For a moment, I’m so stunned that all I can do is experience it. The taste of Neil is familiar now, in a way that always undoes me.
But I can’t let him wreck me like this. Not when I’m too emotional to survive it. I put both hands on his hard chest, planning to shove him away.
And then I don’t. Instead, I kiss him back so hard that it might leave a bruise.
With a huff of rage, he nips my lip. I retaliate by breaking away to run my teeth down his neck. His skin is so smooth over all that muscle. I run my tongue along the place where my teeth just traveled.
“Mark me.” His voice is a dare. “You know you want to.”
My nipples harden, and it pisses me off. “You don’t know what I want!”
“Yeah, sure I don’t.” He snorts.
Goddamn you! I want to scream. But you can’t scream and suck on someone’s neck, which is what I’m doing. I’m marking him. Once he put that idea into my head, I wanted it just like every other damn thing he’s ever suggested.
He groans when I bite the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Fuck, Charli. Harder.”
I stop, of course, because I’m not in the mood to take orders. I need space. The familiar clean scent of his shampoo makes me ache.
Strong arms wrap around my torso, and the craving hits me so hard that the only way to save myself is to push him off me. Before it’s too late.
I do the exact opposite thing. I soften my body into the hard cage of his embrace. It’s a tactic to make your tormentor think you’ve given in. Then you bide your time for a few beats and take him by surprise.
That’s the way it’s supposed to go, anyway. But Neil makes a sound that short-circuits my brain as his mouth travels down my jaw—it’s a broken groan. His hands grow supple against my back.
I lose my own battle as Neil rolls me onto my back and kisses my neck.
The throat is one of the most vulnerable parts of the body. I know how to protect mine. But as soon as Neil’s stubble grazes my heated skin, I lift my chin and offer myself up like the loser I’ve become.
My traitorous nipples are like pebbles now. Neil doesn’t miss it, either. He makes another bitten-off groan that rattles my heart. His broad hand skims up my tummy, cupping my bare breast inside my tank. His grip on my flesh grows possessive, and I feel myself get wet because of it.
I want to weep from anger and confusion. I shouldn’t do this again.
I shouldn’t want to. “This is the only way you know how to win an argument,” I hiss.
“You fight dirty,” he says. “Why shouldn’t I?”
I don’t, I try to say. But it comes out as a whimper.
You’re breaking me. Right in half.
Neil keeps pretending we’re a couple. Taking me to dinner. Shopping for a couch. It suckers me in the same way a mirage in the desert lures thirsty nomads.
The worst part? He doesn’t even know he’s being cruel.
Giving me all this sweetness—but temporarily.
Just a fling.
Before we get divorced.
So he should stop sucking on my breasts the way he’s doing now.
He should stop looking at me like he cares. I’ve seen that look before, and it always betrays me.
I toss off my tank top anyway.
Then I kick my shorts off the bed. When he covers me with his bulky heat, I run my fingernails down his back a little too sharply.
In answer, Neil grabs my hands and pins me to the bed. He uses a muscular knee to nudge mine apart, before filling me with his cock in one sudden thrust.
I suck in air as my body responds shamelessly. The feel of him is always overwhelming. Every time.
He doesn’t give me a chance to acclimate. He moves right away, setting a pace that’s half lust, half punishment.
I bury my face in his neck and take it. No—I revel in it.
Like we both knew I would.
THIRTY-ONE
PRACTICING MY I’M SORRY SPEECH
Neil
I wake up the next morning face down in the bed. It’s awfully quiet in this room, and before I’m even fully conscious, I feel regret pooling in my stomach.
Call me hopeful or call me stupid, but I stretch out an arm, hoping to find Charli’s smoother one. I find only cool sheets.
Regret hardens into dread.
Last night I’d fought with the person I care about most. I’d been impatient. I’d pushed.
Hell, there had been panic in her eyes, but I hadn’t shut up. I’d just kept arguing my position.
She’d said, you’re not listening. So I’d talked some more.
And then I’d tried to make it all better by jumping her like a beast. Like a horny, bossy dick. We’d had epic sex. It had not been the answer. Charli had accused me of always pushing for more from her.
I’m so damn guilty. Goddammit.
My head actually throbs. I feel hungover—but not from alcohol. It’s the sour taste of remorse.
I did everything wrong last night.
So I guess I’m about to spend the day apologizing. I sit up fast, looking around. There’s no sign of Charli anywhere. Her clothes aren’t on the floor where we tossed them. And when I listen, the apartment is completely still.
Shit! My heart kicks with the certainty that she’s gone. Really gone. There’s no evidence at all that she was here.
Sliding off the bed, I trudge into the bathroom. I relax a little. Her makeup kit is on the counter, tucked up against the wall, as if it’s trying to stay out of the way. Her toothbrush is perched on top of it.
I let out a breath. Okay, dumbass. She’s just gone to work early.
It’s only seven o’clock. I’m not due at the rink for two more hours. I can either pace around the apartment practicing my I’m sorry speech, or I can get outside and move my body.
Easy decision. I hastily put on some running clothes and shoes and tuck my phone into my arm band.
February is pretty cold in Brooklyn. There’s a fierce wind, so after about five minutes on the waterfront, I’m regretting all my life choices.
I’m still an asshole, but now I’m a cold one. And where’s Charli? She’s probably at work.
I have to know, so I turn my freezing face away from the river and pick up my speed, heading for the diner. It takes five minutes to get there. The bells on the door announce my arrival, and Charli glances up. She swallows nervously but puts on her mask of indifference so quickly I’m not sure it wasn’t my imagination.
The place is quiet, because it’s still early. Only two tables have customers, and the counter is empty. I take a seat on one of the stools.
A moment later, my wife slides a menu in front of me. “What can I get you?” she asks politely.
Shit.
“Charli,” I rasp. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
She swallows. “I’m fine, Neil. I’m always fine. Coffee?” She plunks a mug onto the counter and pours, like nothing happened. As if last night didn’t wreck us both.
She adds the cream.
I take a slow breath. Getting angry won’t help. Besides, I’m only angry at myself. “Would you do me the kindness of letting me apologize? I wouldn’t ask, except it’s dead in here right now, and it’s game night, so we won’t see each other all day and night.”