Bad Husband

by Elise Faber

  She ground against him, and he lost any semblance of control. He bent and—

  “Beyoncé.”

  He froze. “What?”

  Her expression was playful. “Yup. She’s powerful and strong and full of curves. So, Beyoncé fits.”

  Somehow it did.

  “You’re a menace,” he said, not wanting to but releasing her legs slowly back down to the ground anyway. If he didn’t take advantage of this moment of clarity, he’d be striping her in the back seat and probably getting them both arrested.

  Now that would be a news story that would make his board happy.

  Cue sarcasm.

  “I should let you get home,” he said, thinking it was late and that she had to be as exhausted as he was after the week they’d had.

  “Follow me back to my house?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes like the damsel in distress she wasn’t. “I think I need an escort.”

  Her hand drifted toward the waistband of his pants.

  “You just want to sleep with me.”

  A smug smile. “Yeah, so?”

  He kissed it off her lips, not releasing her mouth until they were both breathing hard. “Good point,” he said with a smirk, coaxing her into the driver’s seat, his fingers brushing over that tempting-as-hell column of buttons as he buckled her seat belt. It was just an excuse to touch her. Because she was his and he needed to touch her and—

  “Give me your address in case we get separated.”

  Nineteen

  Heather

  * * *

  “Oh God,” she murmured as Clay walked away after promising to bring his car around.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, still reeling from his last kiss.

  Her fingers came up, brushing against her lips. In the rearview mirror, her eyes were wide, her mouth reddened and slightly puffy, but she couldn’t find a fuck to give.

  The man could kiss.

  And he was coming home with her.

  Which was a thought that she needed out of her mind if she was going to safely make it back to her house.

  “Whew,” she said and turned on the car, cranking the air conditioning until the interior felt like the Arctic. “Better,” she said as the freezing air blasted her in the face. She might not be able to feel her nose, but at least her brain was clear.

  Lights came up behind her, and she saw a bright blue Maserati, the same model as hers, pull to a stop.

  Her phone buzzed with a text.

  Your escort is here.

  Blowing him a kiss in the rearview mirror and hoping he could see it, Heather put the car into drive and pulled out in front of him.

  It was about ten miles to her house, but most of it was freeway time, and it wouldn’t take long for them to get there. Her body didn’t like any delay, but her mind thought it was probably better, at least in one way. Ten minutes wasn’t long enough for her to reconsider, but it was enough time that she could safely tuck away all of those tender feelings that were growing for Clay.

  She needed to remind herself that while they were obviously attracted to each other, he hadn’t made mention of wanting anything more.

  In fact, he’d only discussed wanting that annulment, as quickly as possible.

  So, expectations. She needed to temper hers.

  A hot fling with a brilliant, sexy man? She could do worse.

  Remembering that the fling had a shelf life was going to be the tricky part.

  The freeway miles slipped away easily, despite the fact she kept to the speed limit, not wanting to chance a ticket. Clay stayed right on her heels, his lights a constant presence as she took the exit and headed up into the hills.

  A few turns—right, left, left, and right—and they were outside her gate. She hit the clicker and pulled forward so he could follow her through.

  They parked and turned off their respective, ridiculous sports cars almost in unison, stepping out onto the driveway just as the gate closed.

  “Trapped.” She smirked and rubbed her hands together, evil-genius style.

  Clay stepped close, cupped her cheek. “I think you need an escort inside.”

  “Oh, yes. I definitely need one of those.” Heather nodded eagerly, tugging his hand and pulling him toward the front door then inputting the code to unlock it. “I’m not sure I can find my bedroom.”

  “Well, with the amount of time you spend traveling”—he swept her up into his arms—“I’m not surprised.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Did we lock that?”

  Clay obediently turned to show her that he had in fact locked the door behind them. “Yup.”

  “And the security system is on function two?” she asked, wanting to reassure him that it was safe, but his expression clouded at the question, and she worried that she might have gone too far.

  He nodded, jaw tense. “It is.” But then he relaxed, “No assistants will be barging in on us, right?”

  Relief made her laughter slightly shrill. He thought this was about Berlin, not his childhood. Thank God. She knew she shouldn’t have pried into his past, should have let him reveal what he wanted in the timeframe he chose, but she’d been nosy. So, the guilt she was feeling had been well-earned.

  “No,” she assured him. “I gave her a few days off. She’s been working too hard.”

  Clay brushed his lips across hers. “Have we already had the pot-meet-kettle discussion?”

  “Mmm.” She nipped at his jaw. “Remind me?”

  “How about you tell me where your bedroom is instead?”

  Down to business. That worked for her. “Up the stairs, turn right. It’s the door at the end of the hall.”

  He carried her easily, despite the fact she wasn’t a small woman. She wasn’t fat exactly, but she was taller than average and had curves. She was sturdy. Solid. But apparently not heavy enough to strain Clay’s arms.

  For which she was extremely happy.

