Chapter 4
AURORA
I whipped my phone out of my bag, going straight to my message thread with Sierra.
Would it be a mistake to sleep with Tatum Wilder?
I glanced back at him, glad to see that he was still deep in conversation as I silently prayed Sierra had her phone nearby, and would see my text immediately.
Still, when it buzzed in my hand with her reply, I nearly dropped it.
Huh?! – S. Ward
Call me! – S. Ward
Where are you? – S. Ward
Shit.
Very long story, can’t call. Just answer the question, I shot back as fast as my thumbs would allow. I’m at Veil, with Tatum.
I did at least add that context so she wouldn’t be too alarmed.
ARE YOU GOING TO FUCK TATUM WILDER???? – S. Ward
Would it be too hoe-ish? I’m doing too much, aren’t I?
BITCH. NO. YOU AREN’T DOING ENOUGH. – S. Ward
Honestly… it would be a sign of life, my friend. – S. Ward
When I looked up to check where Tatum was, I caught the moment he handed his card to the server, so I quickly typed out another reply.
I think I might do it.
I am going to do it.
I think.
No, I am. I AM.
I hope his big ass knocks your spine out of alignment. You deserve that, Ri – S.Ward
A bark of laughter leapt from my throat before I could help myself, and then before I could collect myself, Tatum was back at the table.
The threat of his big ass knocking my spine out of alignment made him seem to loom even larger.
“Come on,” he said, offering a hand to help me up from the table.
I didn’t even think about it; I just accepted it, relishing the warmth as he squeezed my fingers between his and led me from our seats to a private elevator I hadn’t known was there.
“The server told me this was back here,” he explained when we were inside. “Sneaky link agenda built into the infrastructure I guess.”
I just nodded, watching as he pressed a black key card to the scanner on the wall. There were no numbers to press, just that reader, and the elevator started moving.
Suddenly… I was nervous.
“Where did you get banned from?” I asked, verbalizing one of many questions bouncing around in my head to try to break up my anxiety.
He chuckled a bit. “You familiar with Arch & Point?”
“The strip club? Yeah…” I frowned. “Why on earth were you banned from there?”
“That damn reckless sense of justice.”
My mouth dropped. “Against the dancers?!”
“Against a patron who didn’t understand the word no.”
“And they banned you?”
He shook his head. “My agents banned me. Fighting at strip clubs doesn’t look good in contract negotiations.”
The elevator pinged, letting us know we were on the right floor.
Showtime.
Bitch.
Are you really going to a hotel room with this man?
This not-the-one-who-put-this-ring-on-your-finger man?
When Tatum started moving, so did I, following a half-step behind him to our designated room.
And then, inside the room.
So… yes.
I was going to a hotel room with this man.
This man who was not the one who put the ring on my finger.
And my stomach was about to turn inside out.
Suddenly, I was very glad I hadn’t even ended up having that dinner—or any more to drink—because surely it would’ve all been spilled out on the floor.
Trying to avoid an awkward moment, and catch my damn breath, I moved past Tatum to the large picture window that anchored the room, staring out at the view of Blackwood.
Very similar to the view I should’ve had with my meal.
If only I hadn’t caught my fiancé sharing a meal with another woman.
Today of all days.
I pulled out my phone, staring at the notifications on the screen.
None from him.
Trifling mothe—oh, shit.
I’d muted him.
Oh yeah.
Heat flushed my skin as I navigated fully into my messaging app, into the special area for people who’d been put on ice.
Oh.
Seventeen texts.
All from him.
Apologies.
Blame.
Soothing.
Promises.
More blame.
Apologies again.
More promises.
Bigger promises.
I blew out a sigh.
The thing was… I actually—stupidly, probably—believed the apologies.
I believed he didn’t want to hurt me.
Believed he was sorry that he did.
Just… not enough to… not do the shit.
It was sick.
I was sick.
I couldn’t keep letting this happen, couldn’t keep going through this fucked up cycle.
“Hey…”
Shit.
Just that fast, I’d forgotten what I’d supposedly come to this room to do. I turned to find Tatum standing a few feet away, hand extended.
… handing me two key cards.
“I’m going to head to my room,” he said. “Order yourself some room service, charge a bunch of movies, whatever you want to do. It’s on me.”
