CHAPTER 22 #3
His hand slid up, cupping one breast through the slick mess, and his thumb circled my nipple in lazy strokes. He pinched lightly—enough to make me whimper—then dragged his palm down my sternum, spreading his release farther like he couldn’t stand the thought of any part of me unmarked.
Jagger kissed me then, and it was everything filthy you could want in a kiss. I loved that he tasted like me . . . like us, and when he pulled back, his eyes still looked completely fucking obsessed.
“Beautiful,” he whispered as he tugged the stretched neckline of my blouse back up carefully, smoothing the fabric over my cum-streaked chest so it clung, damp and obscene, against my skin.
The material was dark enough that the wet spots might pass for spilled drinks if no one looked too close.
His fingers lingered there, pressing the fabric to my breasts, sealing his claim beneath it.
“Clean up,” he ordered quietly. “Go back to work. Smile for the customers. But know this, Eden—I’m watching. And the next time you come, it’s going to be on my cock.”
He unlocked the door with a soft click and slipped out, leaving only the faint trace of him and sex lingering in the stale bathroom air.
I stayed perched on the sink longer than I should have, trying to recover.
His release had cooled beneath the fabric he’d so carefully smoothed back into place, sticky and intimate where it clung to my skin.
Every shallow inhale pulled the damp material tighter across my nipples, sending small, traitorous sparks straight to my core.
Eventually, I forced myself to move. I slid off the sink edge on unsteady legs. My knees threatened to give out again, but I gripped the porcelain until my knuckles whitened, and I tried to pull myself together.
And I stared in the mirror again . . .
I was still the mess that had first come into the bathroom, falling apart .
. . but in a very different way. My hair was tangled at my nape, strands plastered to my damp skin.
My lips were swollen, and my cheeks were flushed in a deep, shameful rose color that refused to fade.
As if those two things weren’t enough, my pupils were still blown wide, like I’d been drugged or fucked into oblivion.
I stared at the woman in the reflection and felt my stomach lurch.
What the hell did I just do?
I’d let Jagger drop to his knees in a staff bathroom and devour me until I screamed his name. I was covered in his release, my body still humming with aftershocks and my core still aching for more.
You’re such a fuckin’ whore.
This wasn’t grief seeking comfort. This was betrayal.
The dark thoughts crashed into me, and I had to work to push them away. To forget the Eden who had always tried to do the right thing.
For a second I saw myself the way other people would—a new widow, already tangled up with another man. Society had a script for women like me. Grieve quietly. Dress in black. Stay small. Stay loyal to a ghost.
I braced my hands on the edge of the sink and closed my eyes.
Ryan.
The name didn’t ache the way it should have. It thudded.
Because the truth was uglier than the guilt.
Ryan had drained me. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It had happened slowly, over years—crisis after crisis, broken promise after broken promise, nights spent waiting for the sound of the door, wondering what version of him would walk through it. Sober. High. Angry. Apologetic.
I had poured myself into him until there was nothing left. I had tried to be enough . . . tried to love him back to life . . . tried to hold us together with bare hands while everything cracked around me.
By the end, I’d felt like something had been siphoned out of me, leaving a thin, empty version behind.
And at the end of the day . . . I didn’t owe him my corpse. I didn’t owe the world a performance of purity just because it made them comfortable. My soul had almost died trying to live up to what I was supposed to be. The loyal wife. The patient one. The strong one. The girl who stayed.
I opened my eyes and met my reflection. I didn’t look wicked. I looked alive.
Flushed. Shaken. Awake in a way I hadn’t been in years.
Maybe what I’d just done was reckless. Maybe it was messy. Maybe it should just be a onetime thing because a man like Jagger would no doubt destroy what was left of my heart.
But at least it wouldn’t be the slow, suffocating erosion I’d survived before. And that had to mean something.
Despite what Jagger had ordered, I grabbed a paper towel, got it wet, and started wiping at his cum. The damp paper only seemed to smear it further, though, turning the mess into something even more obscene.
I gave up and instead tried to smooth my hair with my shaking fingers, tucking stray strands behind my ears and straightening the neckline as best I could.
I had no idea where my panties had ended up—most likely with Jagger since they weren’t in here—but it meant that I had to go back out there with nothing beneath this skirt now but the memory of his tongue plunging into me, his fingers stretching me, and his thumb pressing into my ass while I came apart screaming.
This was going to be an experience.
I took one last breath, still tasting him on my tongue, still carrying his scent in my lungs, and pushed the door open.
As I walked, the noise of the floor rushed back in, and I stepped into it like I was stepping onto a stage, pasting on the same practiced smile I’d had on all night.
I had to pour drinks. Take orders. Pretend my legs weren’t still shaking, that my skin wasn’t painted with him beneath my clothes, that every shift of fabric didn’t remind me exactly what I’d let happen.
But at least I was doing it feeling alive . . .