  Being held like this—close, secure, gentle—wasn’t a bad place to be.

  And the man smelled so fucking good.

  “Mmm.” She rubbed her nose along his throat, inhaled deeply. “I just want to rub myself all over you.”

  His arms tucked her closer as he finished with the stairs and went right.

  “I’d rather you wait for the rubbing until we’re both naked.”

  “I can deal with that,” she replied, thrusting both her hands into his hair and kissing him. He tasted faintly of beer laced with the slight burn from the wing sauce and . . . like Clay. All male and spice and heat.

  So much heat that she was surprised she didn’t actually burst into flames.

  Softness pillowed behind her spine as he set her onto the bed, but it was the barest sensation because a heartbeat later Clay was on top of her, the long, lean strength of him pinning her in place.

  “Hey,” he murmured.

  Heather forced her eyes open. Her bedside lamp ran on a timer, so her room wasn’t dark. The soft light made him more beautiful than ever, highlighting the sharp lines of his nose, his jaw, making his mouth more kissable. “Hey,” she whispered.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, stroking a finger down her nose.

  Her lips curved. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  “I”—he shook his head—“never mind.” He bent to kiss her.

  “No.” Her hand came up, pressed against his chest, stalling the movement. His heart thundered under her palm “What were you going to say?”

  “I—” He wrapped her hand in his, slid it up to his mouth. “I know that we didn’t start off in the most conventional way, but I’ve been thinking.”

  Her throat went tight, her response squeezed out. “About what?”

  “That we could take a little time. See where things went.”

  Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

  She snatched her hand back, shoved hard against his chest, and scrambled out of bed.

  “Oof.” Heather landed in a heap on the carpet.

  He started to
slide from the bed. “Shit, sweetheart, are you okay?”

  No. No, she wasn’t fine. She was freaking the fuck out.

  “You need to go,” she said, pushing to her feet and running into the bathroom. She slammed and locked the door behind her then flicked on the light. Her pale face stared back at her in the mirror while she just focused on breathing.

  It didn’t work. She couldn’t breathe.

  See where things went.

  Take a little time—

  For her to grow more attached, for her to get more invested.

  For her to end up more broken in the end.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  There were footsteps across the carpet, a soft knock on the door.

  “Heather?”

  She didn’t respond, wouldn’t respond. Eventually, he’d forget she was in there altogether and just leave. Really, he would.

  Yes, she understood she was completely delusional.

  “D-did I hurt you?”

  “No.”

  The word left her mouth without conscious thought. She couldn’t have Clay thinking he’d hurt her. Not when—

  Not when he was such a good guy.

  “Okay,” he said tentatively. “So, this is . . . what exactly?”

  A patented Heather O’Keith freak out. Except she didn’t freak out. Not ever. Hell, on the rare occasion that she even felt a little panicked, she dealt with it, boxed that shit up tight, and locked it the fuck away.

  This—Clay—wouldn’t stay compartmentalized.

  Guys had wanted relationships before.

  She’d been in relationships before.

  So why was she hyperventilating in the bathroom now?

  “You . . . have . . . to . . . go,” she panted, sliding to the floor, her back ending up against the vanity.

  “Heath—”

  “Go!” she screamed.

  Silence from the other side of the door. Then a sigh.

  Then footsteps . . . heading away.

  Heather plunked her head back onto the cabinet front and clenched her jaw when tears threatened to fall.

  This wasn’t her. This vulnerable, weak thing that was almost crying.

  She was untouchable.

  Except that was the biggest fucking lie in history.

  She was a fake, just as messed up as everyone else. Plop. A tear landed in her lap, leaving a dark mark on her jeans, just on top of her thigh. And suddenly there were more dark drops, and she was huddled on her bathroom floor, crying.

  Fuck. She was sobbing like a pathetic heartbroken creature on freezing marble tile when, if she had just played it cool, she could be fucking Clay’s brains out right now.

  A scraping sound drew her focus back to the door, stoppering up the sobs as she processed that something was being shoved under the gap between the panel and floor. “What?” she whispered, grabbing for the object and seeing it was a bar of gourmet chocolate that Clay must have found in her kitchen. Abby had sent her off with a stash as a thanks for taking Hunter to basketball practice a few weeks before.

  Her fingers caught on something on the back, and she turned it over, seeing a Post-It with Clay’s handwriting.

  It’s not cinnamon rolls . . .

  Also, I’m sorry.

  God, what could he possibly have to be sorry about?

  “Oh, Clay,” she murmured. “I am so fucked up.”

  Another scrape, but when her eyes went to the gap there was nothing there. Her gaze averted as such, she missed the handle turning, but not the door opening wide enough for Clay to slip into the bathroom.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said and reached over her to set a bobby pin on the vanity’s countertop. For a second, she wondered where he could have found it, then mentally shrugged because God knew she had enough of them lying around.

  “So,” he said, when she turned her face back to her feet, not wanting him to see how completely wrecked she was. “This is more comfortable than your bed?”

