I whimper, an ache inside me that is almost painful in its intensity. “I am yours. You are everything.”
He moans at the words, dropping my legs and moving above me, his movements now unrestrained—full, deep thrusts that arc me higher, higher, higher. His face close to mine, features tight, breath ragged, fast movements that put his cock exactly where, exactly when, and exactly how I need it.
My orgasm hits—a blinding, waving curve of pleasure, peaking and falling, every thrust bringing me a fresh hit of sensation, breathing life and keeping its momentum, the moment impossibly long, then I am nothing but languid pleasure.
He doesn’t stop, the drilling force of him bringing me back to the present, my legs wrapping around and gripping the hard muscle of his ass, my hands clutching and nails digging into his back, our bodies meeting in perfect orchestration until his eyes clench. He grunts, giving me four deep, hard thrusts, the proof of his finish shooting inside of me, physical heat pooling as he shudders and then is still.
“Fuck …” he whispers, hovering above me, his eyes on mine, wonder in them. “You have no idea how incredible that was.” He rolls off me and onto his back, his cock pulling out, my body wanting it the moment it is gone. I roll over, curling up against his side, my hands unstoppable in their quest to touch, my fingers trailing up and over the lines of his abs, settling and stopping against his chest, his heart pounding beneath my palms.
“I didn’t do much,” I say, closing my eyes. “I just laid there.”
“You don’t have to do much,” he says groggily, his mouth pressing gently against my hair. “You do me in with just a smile.”
We are lying there, naked and half asleep, when the door opens and the end of my world walks in.
CHAPTER 52
She is beautiful, but I already knew that. The day after Drew told me about Cecile, I went to the library and used one of their computers. My hands felt foreign on the keyboard, the mouse awkward in my hand. Photos of them were all over the Internet—dominating old society articles, charity postings, and Facebook mentions. Our trip to Napa, the paparazzi shots of us at events—it is a drop in the bucket compared to their two years together. And as gorgeous as she looked in those photos, it pales in comparison to the woman standing before me.
Blonde, with green eyes that match Drew’s, golden skin that highlights a thin frame, statuesque face, and soft lips. Lips that are parted, eyes that are wide, perfect breasts that heave as she gasps, her eyes darting from Nathan to me. Nathan to me. Her eyes grow wet, the dewy effect only making her more fucking beautiful.
“I’m so … sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t think … I should have knocked …” She lifts a shaky hand to her mouth, and turns, stepping toward the hall before looking back, anguish filling her face, and then she slumps. Eyes closing, knees collapsing, crumples to the floor, in the most graceful faint I have ever seen. Nathan jumps, finally in motion, rushing to her side, kneeling there at the same time that Mark appears in the doorway, his face tight.
“Did someone …” His voice fails when he takes in the situation, his eyes zeroing in on the limp blonde, sinking to his knees, his hand grabbing hers.
I leave the three of them in the large master, sneaking past their threesome and to the opposite side of the house. Nathan, with his beautifully nude, hard body, bending over her and uttering soft words of love. Mark, elevating her feet, his figure running to the kitchen for a glass of water. Cecile, in the middle of it all, her beautiful features slack, breathing soft, blonde hair tangled around Nathan’s fingers.
I enter my new room, walk naked to the bed, and sink onto it. My world zeroes in on that image, her one easy reentry into a life that I had just made my own.
I don’t think there are enough words to describe how much I hate that bitch.
It was cruel for my mind to ever convince my heart that I had a chance. Of course she came back. Who wouldn’t? But then again, who would ever leave Nathan to begin with? I tell myself that I didn’t have enough time—that if I had longer, a few years, I might have been able to wrangle his heart, erase her memory, make him my own.
But it hasn’t been long enough. And with her here … I know what is coming. I know it despite the heated words I hear from my side of the house. I know without looking, without waiting, what Nathan will do. He loves her in a way that I can only dream for. Unconditionally, the hold she has on his heart tight and complete. He lives for her, works for her, breathes for her, loves for her. There is no one else in his world, no room for anyone else in his heart. I should have known, should have stopped my heart from skipping down fairytale lane, planting expectations, hopes and dreams that will never receive any nourishment.
I open Drew’s old closet, and step in, looking through my racks of clothes and wonder what to take—what I have a right to. She won’t want my clothes, won’t wear the hand-me-downs. But she's a woman. We are possessive, territorial. I can’t see her sitting by and watching me cart a fortune of clothes out the front door.
I grab a small Vuitton duffel and ignore the designer threads, throwing a few pairs of jeans and five or six of my favorite tops inside, dressing in something similar, lacing up tennis shoes and pulling my hair into a ponytail. I am zipping up my makeup bag, examining a Tag Heuer watch that Nathan gave me, when darkness blankets the room, a large form blocking the sunlight.
“I like you better naked.” There is a smile in his voice. A fucking smile, at a time when my heart is hanging by threads in my chest.
I force my own lips to curve, command my voice to be light. “Most men do.”
He steps inside, walking over to me. I want to tell him to stop. I try and force my legs to back away, my head to turn, but I can't. I just stand there, helpless, and wait for more heartbreak. He sighs, leaning forward and resting his forehead against mine, exhaling a slow, long breath of … what? Frustration? Anguish? A hopeful little voice in my head adds regret to the list of improbable translations.
He pulls back, lifting his chin and planting a soft kiss on my forehead, holding the contact for a heartbeat longer than necessary, my heart rising and soaring on the pipe dream of what he might say.
“I don’t know what to say,” he says softly. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Hope, a thin painful strand of it, glows.
“It doesn’t seem fair to you.”