives me a pleading look. “Greer. Please. I didn’t want it to be like this.”
“I don’t think I ever understood what you did want it to be like.”
He looks away, eyebrows drawn together in a delicate aristocratic brood. “I thought it was the best chance I had,” he says, a touch mournfully, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes me look at him more closely, to see the new doors in his expression where there used to be windows.
“The best chance for what?”
He parts his lips. In profile, with his Mr. Darcy hair and proud forehead, he looks like the paperback cover of a Regency romance. “I—”
He glances at me, and something shifts in his eyes. I recognize it for what it is—the moment he decides to change his words and avoid the truth. “I don’t love her,” he says instead, and there is some truth in that, I think, but not enough. Not enough by half.
“Love isn’t just a feeling, Embry. Love is doing, it’s sharing time and space and you’re sharing those things with her. You’re choosing her, after you promised Ash and me that you were choosing us.”
He winces. “I know it looks that way. I mean, it is that way, in a sense, but you have to believe that I love you and Ash more than ever. If there was a way—”
“There’s not,” I say in a flat voice. As flat as my heart is swollen to splitting with misery. “I can’t be with you when you’re with her. You know what she did—how she hurt me. How could you?”
“I know, I know,” he groans, passing his hand over his eyes. “I know she did. I know this is hurting you now. And if I could stop it, I would.”
I step close to him, climbing onto a box of books so that we’re the same height. “You can stop it,” I say, furious. “You can stop it at any moment, but you won’t, and why is that? Is she smarter than me? More interesting than me?”
His eyes cut blue paths down to my lips, to my neck, and then back up to my eyes. “There’s no one smarter or more interesting than you,” he says.
“Then what is it, Embry? Does she taste sweeter than me? Is she softer? Tighter?”
I’m being yanked into him so fast that I don’t know it’s happening, strong hands pressing the length of my body hard against his, my position on the box meaning that I can feel his stiffness directly against my cunt. There is the heat of him, the sound of his shallow breaths pushing in and out. I realize, almost distantly, that my entire body is filled with light and warmth and want. I’m so very agonizingly wet.
“No one tastes sweeter than you,” he growls, burying his face in my neck. “No one.”
Somehow we’re kissing then, his mouth on mine, my leg hitching around his waist so I can grind myself against him. He hitches my other leg up around him too, supporting my ass with his hands, and then we’re up against the wall, and I hate him so much, I hate him so fucking much and I can’t stop kissing him, can’t stop rubbing myself against him.
“Prove it,” I gasp against his mouth. “Prove no one tastes sweeter than me.”
My thighs slide out of his hands and as my feet touch the floor, he drops to his knees, already pushing my dress up to my waist. His fingers hook into my panties, drawing them down my legs, and then his lips are soft against my bare skin.
The barest flicker of tongue against my clit.
“Sweet,” he murmurs.
And then farther down, against the lips of my pussy.
“So sweet,” he repeats.
And then he parts those lips with his fingers, exposing my wet, pink center, and gives me one long, hard lick, his tongue taking the time to swirl around the deepest part of me.
When he’s done, he looks up at me, his mouth glistening and his eyes hooded. “So fucking sweet.”
I’m undone. I’m pulling everywhere at him, his hair and shoulders and neck, grinding my pussy against his mouth, and he is just as eager to be forced as I am to force him. His mouth moves hungrily on me, switching from kissing to sucking to tongue-fucking in seamless waves that have my fingers scrabbling against the wall behind me for support. I can’t stand it, how handsome he looks all rumpled and wet-mouthed on his knees. I can’t stand how much I hate him and I can’t stand how much I love him.
He pushes a long finger into me, then two. I wish I could resist the urge to press down onto them, I wish I could stop myself from widening my legs or tossing my head or panting so hard that I see stars at the corner of my vision. But goddammit, Embry owes me this. He owes me time on his knees, he owes me his worship and devotion.
He moans every now and then—when his tongue sweeps against a particularly sweet spot or when I buck my hips against his face. He moans as if he’s getting off, even though he has one hand hard at work inside me and the other guiding my leg over his shoulder to open me wider to him, and so I know his cock is achingly untouched right now. The mental image makes my mouth water, sends dual shocks of need and power through me. The need to fuck is stron
g, but his worshipping me without getting anything in return is so delicious I can’t stand it. Instead, I fist his hair harder, rock against him faster, and hiss to him through my teeth.