  “I—”

  Heather wanted to put him off, to tell him to leave again, but that proved to be impossible when she only got the one syllable out before bursting into tears again.

  “Oh, baby,” he crooned, wrapping her in his arms and tugging her into his lap.

  She should have fought the move, pulled back and ended things right then and there. But she didn’t have the strength.

  For the first time in her life, she didn’t have the strength to shove someone away.

  “Hey,” he murmured, stroking a hand down her back as she buried her face into his chest. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have pushed. I—”

  Her tears came harder at that. Because she wanted him to push.

  Desperately.

  She just wasn’t sure she’d survive it in the end.

  “Shh,” he said and stood with her in his arms, carrying her back into the bedroom and setting her on the bed.

  He stripped off her shoes and pants in a few efficient movements then made quick work of her buttons and bra. She lay there, quiescent and vulnerable and unable to gather her usual armor.

  Especially when Clay stripped down to his boxer briefs before tugging his undershirt over her head and smoothing it down over her torso. Not only did the plain white cotton smell amazing, but it also covered her from shoulders to knees and was exactly what she needed, considering how flayed open she was feeling.

  He stared into her eyes but didn’t say anything as he swiped one thumb under each of her bottom lashes, wiping her tears away.

  A kiss to her cheek before he gently coaxed her over and slid into bed next to her. One tug and the blankets were up and over them.

  He took her into his arms. “Sleep now.”

  And miraculously, Heather did.

  Twenty

  Clay

  * * *

  Clay woke before Heather and knew it was fortunate he did so.

  If she’d been up first, no doubt the bed would be empty and she would’ve been on the first flight out of the state.

  Hell, more than likely, out of the country.

  Instead, Clay rose to consciousness with the only woman he’d ever considered his in his arms. And it was fucking fantastic. Unfortunately, she didn’t think their relationship would last or didn’t think she was capable . . . or she knew about his past and didn’t think he could protect her.

  His spine went ramrod stiff before he stopped himself, forcing his mind to quiet down and consider the evidence clearly.

  She’d made a point to reach out to him after he’d panicked in Berlin and hadn’t been uncomfortable talking to him after that. Until she’d freaked, she had been her relaxed and typical self with him the night before.

  So, it wasn’t Berlin.

  But had she—? Was it possible that she knew what had happened to his family?

  He thought about that for approximately two microseconds before he mentally nodded. Of course, she had. She hadn’t pressed him for answers, but this was Heather O’Keith that he was talking about.

  She didn’t go into any situation without being fully prepared.

  And she’d had him double-check that the locks and doors had been secured when they’d come in hours before.

  Of course, she knew. Probably not all the details, because while the media coverage had been pretty heavy twenty-two years before, it was nothing like today.

  Thankfully, the worst part of the whole incident—the piece that still tortured him—had never become public knowledge.

  Okay. He released a slow, silent breath.

  So, she knew.

  He turned the information over in his mind. Frankly, not having to rehash the events was almost a relief. She already understood.

  But what did that mean for them now? For the future?

  He’d been battling the demons of what happened to his family for a long time, demons that Heather knew about and had taken measures to mitigate.

  But how could he possibly have a relationship with a woman who wouldn’t share h
er own demons in return?

  Hell, just considering entering a relationship at all was a first for him.

  He didn’t do girlfriends. He did one-night stands with the occasional mutually satisfying repeat.

  He didn’t do connections.

  His life was the business.

  But Heather made him want more.

  Clay watched her sleep in his arms, her face calm, her features so fragile and soft. Words he never would have picked to describe her before.

  And yet, she’d broken down only hours earlier when he’d suggested they go for something that wasn’t quick and easy and disposable.

  He wasn’t arrogant enough to think that he was irresistible in any way, shape, or form, but could recognize her reluctance in pursuing a relationship didn’t have much to do with him. Or, more accurately, that it probably was his fault, but only because this thing between them had the potential to be something really special.

  Since he knew a little of what it meant to be frightened of being tied down to someone when the pain of losing them might come back to bite him in the end, Clay could sympathize.

  Just thinking about the future made his gut twist.

  But he also understood exactly how it felt to lose those closest to him.

  And that gave him the courage to press onward.

  Heather sighed, shifting in the circle of his arms, burrowing closer even as her breathing changed from long and even to short and staccato.

  “I’m awake,” he murmured, tugging her closer and rubbing his jaw along her temple. Her hair caught on the day-old stubble there, stirring up the floral and spice scent of her. “And so are you.”

  She swallowed, kept her head tucked against his chest. “Good morning.”

  “You okay?”

  Her body stiffened. “About that—”

  “Hey, before we get into that,” he said, running a hand up and down her back, “I wanted to tell you something.” He paused. “Or rather, to pose a question first and then tell you something.”

  “Clay—”

  “Please?”

  The smallest hesitation before, “Okay.”