“What?!” I moved toward him, but didn’t accept the keys. “I thought we were?—”
“You don’t want that, Rori,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Despite his best efforts, you love your fiancé. You’re not about to fuck?—”
“Take your pants off,” I insisted, dropping the contents of my hands to go for his waistband myself. “I said I was doing this, so… let’s get to it.”
I couldn’t even handle his belt or buttons because my hands were shaking too badly, so I gave up and took a step back, crossing my arms.
Indignant.
“Do it,” I insisted.
Tatum just looked at me, not doing anything about his belt or buttons either.
“What?!” I snapped, hating the way my voice cracked over the word. “Don’t look at me like that. And don’t… try to tell me this isn’t who I am,” I added, holding up a hand. “Because it is. It’s what I want. Monty fucks whoever he wants, whenever he wants, my feelings be damned. So what I want, is to fuck who I want for a change. Are you going to help me or not?”
He scratched his lip with his teeth, still staring at me like he was trying to figure something out. “How long have you been with him?” he asked.
I narrowed my eyes, confused. “What? Why does that matter?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I…” I sighed, breaking eye contact. “As adults?” I hedged.
“Fuck the semantics, Rori. Answer the question.”
I didn’t want to answer the question.
Didn’t want to say it out loud.
I turned away, back to the window, so that I at least wouldn’t have to look him in the face as I offered what would, in different circumstances, would have been a proud fact. “Sixteen years,” I admitted, just above a whisper. “High school sweethearts. First loves. All that.”
That should be something to brag about.
Putting that kind of time in, with one person?
It was goals.
Should be, at least.
Instead, it made the whole thing even more pitiful, made me even angrier.
Damn near two decades, and this was what I deserved?
When Tatum wrapped his arms around me from behind, pulling me into him… I stopped holding the tears.
Couldn’t hold the tears, not anymore.
I was glad to be facing away from him as they trailed down my face, evidence of years of hurt I’d bottled. It wasn’t even that Monty was doing anything new, or unexpected, or worse than anything else over the course of our time together.
Today was just… a bridge too far.
So I cried.
For this time, and all the times I hadn’t, for things Monty had done and things he had nothing to do with.
I just cried.
And it kinda felt… great.
It wasn’t even embarrassing until I finally calmed down and excused myself to the bathroom to wash my salty, puffy face.
“So…” Tatum started, when I emerged. “About me heading out…”
“Oh hell.” I cringed. “You’re probably dying to get away from me. I’m sorry,” I said, gesturing for him to follow me to the door.
“I wouldn’t say it like that,” he chuckled. “And no need to be sorry. Seemed like you needed that.”
“It was indeed cathartic.” There was a partial wall separating the entry from the rest of the room, and I stopped there, leaning against it. “Thank you.”
“After this, you won’t be claiming stranger on me now, right?” he asked, pulling me into a full-bodied hug that sent a shiver down my back.
A lingering hug.
The kind I hadn’t been wrapped up in in way too long, with him being all big and warm, and smelling so damn good. I breathed in deep, basking in the heat and significance of him.
He didn’t let me go.
Even when he pulled back a bit to look me in the face, his hands stayed planted at the small of my back, keeping me close.
“Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave?” he asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “Anything else implies you did the first thing.”
“Rori…” he sighed, and I shook my head.
“No. Don’t do that. Just…”
This time… my hands didn’t shake when I went for his belt.
I wasn’t uncertain at all. I was clear as hell, fingers steady as I made quick work of getting his pants undone, ready to go straight to pulling his dick out when he stopped me.
Sort of.
It was less that he stopped me, more that he started too, moving a hand to the back of my neck to haul my face to his, to kiss me.
I hadn’t been kissed in far too long.
Monty was the only person I had any reason to be kissing, and his predilections assured no such intimacy had been happening between us. Not for a while.
I told myself that was why it felt like my tongue was magnetized to Tatum’s, why the taste of his mouth was so damn sweet, why every press of lips, every clumsy click of teeth before we fell into sync was so… perfect.
Any morsel would seem like a feast to someone who was starving, right?
And I was absolutely that, I realized now that I was planted smack in the middle of the buffet that was Tatum’s… everything. The smoky sweetness of his cologne, the firm heat of his hands, the oaky taste of bourbon lingering on his tongue, was all a damn meal for the senses that had me practically purring.