“That’s right, that’s where you belong,” I say. My cruel words make him moan even more, and he sends his tongue and fingers in flickering presses in all the right places. Wet and sucking over my clit, thick in my entrance, massaging deeper inside.
“Make me come,” I demand breathlessly, my hands woven deep in his hair and holding his face fast to my cunt. “Make me come.”
He does, so skillfully that every step of the way feels like the best kind of agony—the glow in my chest, the tight pull in my belly, the tension in my lower thighs. Each thing builds on top of the other and builds and builds, and I watch his head move between my legs, my betrayed feelings and my pleasure twisting so tightly together I can’t unwind them, and then it doesn’t matter because I’m coming, coming, coming. His mouth coaxes it out of me, and I’m quivering, clenching, fluttering, whimpering, his blue eyes pinned to my face the whole time.
I am lost in that gaze, lost to the waves deep inside myself, and for a moment, everything fades except the present moment. The sight of a handsome man on his knees, his willing mouth put to good use. The feeling of wet flesh and a wetter tongue. The connection between us that no amount of time and violence and loving other people has been able to destroy.
When I finish, he stands up without looking at me, gently smoothing the skirt of my dress down to my knees with the experienced hand of someone who knows good fabric. He takes his time with it, and I let him, because I know once he’s done, then the moment is over. I’m aware that my phone is vibrating on the table but I ignore it, too unwilling to let this truce end. But it must, as all things do.
He finally meets my eyes as he blots his wet lips with the back of his hand. “She’s not sweeter than you, Greer. She’s not anything more than you.”
I don’t know what I want to say or what I want to do. I want him to pull out his neglected cock and fuck me into next week. I want to scream at him until my voice is hoarse. I want to push him back down to his knees and make him swear every vow under heaven to me.
I settle on doing nothing.
Embry steps back and closes his eyes. “I didn’t come here to fight or to fool around.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I wanted to tell you something before you heard it from anyone else. I wanted to tell you before you heard it from Abilene.”
Somehow, I know. Before he says anything else, before the words even really have time to sink in. I just know.
“Abilene’s pregnant. I’m asking for a paternity test to be sure, but there’s a chance it could be mine.”
I hate it in movies and TV shows when the hysterical heroine slaps someone. It’s melodramatic and sexist and ridiculous and yet, right now, I understand the urge more than I ever had. I’m so furious that my vision threatens to double, so shocked I want to lash out. My hand shakes and itches with the urge to strike him, shove him, throw things.
With great difficulty, I keep the violence restrained. I don’t hit him or scream at him, although I see in his pained face that he wishes I would. That he believes he’s owed punishment for this, which is reason enough not to give it to him. I won’t give him the satisfaction of feeling like he’s earned his way out of any amount of guilt, that he’s paid any kind of penance.
“Get out,” I say calmly.
“Greer.” He swallows, presses his lips together. Lips that were just between my legs. Lips that were between Abilene’s. I think of her stomach, of the place where it will begin to swell, which is the place where mine is flat. I think of the pregnancy tests I took in the White House bathroom with their sad, lonely blue lines.
“Get out,” I repeat.
“This wasn’t planned,” he says. “It wasn’t even—” He looks ill as he does it, but I can tell he’s stopping himself to avoid the truth again. “It wasn’t what I wanted,” he finishes instead.
“You should have thought of that before you fucked her. Get out.”
He runs a hand through his hair, bites his lip, and then surprisingly, he does what I ask without any further protest. He leaves. With a wounded blue look and a face carved into the shape of hurt, he leaves me without another word, walks out of my office with my taste still on his lips and my tear-pricked eyes on his back as he does.
I drop into a chair after he’s gone and will myself not to cry yet. I will. I will cry. Later when it hits me how deep and long-lasting this betrayal has become, but for right now—
Buzz.
It’s my phone again. With a sigh, I flip it over and see a New York number on the screen. I accept the call and hold the phone up to my ear with one hand while I try to press the tears back into my eyes with the other.
“Is this Greer Galloway?”
“This is she.”
The voice on the other end is apologetic. “I’m Officer Murphy from the NYPD. I’m calling to tell you that your grandfather died in the early hours of this morning.”
