Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2) Page 10

  Can I cope with him kissing me? Why does this seem so wrong—more so than a three-minute fuck?

  I tip my chin and roll my neck, hoping to hide one rogue tear, my despair and loathing causing me to breathe through a series of tiny, shallow breaths.

  I won’t push him off. I won’t let Dylan win.

  I forcibly relax my hands from fists, my gaze sliding to the side of the room unconsciously. How can he sit there sipping his drink so calmly? Why isn’t the sight of me spread out under another man hurting him?

  I hiccup a short sob and tilt my head to study him—to see a crack in that cool reserve. His glass is still balanced in one hand, the fingers of his other tapping arrhythmically on the arm of the chair, but then he sees me watching and curls them instead to grip. The action says something to me—something unacknowledged by my brain, as far as I can tell.

  We’re both pretending this moment, this act of insanity, isn’t having any effect. The realisation makes my blood boil. Yes, the blood running through my veins at forty-proof doesn’t help, but I’m so bloody angry. So sodding angry—fucking angry, in fact.

  I curl my fingers around Sandy’s shoulders and my legs around his waist. Moreover, I do so enthusiastically while writhing against him, digging my nails into his flesh. But I still can’t let him kiss me and push his head into my shoulder instead.

  It’s here our gazes connect, over the stranger’s sandy head. But my husband isn’t looking at me with longing or love. No, he stares with a mixture of desire and hate. Maybe he desires to hate me, or maybe he hates what he desires? Either way, he’s looking at me like I’m going to pay.

  ‘Fuck you,’ I mouth silently. And one more time for good luck. ‘Just fuck you.’

  He blinks slowly; once, twice. Then he slams the glass down with a shattering sound.

  ‘That’s enough.’ His voice isn’t loud, but it might’ve been less frightening if he’d actually yelled. ‘Get the fuck off my wife.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dylan

  If revenge is a dish best served cold, then it seems I’m not quite cool enough to partake. Ordinarily, I can do indifferent anytime of the day, but it seems not with her. Never with her. I thought I was ready. It’s not like she left yesterday, and it’s not like my plans for today are something I’d put together overnight.

  I’d thought about it.

  Long and hard.

  Strategized.

  Theorized.

  Obsessed.

  Then released the tape of us fucking to show that I was capable of hurting her further than she’d ever appreciate. I wasn’t her Dylan anymore. I was some other kind of hell. I wanted her to know I meant business. And that my business was severance. I needed to be done with her. But right now, I want things I shouldn’t. I want to hurt those things myself, and I feel anything but cool.

  I’ve been kidding my fucking self.

  Point: My mouth is dry.

  I take a mouthful from my glass.

  Point: My skin feels pierced by a million hot pins.

  I feed a finger into the neck of my shirt, pulling it away from my skin.

  My jaw aches, heat creeping up my chest as I force myself to watch the freak show.

  A freak show of my making. Bodies dancing to my tune.

  Point: My eyes won’t move from my near naked wife.

  Her body is almost rigid, and I hate myself for feeling any sort of sympathy for her distress. She looks like she wants to push him bodily away—erase the feel of him from her palms by rubbing them against the bed.

  I get no satisfaction from that.

  Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! Why didn’t I factor in my reactions to this travesty? Blinded by so much hurt and anger, I gave no thought to how being in the room would feel. Maybe that’s not true. I was convinced I’d feel vindicated. Victorious. I thought I’d feel triumph, not pain.

  Yet it hurts to watch Ivy’s distress.

  A better man would stop this, but I’m not him, that better man. I have no choice. I need this to happen—for our ties to be severed irrevocably. I need this. To move on. Because it’s clear I haven’t. And by her reactions, it could be that neither of us has.

  It was easier when I didn’t know—easier when I thought she was an unfaithful whore. And even though it makes not one ounce of sense, I get no satisfaction from being wrong.

  Out of all the men at that fucking party, she finds a gay one to take her home.

  Why couldn’t she have done it right—broke my heart cleanly instead of leaving it fractured and leaking hate?

  That fucking girl. It was easier when I thought she was a slut. Easier when I tried to convince myself she’d moved on in Scotland. Until she confirmed my worst nightmare; no one else had been inside her since.