There wasn’t room for my hands between us anymore, so I abandoned that particular pursuit, glad to have him take over. He grabbed me under the ass, easily lifting my full-bodied frame to the little table beside the door.
With one hand buried in my hair, he kept me in place as he buried his tongue in my mouth. The other hand went under my dress, between my legs, sliding the seat of my panties aside.
I was already, pitifully, soaking wet.
“Fuck,” he groaned into my mouth, pushing two fingers into me. My clit was still covered by my panties, but he planted his thumb there anyway, just enough pressure to feel a subtle flick back and forth. “Open your eyes,” he demanded.
Shit.
I didn’t remember closing them.
But I did as he said, quickly noticing something I hadn’t before.
The mirror, directly across from us.
Right now, I was looking at myself over Tatum’s shoulder, but he stepped aside, giving me the full, salacious view.
“Look at how fucking wet you are,” he murmured into my ear.
“It’s too far away,” I lied.
His fingers stopped moving, and he just looked at me.
Eyes narrowed.
He pulled his fingers away from me.
“Ahh!” I yelped as he, quite suddenly, lifted the table with me still on it, hefting it until we were only a few feet away from the wide, floor length mirror.
“Is that better?”
“Y-yes,” I stammered, heart racing as he pulled my panties aside again.
He stopped to look at the view in the mirror for himself, then grabbed me by the ankle, making me hike one leg up until my foot was planted on the table, still strapped into my high heel.
Scandalously exposed.
“Now,” he said, burying a hand in my hair again, and using his fingers on the other hand to spread me open.
My face was hot, but I didn’t look away.
“Look how fucking wet that pretty pussy is.”
I… was soaked.
And when he went back to fucking me with his fingers… dripping.
His hands… they weren’t like Monty’s.
Not better or worse, just different.
His touch was different.
I’d never pretend sex with Monty hadn’t been phenomenal. Even with no comparison points, the man had been knocking orgasms out of me for over a decade. He was objectively good in bed.
But this was different.
New.
New exploration.
New pressure.
New intensity.
“Stop holding your breath,” Tatum murmured to me, breaking my concentration on the orgasm at hand.
“What?”
“Relax,” he insisted. “Stop tensing up.”
“Sorry,” I breathed. “I’m just trying to focus.”
“You don’t need to focus.”
“I have to focus.”
“No, I have to focus. You just… feel.”
“But if I don’t focus, I won’t… finish.”
Tatum smirked at me, then pushed his fingers deeper, to a spot that made my mouth gape open. “I’m focused on you finishing, so you don’t have to.”
“But—”
“What did I say?” he asked, tightening his grip on my hair, pressing his thumb against my clit harder.
Faster.
“Empty your head,” he muttered against my lips, and then his tongue was in my mouth again, and I… did as I was told.
I closed my eyes.
Untensed.
Opened my mouth and let him hear how good it felt to me.
I followed every direction.
And my reward at the end was a surge of pleasure so intense it made my eyes roll back, legs shaking, mouth open as it moved through me, leaving me panting, leaning against Tatum for support.
But only for a moment.
That was all I got before he pulled me up from the table, hooking my legs around his waist for a quick transport to the bedroom, where we stripped down. My nerves were gone, replaced by the need to feel him, riding high on the hormonal surge of that first orgasm.
Until I was laid back on the bed, watching him put on the condom.
He was bigger than Monty. Not just his dick, but… also his dick.
Different.
The cockiness on his face as he grabbed me by the legs, pulling me to the end to meet him, made butterflies erupt in my belly. He spread my thighs apart, stepping between them as he looked me over, devouring me with his eyes.
“Are we still strangers?” he asked.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Huh?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Uhh… at this point, I guess not?”
“Good.”
The next thing I felt was his mouth on my pussy.
The warmth of his breath as he let out a deep, satisfied exhale, the softness of his lips over my hyper-sensitive skin, the rasp of his tongue over my clit. All expertly orchestrated to have me writhing over the bed, back arched, stomach clenched, working for another orgasm.
Until he let up.
