Chapter Eleven
Spencer
Carlo and I have been sitting in a wine bar in Covent Garden for the last few hours while Carlo grills me about Kalie.
Both of us have consumed far more alcohol than we’re used to. Carlo’s never been a drinker, believing booze to be wasted calories.
“Explain again why this woman is so different? You’ve never let any of these girls get their hooks into you before,” Carlo states, shifting forward in his seat, his legs spread wide.
I scrutinize him. His pose is dominant, imposing. He reminds me of a cockerel puffing himself up before a fight. It’s fruitless. He knows as well as I do he won’t intimidate me into speaking to him.
However, he might harass me into it.
He’s fucking relentless once he’s got a bee in his bonnet. Even if I walked out of here now, he’d only follow me and badger me until I give him the information he’s demanding.
“Explain to me why any of this is any of your fucking business!” I snap back, frustrated that he’s forcing me to discuss my shameful misdemeanors.
He laughs darkly, before edging closer, closing the distance by half.
It’s impossible not to notice the way the cotton of his shirt strains over his muscular torso. His dark brown eyes, usually so soft when they land on me, show his irritation.
“It’s my fucking business because I love you, and I’m doing everything I can to help your confused mental state, as well as I suspect saving your fucking marriage, you twat.”
His accusing words clamp my teeth together.
I can’t deny that he’s right. My behavior recently has been reckless and stupid. Sophie is one in a million, but I’ve met a woman who distracts me from the pain of the relationship we lost years ago.
In those dark moments, in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep, I force myself to admit that I’m subconsciously punishing Sophie for changing the dynamic I enjoyed before our daughter was born. It’s wrong; I don’t dispute it’s wrong, but when Kalie’s so willing, I’m too weak to deny her.
Kalie is sexually uninhibited, just like my wife used to be and for now, Kalie’s satisfying me in a way other women, aside from my wife, never have.
It’s the oldest reason for a husband to stray in the book; my wife changed; or my wife doesn’t understand me; she’s let herself go. In truth, none of these is the issue. The problem is completely, unequivocally, mine.
Rubbing my lips together, I glance down at my drink.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, in a petulant manner.
Avoiding his scrutiny, I can’t bear to see the disappointment already etched in his expression.
This is the first time in twenty-three years that I’ve ever kept anything to myself. I’ve always shared everything with Carlo. Perhaps having some privacy is part of the novelty.
“And you’re prepared to lose Sophie over her?” he demands, no doubt because he knows it will hit a raw nerve.
A fizzing sensation at the base of my skull answers his question.
I hate the idea of losing Sophie, but I feel like someone has backed me into a corner, and my only way out is to fight.
Regularly, I try to excuse my actions, convincing myself that she was aware of the type of man she married. Yet, mentioning that at this moment will go down like a lead balloon.
Reaching behind my neck, I cup my head, massaging the tension that’s formed there and dispersing some of the tingling temporarily until it comes back stronger.
“I don’t want to lose Sophie or Lily, but Sophie has to do what’s right for her.”
My answer sounds cold and callous. Carlo sees straight through me, as he always does.
“You know what? I don’t think this has got anything to do with Kalie. You love Sophie, and you’d be fucking insane not to realize that you’ll never meet anyone else who’ll tolerate your kinks the way she does, without a shit ton of headaches.”
He puts his palms flat on the bar and leans back.
“This has to do with your self-esteem. You’ve tested that woman, pushing her away so fucking hard, because you’re aware everyone has their breaking point, and you want to be clear where hers is.”
I cock an eyebrow, refusing to admit how close he’s hitting.
“When the three of us were together, you constantly expected her to choose me but she didn’t. She loves you and even that isn’t enough. You’re punishing her for something she said when she was emotional.”
I grind my teeth, refusing to accept the truth.
“You do the same thing with me. You fucking want me. I know you do, but you refuse to admit, even to yourself, how much.”
“Full of yourself, much?” I drawl, despising how well he knows me.
“Don’t give me your shit, Spencer,” he hisses. “I deal with it too. You forced me away because you wanted to be Mr. Fucking-Normal.”
He leans closer again. His aggression rolling off him in waves.
“You’ve always hated the fact that I get you off harder than any woman could. Haven’t you?” He flicks his chin up. “You try to conceal it. Even from the women we fuck, but you need me just as much as I need you.”
I slump back, stunned by his vitriolic words.
“Sorry to shatter your illusion, sweetheart,” my tone drips with sarcasm, “but this is about me not you.”
“Really?” he challenges me. His hand brushes up my thigh.
The moment it touches me, my cock twitches for him.
He signals to the bartender, ordering six shots of tequila.
“What are you doing?”
“Loosening you up,” he admits.
We glance at the bartender who's pouring our drinks, neither of us speaking.
When the server moves away, my focus shifts to my friend. Our gazes lock as he licks his hand and pours a little salt onto the damp skin, before passing it to me.
Instead of using it, I watch as the flat of his tongue gathers a few grains of salt from his hand. The visuals he’s creating are sexy; I’m unable to tear my eyes from him. He downs his first glass of golden liquid in one, before pressing the lime into his mouth with a grimace.
Once he’s repeated the process one more time, he speaks again.
“You know, it hurts like fuck that you’re still ashamed of me.” His eyes flick to mine and the heat in them is impossible to disregard. “I miss you, man.”
His shoulders fold, and he hangs his head, leaving his words to circle in the surrounding air.
To distract myself, I tip some salt onto my hand, drinking back the liquid fire. For my second, I don’t bother with the salt, enjoying the burning sensation which distracts me from the torrent of emotions I’m dealing with.