  I can’t say the same. I’ve fucked my way through LA. I don’t like who I’ve become, and I can’t even say it was fun while it lasted. I blame her for that, too.

  When this is done—when she’s done—I’m gone. Moving on and moving away. I can’t stay in this room, or the place that was our home, for a moment more than necessary because the scent of her assaults my memories, sucking me back in time. To kissing her our first time. To fucking in our bed. To hating her so much, I could’ve wrapped my hands around her neck.

  I’m angry, not jealous, I tell myself. This is a fucking of my bidding, even if she wasn’t supposed to go through with it. Not without some persuading, at least, to provide me with the satisfaction of putting her there. I’d thought the moment someone tried to kiss her, slide her a little tongue, she’d be out. I thought she’d beg for mercy. Appeal to the husband in me.

  I flex my fingers as the bastard begins sucking on her neck. I must keep calm. Remember I’m here to punish. Not protect.

  Punish myself, maybe.

  I run my tongue over my teeth because I can smell her; smell her perfume. The lotion she rubs on her legs, and the shit she sprays in her hair. Her scent—that unique mixture of sweetness and sex—coats the inside of my mouth and drips down the back of my throat like the nectar from between her legs.

  But it’s not me who gets to fuck her now; that was never my plan. Why the hell can’t my body get on board? Why, after everything, do I crave to taste her myself?

  The fucker’s fingers are tight on her nipples, and he’s all slick fucking tongue. Breaths begin to heave from her chest in small bursts. My stomach along with it. Heaving. Lurching. The bourbon threatening a comeback appearance—a one-night-only kind of deal.

  The gods of revenge are cruel because not only can I smell her, but I also smell him. Fucktard’s cloying cologne and beer, I think. His hand grasps her hip, plucking the tiny string of her panties. Is that what comes next? They come off then he comes? She comes? What if he wants to eat her out? Is that the kind of fleshy recompense I want to watch?

  She sees me watching, and before I can wonder what’s apparent on my face, she’s grabbing him. Rubbing herself against him like she’s a cat and he’s the thing she suddenly needs to scratch that itch. Like she’s so into him. Like she’s desperate.

  Ivy lifts her head, honey eyes burning, her lip curled back. Before it’s even a thought in her head, I know what she’s going to say.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she mouths silently. A look right into her brain.

  Fuck you. And against everything, I want her to.

  Still. Always.

  ‘That’s enough.’ I hear the words before the neurons connect, my voice belonging to someone else. Something else. ‘Get the fuck off my wife.’ He doesn’t hear me, or maybe he does. Maybe he’s adjusting to the reality of blue balls. ‘I said get the fuck out.’

  The asshole leans up on one elbow; his pelvis pushed between her open legs. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? Does she look like she wants me to move?’

  She looks like she’d screw you to spite me, I don’t say, while hating every minute of it. I don’t answer him at all, conscious only of the fact that I’m moving. Synapses firing, neurons delayed, and before I can acknowle
dge it, I know I’m going to hurt him.

  ‘What the fuck!’

  His shoulder in my grip, I tear him from between her legs. He rolls awkwardly, slipping from the edge of the bed. Falling. Splayed out on his back. Crawling backwards like a crab. ‘Hey, take it easy, man. I get it; you changed your mind, but you invited me here—’

  I invited him here to fuck my wife. What does that make me?

  I stop. I glare. I try to make sense of the animal I’ve become as both hands rake through my hair.

  ‘Get the fuck out.’ The words are harsh, and my throat burns.

  ‘S-sure thing.’

  He leaves. I don’t watch, but I doubt he looks back as I turn my gaze to my quarry. The girl on the bed. My wife clad in nothing but a thin sheen of fear and a scrap of underwear. Ready to fuck someone else at my behest.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she hisses, scrambling backward to the head of the bed.

  ‘You’d like that.’

  I grab her ankle, the bones delicate beneath my fingers. Stare at her dark painted toes. I don’t feel right. I’m amped—feel uncontrolled—like I’ve somehow stepped out of myself. This isn’t who I am yet not someone I’m pretending to be. I love my job—love slipping into a role—but this isn’t the same. Emotions and reactions, I collect. I hoard them like a squirrel for when I play professional pretend. For when I place myself in someone else’s skin. A scene, a photo shoot. An interview.