“Here you go again,” he chuckled, kissing his way up my stomach. “Can you let me do my job?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The effort you’re putting into cumming,” he answered. He was at my breasts now, taking a moment to nibble and suck one nipple, then the other before he continued his way up.
“I just… know my body,” I told him. “So I’m doing what I always do.”
He was eye-to-eye with me now, and smirked. “Do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Since you’re not doing who you always do, why don’t you try something different?”
“Like what?”
“Relax.”
A gasp caught in my throat as he pushed into me.
I’d forgotten I was supposed to be nervous about this moment, and it was too late now.
Now he was buried as deep into me as he could get, encouraging me not to clench my stomach, not to grit my teeth, not to try to latch onto the coil of pleasure as it built in my core like usual.
“Just let it be,” he insisted. “Don’t chase it. Breathe,” he whispered to me, like he wasn’t rearranging my anatomy with every stroke.
I did it though.
Because it was different.
And it was good.
So, so good.
Again… he was right.
I’d never realized how much holding my breath dulled my senses, muting a whole layer of sensation. When I wasn’t tense, he could push deeper, faster, harder.
The peak came sooner.
So soon it caught me off guard, hitting me so hard I was pretty sure I broke through a layer of skin digging my nails in his back, not that it stopped him.
He just fucked me harder, keeping the wave of orgasm going until he hit his own peak, hips surging into me with a deep groan.
And an “I told you so” I ignored.
I did not ignore the shower he invited me to… nor the request to join me in the bed after.
I grabbed my phone once he passed out about two seconds after he hit the cool fabric of the sheets, leaving me to ruminate on my own.
In the best possible way, I felt wrung out, and downright giddy about what had just happened. It was exciting, a whole new frontier, which I grinned over as I replied to the five texts from Sierra asking if I was okay.
I was more than that, I was…
Don’t say happy.
It wasn’t even that, not exactly.
Probably just the surge of post-orgasm hormones still doing their job, bolstered by a text from Shannon confirming that everything had gone smoothly when they pushed the update. We always did it pretty late at night, so an outage would affect the fewest number of users.
Hearing that it had gone well was quite a lovely icing on tonight’s cake.
I should have had cake.
Shit.
That reminded me about the skipped dinner, and after all that… I was starving. I used the tablet set up near the bed to order a little tapas plate from the room service menu—I could share with Tatum if he woke up—and then realized it would take a bit for it to arrive.
So I needed something to do to keep me from simply falling asleep waiting.
I knew it was a bad idea, but I went to social media.
Where I was immediately inundated with Monty’s name.
Everywhere.
My name?
Everywhere.
My face?
Everywhere.
Instant knots filled my stomach as I realized what I was looking at, the view from the woman at the table’s camera. As the video looped to the beginning, it was clear filming me hadn’t been the original goal. She was filming herself and Monty.
He was so happy.
They were so happy.
Laughing.
Celebrating.
And then I appeared at the table, looking like some kind of fucking stalker, which was, I could be sure, the story the media would spin about it. When really, I’d just wanted to have a nice dinner with a view.
Huh.
I certainly ended up with one of those.
The supposed love of my life, celebrating something with a bottle of champagne with another woman.
As much as I’d tried to play it cool in that moment, the hurt—the devastation—on my face was so palpable it brought tears to my eyes now.
And it made me angry all over again.
I did not deserve that.
And I especially didn’t deserve this moment splashed across the internet, but apparently even that wasn’t a courtesy this woman felt like she could give.
She could give an interview though. To claim I was harassing them, and they just wanted to be left in peace to build their lives together and start… start their… family.
She was pregnant.
And “didn’t need this stress.”
Wow.
Wow.
So that was the celebration.
I closed my eyes, hoping to keep back the tears. Instead of thinking about what I’d just read, I thought about what I’d just done.
I focused on the arm Tatum had hooked around me, using it to pull myself close to him and letting it stay there, warm and solid, now that he was asleep.
Hmm.
I opened up the camera on my phone.
It was dark, but my camera settings compensated just enough to see my face—scrubbed clean and glowing—my naked shoulders, and Tatum’s arm.
I snapped the photo.
And then, before I could let common sense win, I navigated to my social media app and posted it.
No filter.
And for the caption, I kept it simple.
Happy fuckin’ birthday to me.