Stop it, right now. It’s over. The past. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.
Sutton—Justine—got out of the bed, made a cup of tea. Glanced over her shoulder at the handsome man sleeping facedown, the sheet pulled loosely over his firm, round buttocks, which had a dent in either side, strong muscles pulling taut against his very young, smooth skin.
She filled the kettle quietly. Ethan was behind her now. She had to keep looking forward. She didn’t want to dwell in the past. She didn’t want to be that woman, the one who couldn’t let go, who grew bitter and miserable. It was time to move on, and they both knew it. Time to set him free, to set herself free.
She’d taken several baby steps over the past few weeks, and leaving for another continent had been a line in the sand, of course, but the first giant leap had taken place only an hour before, when she’d allowed another man to put himself inside her. She stared at this stranger in her bed, remembering how his fingers had dipped in and out of her like he was playing piano, how his mouth had roved across her breasts, how she’d traitorously reveled in the largeness of him as he thrusted into her. She’d been pummeled instead of gently, expertly seduced. She’d rather enjoyed it.
Constantine must have sensed her watching him, or the sound of the kettle on full boil roused him. He rolled over, the sheet whispering away to the side. He was lazily unconcerned with his nakedness. Sutton—Justine—pulled her robe a bit closer. He stretched, giving her a full view of his stiff and ready penis, and held out a hand. “Justine. Take off your clothes and come back to bed.”
One breath. Another. His lazy smile. Abandoning the tea, she untied the silken string holding the two triangles of fabric closed, and, leaving her robe on the back of her desk chair to drift and flutter in the soft Parisian breeze like the petals on the cherry branch in the window, she did.
AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER
Constantine was insatiable. They had sex twice more, and now Sutton—Justine—really was sore. The sun was setting when he started in for a fourth round, and she put him off. He didn’t like that, teased her a bit about being a delicate flower, literally swept her off her feet and threw her back onto the four-poster and then had her squirming under him, first in aggravation, then in delicious, illogical enjoyment of being dominated by this man she barely knew.
Anything not to think. Anything not to feel. She’d gambled and lost, knowing deep down it was going to happen, knowing she didn’t deserve anything good in her life. But this felt good, and though she knew from long experience she’d feel empty later, for the moment, she let herself ride the waves of pleasure being with a new man gave her.
Finally, he gathered up his clothes, casually wiped himself with the edge of the sheet and dropped the condom in the toilet, and claimed he needed to head out. She promised to meet him the next day. The sky was deeply pink and gray when he left.
Sutton—Justine—showered, changed the sheets, ate some cheese. She was suddenly possessed by a single thought. You idiot girl, you should have taken him to a hotel. Now he knows where you live. How could you be so stupid?
It was the champagne. She wasn’t a good drinker; the meds made it even worse. One was always her limit in social settings. They’d ended up splitting a whole bottle of champagne, followed it with some crisp, cold Sancerre and a couple of croque monsieurs, and when she’d felt the warmth of his lips on her neck, delicately asking without saying a word, she’d thrown caution to the wind, as she did, and suggested she take him home.
It had been her idea. Make no mistake. Though she’d been loose with alcohol, she’d wanted Constantine badly, wanted to feel those fingers trailing along her thighs, wanted the oblivion she knew she’d find with him.
Inside her flat, the door barely closed, when he’d kissed her on the lips, gently at first, then insistent, something inside her cracked open. She could barely see straight with the thought of it, the desire, the wanting.
It wasn’t the first time she’d bedded a stranger. Ethan was simply the one she’d married.
Constantine had been a lovely diversion, but she had work to do. The night was young and fresh, early moonlight spilling in the window, the clock pushing ten, and she was desperate to get some words down from her earlier thoughts.
Hair wet and draped into a loose bun, she sat at the desk and opened her computer. For the briefest of moments, she laid her fingers on the keys and wanted, so badly, to open her internet browser and type in her name. See what the world was saying about her. But she knew that was how she’d be found. One of the books she’d read had been very specific. It was by a skip tracer, a man who hunted down people who disappeared to avoid jail, or paying large sums in divorce settlements. People who faked their own death.
The first rule: don’t Google yourself.
She slapped the laptop closed. Sipped some water. She had a dreadful headache from the champagne, and the sex. An orgasm hangover.
She’d followed all the steps, all the rules, for disappearing. For the few weeks leading up to her departure, she’d carefully plotted out her path without a qualm. She needed the freedom of starting over. She needed the anonymity being in this city could bring her. She couldn’t be Sutton Montclair anymore.
But just in case someone really came looking for her, like a detective, or private investigator, she’d followed the course of action she’d found in a book. It was a trick recommended for battered wives who need to leave their husbands. She’d left behind a single Post-it note with a single phone number in her Day Runner. The phone number rang directly to the Metro Nashville Sex Crimes desk.
If—if—a professional investigator came searching for her, they’d get that number and realize she was running away from an abusive relationship. They’d back off. They’d leave her be. She’d be free.
When she’d left the number, she’d felt badly about it, for a fraction of a second. The police might think there was foul play, a woman disappearing from her life in such a manner. They might look at Ethan. They might make his life hell. But he’d made her life hell, so tit for tat seemed fair enough.
The thought of his name, his face, so familiar to her, caused the strange feeling of love commingled with guilt and hate to rise up in her. She must stop thinking about the past. She needed something to help her focus on the future.
Constantine? Perhaps, though she hardly wanted more than a roll in the hay from the man. He’d be gone soon enough, and she could continue moving on with her life. Justine Holliday was writing a book in Paris, and it was going to be a smash hit.