I’m feeling a slight buzz. I pick up my third glass and neck that too.
At our all-boys boarding school, we weren’t the only boys who were inquisitive about each other’s bodies during puberty. But I suspect we’re the only ones who still partake from time to time.
I’ll never be able to deny to myself how much Carlo turns me on. But in the cold light of day, it seems wrong, very wrong. It wasn’t until Sophie said what she did that these concerns properly took root, but over the last few years they’ve matured.
Yet, no matter how hard I work to push them away, when we’re in the club, and I’m watching him bury his dick deep inside some woman we’ve only just met. It’s him I can’t take my eyes off, not her.
It’s as if an insatiable sense of possession sweeps over me, consuming me. I find it almost impossible to control. Hence, why recently I’ve made a point not to be there when he is.
On the first occasion, we were together after our relationship with Sophie ended, Carlo was determined to keep our fun going. He surprised me with a solution to guard our secrecy, while still enjoying each other’s bodies, and whatever pussy we had in the room.
His solution was to insist the women we were with wore an eye mask. He removed their vision and added noise-canceling headphones, which gave us a little more freedom.
Carlo understands I’m trying to resist him, but he’s also all too aware how to bait me. Frustratingly, I rise to his challenge every time.
Even tonight, I’m certain once my cock is in his mouth; I’ll be toast.
“I took Adrian Thomas to the club with me a few weeks back.”
My eyes shoot up to meet his.
“The guy with all the piercings from the gym?”
He nods, watching me closely.
Carlo and Adrian met through our kickboxing club. Adrian’s extremely vocal about being bisexual. I’ve often wondered if those two might get it on; Carlo is less secretive about his sexual fluidity than I am.
Anticipating the pairing doesn’t make the reality any more comfortable to hear, though. A heavyweight lodges in my gut, and a strange tingling sensation settles on the skin around my eye sockets bothering me. Jealousy.
It might be out of line but the thought of him enjoying another man seems like a betrayal.
I pick up my beer bottle and raise it to my lips, saying nothing.
“I couldn’t do it,” he states.
Swallowing the cold liquid, I turn to face him.
“Why?”
His eyes comb over my face for a moment, but he doesn’t speak.
Then, without answering my question, he takes his last shot. Once he’s swallowed it, his eyes flare with desire. It feels like the temperature in the room just increased by fifty degrees.
“He wasn’t you.”
A million fireworks explode in my chest, and I try not to visibly react.
I glance up at the ceiling, searching for inspiration.
“I think investing in Locked was a bad idea,” I admit, my voice low. We’re veering into choppy waters, and I need to steer us back to safety.
“Ya think?” Carlo replies, each word dripping with sarcasm.
Since day one, he told me I was insane to get involved with Locked.
“What’s that got to do with us?” he probes.
“I thought it’d be like someone working in a chocolate factory,” I continue, keen to distract him from his previous course.
His eyes narrow as he tries to understand my analogy.
“Apparently, most people eventually become sick of the smell and taste of chocolate.” I shake my head. “It hasn’t worked out that way.”
He turns back to the bar, shaking his own head as if he’s stunned.
“Are we talking about you and me, or the state of your marriage?”
I roll my head back, cracking my neck. It’s time to be honest; Carlo won’t judge me. He’s always had my back.
“All of it.”
His arms are trailing on the bar, and he peers over his arm at me.
“When we were together at the apartment for four years, you didn’t need anyone else.”
“It’s not about needing someone else.” I huff, irritated that I’m having to explain this in such detail.
“Well, now you’re going to have to explain because I’m right in the middle of this, and I don’t fucking understand.”
“Neither do I.”
I jerk my head up at the bartender, asking for another drink.
“I love Sophie. And I’m not an idiot; I’m aware I’ll never meet anyone I feel the same way about. But—”
I stop speaking abruptly, unsure if I can voice the issue that’s been plaguing me. Once I’ve said it out loud, I can’t take it back, and I’m not sure what that means.
“But what?” he prompts.
I stare at him gritting my teeth.
Our bartender places six shot glasses on the bar in front of us, and we both watch as he fills each to the brim.
The second he’s finished; I pick one up and slam it down. The honey-colored liquid burns all the way down.
Carlo’s tongue flicks over his hand; he adds some salt; the grains stick to the moist patch. He stoops his head to lick it off, but halts when I speak again.
“I can’t recreate the sensations I had with you and Sophie, or Chess, come to that.”
His head slowly pivots to me. He stares, and I wait to hear his conclusion, but it never comes. Like he’s frozen in position.
To challenge him, I pull his hand toward my mouth, licking the salt off before slamming another shot.
When my gaze meets his again, his eyebrows rise, shocked to witness me doing something so intimate in public.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you speechless before,” I tease.
He lifts his hand to his mouth, his tongue slowly licking over the trail of saliva I’ve left behind.
“Are we making these our last drinks?” he demands.
His voice is deep, distorted. Clearly as affected by me as I am by him.
My cock twitches. Fuck, am I really going to do this? Carlo and I haven’t been alone in bed together for months.
I nod but my need to explain my position is too great to resist.
“This doesn’t mean I’m bi,” I whisper, examining my last shot.
“Stop trying to label it, Spence.” My gaze flits back to him. “Just enjoy it. If you reach the stage when you don’t, we’ll stop.”
“What about Sophie?” I demand, keeping my head down, unable to see any discomfort in his expression.
“Trust me, Spencer. Sophie would rather you were fucking me than Kalie.”
I nod, certain he’s right, and watch as he slams down his drink, leaning his shoulder into mine. His gesture is one of support. I lean into it, accepting in this moment how much I need him.