Page 32 of Two Wrongs
Maybe there’s an ounce of love left in him even if he doesn’t want it anymore.
I bite my lip against the tears sure to form, but then Sandy moves in front of me, and I close my eyes and see Dylan no more. Bending over me, he draws my nipple into his mouth, groaning his appreciation while he paws my other breast as he begins to walk me backwards to the bed. He doesn’t quite push me onto the mattress, and I don’t exactly fall, but this is where I land, and suddenly, he’s over me. Working his way up my body. Whispering words that don’t make any sense—words that can’t take up residence in my head for all the thoughts I have there.
I can do this. I can—I will.
Fifteen minutes out of your life.
Fifteen minutes to erase the past for us both.
And if I’m lucky, he’ll only be inside me three.
A warm, wet mouth. A willing tongue, dragging nearer and nearer to my mouth.
Panic crawls into my throat, a ball big enough to choke me. My arms are jerky, my instinct to reach out—to push him off—while the hairs on my neck stand like pins.
I can do this. I won’t give Dylan the satisfaction of my naked retreat. I’m not going to cower in a corner while he sees off this man. While he looks at me with disgust. While he hates me for still wanting him.
Because he’s not the only one who’s sick.
I try to take myself out of the moment. To go to that euphemistic happy place, but my happy place was always with Dylan. And usually in bed.
Sandy’s hands are on my hips, kneading my flesh; his mouth enthusiastic and wet as it makes its way to my neck.
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 isa 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.