  But that’s not what’s happening now, and this person, the person I am right now? He won’t be the same once he leaves this room.

  ‘Dylan.’ Her voice is husky with emotion, her eyes laced with sex. ‘Please.’

  I look up from her foot in my hand. ‘Please?’ My brow furrows because I don’t understand. Any of it. I don’t understand a thing. I don’t know why she hurt me or why I’m trying to hurt her back.

  ‘You want reasonable?’ I ask. ‘How can I be reasonable, and how can you ask that?’ She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off as words begin to spew. ‘For fucking months, you let me think you’d screwed him—and I don’t know which is worse; that you didn’t, or that you might have.’

  ‘Maybe if I had, you wouldn’t be acting like a jerk.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I whisper, tugging hard on her foot and pulling her to the end of the bed. ‘But that’s the difference between you and me.’ Her arms frame a halo of dark hair above her head; her knees bent over the edge of the mattress. I make quick work of sliding them wider and slipping between.

  ‘I’m a jerk who owns up to his mistakes.’ Bending, I brace myself over her body, one hand pressed into the mattress by her head. Somehow, my other hand seems to have a mind of its own, running through those dark, silky strands. ‘You might have secured a divorce without sullying yourself. But me, babe? I’m not so lucky. I’ve fucked anything with tits and an ass.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asks, even as I draw closer tilting my head, my intention clear.

  ‘Adding one more mistake to my tally,’ I reply, watching as the realisation dawns in her gaze. The lust and the relief. ‘Because I’m going to fuck my wife.’

  I lower my head an inch farther until her hand and my chest connect.

  ‘Dylan, do you think this is a good idea?’

  You were the love of my life, and you didn’t want to be. The words choke me. I can’t say them. Not without coming apart at the seams. And I’ll wear your name on my heart until the day I fucking die.

  Instead, I answer simply, ‘It’s not up for discussion, babe.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dylan

  Our mouths meet, but this is no soft reunion. Despite the loss and regret, the confusion and pain, this is no tentative incident. My kiss is hard—punishing lips and grazing teeth. I fuck her mouth with my tongue, mean and possessive, while she takes it all. Participates. Moaning into my mouth, she threads her legs around my waist, hooking them over my back; her heels pull my hips into hers. Hands in my hair, she draws it into her fists, jerking me closer, as though she can’t get enough. As though she wants this to hurt.

  If this kiss is our punishment, take a whip to us both. We’re free-falling now, and there is no reverse. I’m not braced on my arms; my body is flush against hers. I wonder if she can feel me shaking—shaking like it’s my first time. I wonder if she can feel my heart pounding—wonder if hers beats the same rapid tune. And all the while I’m barely processing, I’m trying to climb inside her skin. Scraping my teeth over her neck. Grinding against her. Getting her off yet barely touching her.

  But I will. I have no intentions of going anywhere. Yet I wait. Vacillate. Not because I’m reluctant and nostalgia has no place here. Adrenaline floods my veins until I can feel my body almost vibrating, the anticipation like a high. I physically tremble. Maybe it’s need, or maybe it’s because I know it’s gonna hurt. Afterwards. This isn’t one of my finest moments, but it’s the only one I want. I crave the high of this ride.

  Rammed tight between her legs, I rest my weight on one elbow and slide my hand down her curves, ignoring the glint from the ring of gold she wears on a chain around her neck. Cheap piece of shit. I’d bought her a diamond band to replace it—ethically sourced diamonds, handmade artisan. The kind of ring that cost almost as much as my sister’s condo. At least, she was grateful. Ivy, on the other hand, rarely wore it and left it behind. Get in the game, Dylan. Get the fuck out of your head.

  My fingers barely caress the side of her breast. God, I’ve missed this—missed the tiny intake of breath she’s not even aware of making. Missed the high colour in her cheeks and the mahogany of her hair. Her skin is so soft, her hair so dark and silky, and her pussy so . . . sublime.

