Chapter 22
“Treat You Better” - Shawn Mendes
Saylor
As I listen to what sounds a lot like jealousy in Rhett’s voice, a bad feeling crawls over me.
His hand is still lying on top of mine on the table, but after I tell him that I’m all Nate has left, he slowly removes it and picks up his steak knife.
He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, just chews his food in silence, a surprising feat for Rhett Cole.
I want to say something to break this awkward tension that’s been between us all day, which I now realize came from him thinking that Nate was—what? Somehow a threat to him? As if.
But what is there to say? I’m as scared and fucked up as Rhett is.
I don’t want to care what he thinks, because the practical side of me knows this will all be over in a few weeks.
We’ve been down this road before, Rhett and I, eleven years ago.
He made me think I was his whole world back then, too, and we didn’t even have sex that time.
I’m not upset about it. I get it. Our worlds don’t fit together, no matter how hard we might try to force the pieces.
He forgets that when we’re together, but as soon as he has his normal life back, with his friends and cars and luxury bachelor pad, the shine of these weeks will wear off, and he’ll see that I wasn’t any different from the dozens of other girls he’s slept with and forgotten.
Because of this, it’s imperative that I protect my heart.
I know the danger I pose to myself, the ease with which I read so much more into things than I should.
My heart wants to translate Rhett’s irritation over Nate into the good kind of jealousy, the kind alpha heroes in romance novels have.
But my brain—ever practical and looking out for me—reminds me that this is a childish jealousy.
To Rhett, I’m his plaything for six weeks, here for him, to help him keep his nose clean.
And apparently to bang whenever he feels like it as well.
Where is my backbone? Have I really reached the point where he can just look at me with those eyes and shift his mouth into that pouty smile and I’m done for? Anyone viewing us from the outside would say so.
I should be happy with this arrangement. As a modern woman, I should take what I want from the relationship—and I mean, the sex is incredible—and be prepared to walk away as soon as we’re back on Wesbourne soil.
My experience with Nate should have taught me this, at least. Men are never who they appear to be at first. I’ve already seen firsthand what happens when Rhett steps outside the bubble of a relationship. There is no reason to think this time will be any different.
“What happened between you?” Rhett’s voice is quiet, measured, but it still surprises me.
“What?” I glance up at him.
He’s focused on his plate, cutting his steak, which is not tough enough to deserve the kind of vengeance it’s currently receiving. “You and . . . him.”
I blink, trying to put together what he’s asking. “Between me and Nate?”
His eyes flash with irritation as he finally looks at me. “Fuck, Saylor. Yes.”
I’ve never heard so much anger in his tone before. I shift backward in my seat before even realizing I’m doing it.
Things with Nate started out good, too, even though in hindsight, I can see that the signs were all there. The biggest issue was that I married him too quickly to notice them.
“We fell in love fast.” I dab my mouth with the cloth napkin, my appetite gone. Our relationship was a romantic whirlwind. Nate was—is—handsome and charming. He completely swept me off my feet.
“Did he treat you well?” Rhett’s eyes are dull as he says this.
“Yes. At first, at least.”
Rhett looks away. Maybe he’d prefer to hear that I was mistreated?
“So what happened?”
“We had a courthouse wedding because he was leaving to finish his military tour.” I shrug and take another sip of wine. “The gambling started soon after. Or maybe before, I don’t know.”
I never knew if he was gambling before we met and just hid it really well, or if it started as a way to escape the realities of married life, but I suspected the latter.
I don’t want to think about those days, about standing at the grocery store till and being told that my debit card was declined.
About his anger when I questioned him about it.
The way he implied I was the reason he gambled, that he was trying to make back the money I spent on “thrift store junk.” Junk, I might add, that he definitely didn’t have a problem sitting on or eating from.
Rhett frowns. “He has a gambling addiction?”
“He still did the last time I saw him.”
He appears to be mulling something over in his mind. Finally, he says, “Do addictions scare you?”
I fumble the napkin ring I’ve been toying with, and it rolls across the table. “What?”
“You said he’s addicted to gambling. I imagine it caused a lot of problems.” He raises his brows, waiting for my agreement. After I nod, he continues. “I’m an addict too.”