25
Embry
after
“Thanks for seeing me.”
Ash looks up from the folder he’s flipping through, sighs, and tosses it on the desk. “You’re my Vice President, Embry. I could hardly avoid seeing you if I wanted to.”
“Do you? Want to avoid me?”
Another sigh. “No. Of course not. I fucking miss you.”
I’m still hovering by the door, but this gives me the unaccountable urge to walk over to Ash and sink down to my knees. To lay my head in his lap. To have him stroke my hair and tell me it will be okay, that he loves me no matter what. And I don’t even want to be wrestled into it. I just want to fold myself into his surety, his constant strength.
But I can’t. Even without the stoic figures of the Secret Service outside the office’s windows, the truth is that I’ve lost that privilege. I lost it the moment I woke up in a bed with Abilene—maybe even the moment I walked into my mother’s library to find Morgan and Abilene waiting for me. I struck a deal with the devil, knowing full well what the consequences could be, knowing that I would appear faithless when I was being the most faithful of all.
The injustice of it all claws at me, and I walk over to a sofa by the fireplace and sit so Ash can’t see my face.
“How is she?” I ask.
“Devastated. Gutted. How do you think she is? He was a parent to her.”
I look down at my hands. My own father died when I was just a baby, replaced by Morgan’s father before I turned two. I have no experience with real grief.
“The funeral is Thursday, in case you were wondering,” Ash says. I hear the soft creak of his chair and the whisper of his dress shoes on the carpet. He comes to sit in front of me, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he does. I take a moment to admire the way his shirt hugs his flat stomach and pulls nicely around the hard lines of his chest.
Despite everything, his eyes blaze momentarily as he catches me watching him, but then we both remember the past six weeks and look away.
“I know when the funeral is,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
“You will? Oh. Abilene.”
Yes, Abilene is Leo Galloway’s granddaughter too, and despite her mechanical bird heart, I could tell his death upset her. And his death is what I came to talk about it.
“Have they found out anything more?” I ask Ash.
“Since we talked last night? Not really.” He rubs at his forehead with his thumb, a gesture so sweetly familiar that for a moment I’m hit with a loneliness so barbed and needy that I can hardly breathe. “I mean, they didn’t even try to make it look natural. Forced entry into his penthouse, injection point in the neck, digoxin—a heart medication that he’s never taken.”
“It was Melwas.”
Ash looks at me carefully, slowly dropping his hand to adjust the silver watch on his wrist. “Preliminary investigation suggests the Iranian rebels he a
nd Penley Luther tussled with thirty years ago.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Ash. Political enemies from thirty years ago—who never had any money or power to begin with—don’t hunt you down when you’re no longer a threat. It’s Melwas trying hurt Greer again. It wasn’t enough to shred her reputation; now he has to kill her family. She’ll be next if we don’t do something.”
His fingers are still playing with his watch, but he keeps his eyes on me as he speaks. “You might be right, Embry. In fact, I have a feeling that you are. I wouldn’t put it past Melwas to have hired these men, and believe me, if we turn up the slightest hint of actual evidence that he did it, I will do everything in my power to make sure he pays. But at the end of the day, I can’t use this office to act on hunches and suspicions.”
“There’s never certainty in war,” I insist, leaning forward. “Your hunches are what saved lives in Carpathia. How many times did we have no intelligence or wrong intelligence or half-assed intelligence and we went in anyway?”
“Because we were ordered to,” Ash points out. “And now I’m the one giving the orders. And this isn’t just war, Embry, there’s more to worry about than how fast we can build the next outpost.”
“I know there’s more—”
“Do you? I don’t think you do. And you gave up the right to protect Greer when you got Abilene pregnant.”
There it is.
There it fucking is.
“You just couldn’t wait to say that, could you?” I ask coolly.
Ash replies, just as coolly, “I waited longer than you did before you fucked Abilene.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and I break the gaze first, my eyes dropping to his shoes. “It wasn’t like that.”
“You said it was going to be just a public thing. You said you weren’t going to sleep with her.”
“I didn’t plan on fucking her! It just—”
Ash rolls his eyes. “It just happened? God, Embry, everything else aside, can you at least not be such a cliché?”
American Prince (American Queen #2) Page 26