  And still mine.

  Clenching my hand at her hip, I twist the pale string of her panties cruelly, aware that the string will be digging into her skin. Not that her face betrays any of this. She’s all languid eyes and soft and rapid breath. Her lips are cherry ripe, and all her dirty thoughts are written across her face.

  ‘New panties, Edera?’ My voice is soft, mocking, as I feel the fibres in my hand divide. ‘I hope you weren’t too attached to them.’

  She moans aloud as the string snaps in my hand, but I leave them attached to her other hip. Lying the lace triangle against her thigh, I slip my hand between her legs and slide my fingers along her slit until her juices coat my fingertips. Slick. Hot. Heaven.

  ‘This for me or for him?’

  I’m not watching her face; my gaze remains intent between her legs because she won’t answer. Not verbally, at least, as she widens her legs and tilts her hips as though the change in angle will give her relief. Something snags my focus—something not quite right. Her body’s giving the right signals, but she makes little noise. As I look up into her face, her eye contact is nil. Ivy’s all about the connection; at least, she was. Lustful glances and tender touches. Sighs offered like secrets told. And now, her eyes are closed. Disconnected. That’s not what I need.

  ‘Answer me.’ My voice is rough and gravelly, the grip on my temper fucking tenuous. Thin. ‘Me or him. It’s an easy question. Who made you wet—fucking dripping?’ She looks like she’s about to tell me to go get fucked when I slide two fingers down her slit then push them inside. ‘Just the tips, Edera, baby. Those are just the tips. Your pussy’s so wet and ready, but I need to know if it’s for me or for him.’

  Her lush bottom lip is folded between her teeth as though she’s determined to keep the words in. So I push those fingers in—all the way in until her wetness coats my knuckles. My dick throbs when she rewards me with a sharp exhale like the sensation is brand new. Like we haven’t done this before a thousand times.

  ‘It’s you. It’s always been you, you . . . twat.’

  I laugh unexpectedly. It’s such an Ivy choice of word. Not that she’d admit it to anyone else, but this girl can swear like a sailor’s whore. She swallows, watching my face—my laugh—in her own a moment of regret. One I don’t want to think about, so I kiss her. Pull my
fingers out. Rotate. Push them back in.

  ‘Open those legs, baby.’ I whisper the words against her mouth. ‘Let me see that pussy.’

  Like the good girl she likes to think she is, she does.

  I nip at her neck. Use my teeth harder. Bite. Soothe with my tongue. Lave and lap. Grip her pulse so hard between my teeth that she gasps. And all the while, she yields, legs spread, pushing up into my hand when I cover her mound. Grinds her clit against my palm and, to my profound surprise and delight, she comes hard. Surprise because I’m not inside her. Don’t have my mouth on her or fingers inside her anymore, only my palm. And she’s groaning, blissing out, releasing tremulous breath after breath. And fuck me, if this isn’t the hottest thing I’ve been near to in months. Seen in months. My darling Ivy. A little thinner. A little harder. But maybe a little more than I deserve.

  I slide my way down her body before she has time to catch her breath. I want to be inside her so badly but crave her taste. I flick my tongue on either side of her lips, and she moans. Slipping my tongue through her wetness, I feel her arch from the bed with a cry.

  ‘Hush.’ I place my palm low on her stomach and press down, taking her clit softly into my mouth.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ she pants. I smile from nostalgia. From this girl’s sweet, filthy mouth.

  ‘What was that?’ I growl against her wetness, knowing how the vibration works for her.

  ‘Oh, fuck. Fuck me.’ She arches again.

  ‘You don’t need to ask twice, baby, but for now, I’ve gotta keep tasting.’

  ‘Yes!’ More hiss than word.

  ‘Yes, what?’ More taunt than response.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she cries, as I use the roughness of my stubble against where she’s most soft. ‘Please. Taste me. Fuck me with your mouth, Dylan. Make me come!’

  So I do. I fuck her with my tongue using my fingers and an arsenal of stubble, lips, and teeth. I flick and suck, drawing every sensation from her body along with her cries. She tastes like . . . Ivy. Like I remember. Like the woman who was once my whole world.