Realization sets in, and I reach for his hand. “I worked with addicts for years. It’s different with those who can admit they have a problem and ask for help. Nate never did that.”
“I would never hurt you, Saylor,” Rhett says, eyes earnest and full of emotion that I’m too scared to unpack.
You would never intentionally hurt me, I mentally correct him.
* * *
The air has turned brisk by the time we leave the restaurant, and I’ve never been so thankful to have a car and driver waiting for us. Rhett texts furiously beside me in the back seat, so I keep my eyes on the window as the streets of Seattle pass by.
When we pull up in front of the hotel, he leans forward and says something to the driver that I can’t hear. Bear is waiting outside and passes Rhett a big bag of stuff.
I glance at Rhett in confusion as we drive away from the hotel entrance. “What’s going on?”
He grins at me, pulling out all the stops with that mouth of his, and tucks me under his arm. “Don’t worry.”
I try to peek into the bag, but he just tightens his grip around my shoulders. “Are you planning to murder me?”
He pretends to consider this. “It would cement ‘Electric Heartbeat’ at number one for the rest of the year.”
I pinch what little loose skin I can find on his side—not much. He squirms away from me but doesn’t loosen his hold on me. That grin somehow stretches even further across his face.
Reaching into the bag at his feet, he pulls out a pair of socks and sneakers. “Here. Put these on.”
I take them gratefully. They look stupid with the designer dress I’m wearing, but these heels are killing my feet.
The car stops, and I look up to see the lights of the city reflected on the water ahead of us.
Rhett and I climb out, and he tells me we’re at Pocket Beach.
I immediately see where it got its name.
It’s a rough semicircle tucked in along the coastline.
Rocks and driftwood are scattered across the sand.
“Come on.” Rhett grabs my hand and leads me to several logs a short distance from the water. In his other hand, he carries the bag from Bear. Once we’re seated, he pulls out a blanket and tucks it around our legs.
“Ah,” I say. “I thought this was to hide the body in.”
He sniffs a laugh and wraps his arm around me again, then hands me a Thermos.
I take a sip. “Hot chocolate?”
He nods. “Spiked with vodka.”
I murmur in appreciation and take another drink before handing it back to him. “So what’s the occasion?”
Rhett nestles the Thermos between our legs. “Occasion for what?”
I gesture to the beach. “This. Us. Here.”
I feel his shrug against my shoulder. “No occasion.”
“I’m serious.”
He looks down at me, and I can’t make out more than a fleck of light in his eyes. “So am I.”
My mouth goes dry at the intensity in his gaze, a gaze I can feel more than see. I swallow loudly.
“I mean it, Saylor. I’m serious.” His tone has shifted, and I don’t think he’s referring to this moment anymore.
I pull my eyes away from the face that is already making its way into my dreams night and day.
I know how this ends. I’ll fall—hard—and when he leaves, there will be no one there to pick up the pieces of what’s left of my heart, the pieces he threw out the window as he drove off, the leftover fragments still clutched in his hand, embedded so deeply into his skin that it’s now a part of him as much as it is of me.
The breeze that blows off the water is cold, and I wrap my arms more tightly around my middle as protection from both the wind and the man sitting next to me, easing his fingers around my beating heart, ready to grab it and run at a moment’s notice.
Rhett pulls me closer into his side, using his body to shield me from the brunt of the cold. I wish he wouldn’t do things like that. They only give him a stronger grip on this heart of mine.
He rubs his arm against the sleeve of my leather jacket. “I’m not him, you know.”
I press my hand against the thump of his heart inside his coat. “I know.”
And then, somehow, we’re kissing. I’m not even sure how it happens. One second I’m curled in his arms, the next my face is wrapped in his hands like a present.
His lips, warm against mine, heat me up faster than the hot chocolate, blanket, and my jacket could as a team effort. I whimper as his hand slides down my neck and rests at the base of it. He gives it a gentle squeeze.
I never thought I was one of those girls with a kink for dominance, but when his fingers tighten around my neck—not enough to affect my air flow, but enough to show his strength—motherfucker, I am done for.
My hands are fisted in his shirt. How they got there, I don’t remember.
I scoot closer to him on the log until I’m practically in his lap.
