“Bye, kiddo,” I tell her, and lean down to plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Keep your dad on his toes, all right?”
She looks up and just bares her teeth at me, making a grrr sound.
“Just like that,” I tell her, and then she runs back to her blocks.
I leave my mom’s house, get in my car, and drive to Harrisonburg without stopping.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Delilah
Still Six and a Half Years Ago
I get to the hotel before he does, and I have a drink. Then another. Both whiskey sours, both stronger than you’d think in a hotel bar.
Then I get a room and pay in cash. Not two days ago, my lawyer suggested that any unseemly behavior could be used against me in court if Nolan felt like making this more difficult or dragging this out.
Not that it really matters. We’ve agreed in writing to split the house down the middle, and after that he keeps what’s his and I keep what’s mine. It’s all in a trust, any way. We don’t have kids or other shared property, so according to my lawyer, after the mandatory six-month separation I’m free and clear.
Right now I’m subletting, using my dad’s money to live, figuring out what to do next. I know it’s a luxury that I don’t need to have a plan yet.
Another whiskey sour. I try to make friends with the bartender, but she’s not really interested. I google go to college for art on my phone.
When Seth walks in, it feels like the whole bar turns sideways, then rights itself. He looks around for a moment, sees me sitting on a stool, walks over. Hops up himself.
Orders a whiskey and puts his hand on my knee below the bar, on bare skin. I turn toward him.
“Thanks for coming,” I say. “And on such short notice.”
Seth just gives me a long, slow look. I’m wearing a tank top and shorts, and I wish I were wearing either more or less. More, if I wanted him to take me seriously.
Less, if I were being honest about what I want.
“Want to go sit in a booth?” I ask, nodding toward the back. His hand has already crept a couple inches up my thigh, and there’s a corresponding ache in my core. “Easier to talk.”
“Sure,” he says, that sandpaper-on-velvet voice low.
We pretend to talk for another five minutes, but we don’t really say anything. Already his hand is up my shorts and I’m practically in his lap, his erection thick steel under my thigh, when we finally kiss.
I moan when we do, because I’m drunk and a little desperate and a lot horny, because I’m twenty-three and just got divorced and I want someone to fuck me without hoping he’ll knock me up.
In response Seth bites my lip and shoves his hand under my panties, stroking one thumb over my slick folds right there in the hotel bar.
The booth’s not dark enough. People are starting to look over at us but before anything can say anything, we throw back the rest of our drinks and I pull Seth to the elevator, the fifth floor, into the room I haven’t even seen yet.
I’m out of my clothes in seconds, then him. We haven’t even gotten to the light switch and I’m on my knees, his cock in my mouth and then my throat and his hand in my hair and I moan again with pure relief that this is happening, that my long mistake is finally over.
Relief that I’m wanted, not tolerated.
Too soon Seth pulls my head back, drags his thumb over my lips.
“Bed,” he says, quiet in the dark. “Now.”
He pushes me in front of him, sprawls me back onto the white expanse. Spreads my thighs and slides three fingers into me and strokes himself with the other hand and oh God I can’t stop moaning, whimpering, making desperate little noises like I’m starved for attention.
“Condom?” he asks, crooking his fingers inside me so hard my hips rise off the bed in pleasure.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
For the first time since he walked into the bar, Seth pauses.
“Birth control,” I say again, pushing my hips against his hand. “It’s fine.”
Technically it’s an IUD. Technically those three little letters are the lynchpin of my divorce, but none of that’s important right now.
The only important part is how much I want Seth to fuck me bare.
He pulls his fingers out, licks them clean as I stare up at him. It’s something he’s never done before but holy shit it’s hot, watching him casually taste me as he strokes his huge, thick cock.
I’m alight with anticipation.
“Hands and knees,” he says, and I obey, arching my back, offering myself as he climbs onto the bed behind me.
Hands on my thighs, my hips. One rough thumb brushing past my clit and I move my hips backward with a gasp, practically begging. I know what he must think but I don’t care.
Then he’s at my entrance and his fingers sink into my hips and my fists clench in anticipation and I hold my breath, waiting, waiting.
He bottoms out with one hard stroke, and I groan. My toes curl and my face is somehow buried in the hotel bed comforter, hands fisted around the ugly floral pattern. Seth uses my hips as leverage and on the next hard, fast stroke I swear he sinks even deeper and then even deeper and I’m rocking back against him, moaning and whimpering and God, I missed him.
It doesn’t last long. I come at near-lightning speed, still shouting into the comforter, and he’s right behind me, burying himself deep and growling so fucking good goddamn while he comes inside me.
He rolls off. We clean up. We don’t get dressed, but we do turn on the lights.
Twenty minutes later, we do it again.
For nearly forty-eight hours, we don’t leave the room. I put on the robe to accept room service a few times, but it’s the most clothing I wear the whole weekend.
If think about this too much, I know I’ll feel guilty, so I try not to think. I know what people would say if they knew that practically the second I filed for divorce, I was in bed with my ex. I’ve got a feeling that if Nolan, my almost-ex-husband found out, he’d use it as grounds to drag this out a little longer.
Six months, my lawyer said. We were only married for twenty. We should’ve been married for zero.
“I should head back tonight,” Seth says from the other side of the bed, propped on three different pillows. “I’ve got work tomorrow and they might have reported me as a missing person already.”
“They?” I ask, lazily, lying flat on no pillows, staring up at the ceiling.
“My brothers,” he says, pushing himself to sitting. “I left somewhat abruptly, and my phone ran outta juice last night.”
“My charger’s on the desk,” I say, pointing. “You can unplug mine.”
“Thanks.”
He stands, walks to the desk, plugs in his phone. He’s completely and utterly naked, moving as if he’s never heard the word modesty in his life, running a hand through his messy hair, tossing his phone onto the desk, scratching his chest while it boots back up.
I just watch, because Seth is beautiful. He looks pretty much the same as the last time I saw him naked — tall, wide shoulders, tapered waist, hint of a six-pack, muscled thighs, huge dick — though maybe a little bigger in the arms and shoulders, like he’s been working out.