Then I am in his lap, because he picks me up and deposits me there.
He moves his hips upward, grinding against where I need him most. He’s already thick and hard, as ready as I am.
I shift my weight back and forth so that I drag across his tip again and again. He groans into my mouth. His hand fumbles beneath my dress, which is probably destined for the rubbish bin after tonight. When he reaches my panties, I feel his shuddering exhale.
The positioning is all bad, and when I move to accommodate him, the wind whips around us and right up my dress. Breaking off the kiss, I suck in a loud breath. “Damn, that’s cold.”
“You’re right,” he says, and moves me off his lap. “We should get back to the car.”
I walk beside him, hiding my disappointment—it’s for the best, really—and he reaches for my hand. We’ve held hands before, but always when others were around. It’s not even a form of foreplay, this entwining of our fingers. It feels . . . intimate.
Rhett lets me into the black car first, then slides in after me. I’ve barely buckled my seatbelt when his hand is up my dress again.
I whirl around on him with wide eyes. “What are you doing?” I hiss, quietly enough that I’m pretty sure the driver can’t hear.
Rhett bares his white teeth in a shit-eating grin. “Do I need to explain it to you?” he says in a normal voice.
My eyes flick to the front seat, where our driver appears to be oblivious, although I’m pretty sure he can hear every word.
Rhett looks confused, so I do it again, more obviously this time.
His thumb is stroking circles over the satin of my underwear, and it is taking 99 percent of my willpower to ignore it.
I use the other 1 percent to give him an exasperated look.
Finally, it dawns on him what I mean. He presses a button with his free hand, and the divider between the front and back seats goes up. As soon as it clicks into place, he lunges at me.
His mouth claims mine in a kiss so possessive, there’s no way in hell to resist it. Not that I’m inclined to, but as soon as I get the chance, I sputter, “We can’t do this here. He’ll hear us.” My voice is barely loud enough for Rhett to hear me, but I’m not taking any chances.
He pulls back from where he was planting kisses along my collarbone. “Relax. It’s soundproof.”
“He still knows what we’re doing,” I mutter as his mouth clamps onto my skin again. But it feels so good that I soon forget about the driver entirely.
Rhett’s fingers find their way inside my panties to where I’m a wet mess for him.
“Fuck, I’m ready for dessert.” His voice is the strum of a bass guitar.
He reaches for the buckle of my seat belt and undoes it.
Grabbing my underwear with both hands, he pulls it down my legs and discards it on the floor.
I start shivering, even though the car is toasty and warm.
“Scoot back against the car door,” he directs me in a murmur. After I comply, he hoists my dress up around my hips. “One leg on the floor. The other”—he tosses it over his shoulder—“right here.”
He leans down between my legs—not an easy feat in the small space—to where I’m splayed open for him. I buck against his tongue, but he holds me in place until he’s had his fill.
“Look at that pink pussy,” he says, stroking it with his finger. “Like a rosebud just for me.” Then he takes me with his mouth again, not letting up until I climax around his tongue and fingers.
When he finally sits up again, he’s done nothing to satiate my hunger. I want him more now than I did on the beach. I reach for his belt frantically, like a woman possessed.
He gives me a lazy smile and lifts his shirt, as though my need for him is amusing. After I divest him of his clothes, I grab his cock. It throbs, hot in my hand, and I slide my palm up and down the length of it while he throws his head back and groans.
I shift backward on the seat and usher him to my entrance. His eyes meet mine, dark and stormy, before he grunts his way inside me. We stay like that the whole time, eyes locked, staring into each other’s souls.
The angles in the car are all wrong for this, and there are probably a million positions that would work better for getting us both off, but neither of us makes any attempt to move.
His grunts grow more ragged as the speed of his thrusting increases.
I recognize by now the signs that he’s close to his own climax.
As happens almost every time we have sex, him building and then releasing is enough to bring about my own orgasm. I clutch his shoulders and bury my mouth against his skin as we both come undone.
When it’s over, I don’t let go of him, just keep him clutched against me, and he makes no effort to move, in spite of the fact that we’re both as uncomfortable as fuck.
We’re lying there in the dark of the back seat when it occurs to me.
I’m falling in love with a very bad idea.