9. Miranda
9
MIRANDA
S weet lord, he did it.
He dismantled the bed I’ve been endeavoring to disassemble since I returned from the hotel.
I am too tired to add the frame to the fire I’ve kept stocked for the past three days, and the mattress to the charity collection pile.
I’m so zonked I could sleep for a week.
My eyes slowly flutter closed as I sink into the mattress I’ll replace first thing tomorrow morning.
They don’t remain shut for long. Nero’s slow slip as he removes his still-firm cock from my pussy has my libido awakening as if I haven’t orgasmed more times today than I have in the past three years.
The wetness coating his impressive manhood adds more slickness to the mess between my legs and heats my cheeks with more than lust.
We forgot to use protection. Again.
“I’m still on birth control.” Nerves shudder my vocal cords. I hate the thought of him thinking I stayed on birth control because I plan to stay with my cheating husband.
My religious pill taking has nothing to do with Roy. My lust-craving heart was hopeful what we just did was a possibility. That maybe the flames our exchange combusted into in the hotel would one day reach my home base.
My head told my heart it was living in a fantasy world.
It’ll be quick to apologize once it is at full function.
It will need more than a handful of wheezy breaths, though. My head is stuck in a fog it has no plans of escaping anytime in the next six to eight hours.
“Are you leaving?” I ask, hearing a ruffle, my voice still groggy.
A near-comatose state isn’t to blame for my sluggishness. The fear of rejection means even something as simple as getting my eyes to follow the prompts of my brain takes almost ten seconds to initiate.
I don’t want to watch Nero’s departure. My psyche, though better than it was only days ago, is still a little fragile. It may break if it thinks I’m being rejected by the only man who has ever shown legitimate interest.
Relief washes over me when Nero replies, “No.”
He continues for the open plantation shutters on the far side of the room. They face the road, but since we’re on the second story and the house across the street is vacant, I don’t bother closing them.
“But you should keep your blinds closed. You never know who may be looking in.”
I wet my bone-dry mouth before cracking my lips for a smile. “The house across the street has been vacant for almost a year. Roy said some rich schmuck bought it with the plan to flip it once the market improves.”
Air whizzes from Nero’s nose as he tugs the shutters shut, and then he slowly creeps back to the mattress now flopped on the floor.
I assume he is going to slip beneath the sticky sheets, so you can picture my surprise when he peels me off the material clinging to my skin and tosses me over his shoulder.
I’m naked, exhausted, and somewhat hungry, but I refuse to tell Nero that.
I’ve never been carried like I’m a damsel in distress or an up-and-coming mafia wife.
I’m also obsessed by the ease of his lift and the way it reminds me of my femininity. I grew up believing I’d be the caretaker of my home and that I’d blush every time I caught the admiring stare of my husband across the room. We’d make love against the railing of the water tower in my hometown after I was carried up its stairs without a bead of sweat dotting my husband’s brow.
I never considered the only time I’d sweat after marriage would be while wrangling a lawn trimmer into submission, or from trying to burn off the calories I consume in excess, because I eat when depressed, on rusty gym equipment in the garage of a home not in my name.
My life turned out nothing like I had planned, and only last week, I thought I was too old to change it.
How stupid have I been? Thirty-five isn’t close to ancient. I’ve not even lived half my life yet, and I refuse to waste another second on things that don’t matter.
With my mood suddenly perky, I don’t attempt to cover myself when Nero places me onto the vanity so he can switch on the shower.
My shower stall is one of those annoying, fully enclosed glass boxes that restrict movements. I hit my elbows while washing my hair, so although I admire Nero’s un-voiced suggestion that we wash the stickiness off our skin together, it isn’t practical.
I’ll wait on the vanity, enjoying the show while pondering how little I know about the man standing before me as naked as the day he was born.
It isn’t a hard feat. Nero is as striking out of his clothes as he is in them. Muscles upon muscles, lines and lines of ink, and a huge cock that never seems to deflate.
He is insanely attractive, and I’m more than happy to waste hours sampling everything he has to offer—both inside and out of the package.
“What do you do for a living?” Nero checks the temperature of the water pumping out of the faucet before twisting to face me. His nose is crinkled, and his brows are furled, but there’s a touch of playfulness in his eyes that frees me to say, “I’m assuming bounding and gagging your cheating spouse’s conquests and stuffing them in a closet is a side gig, so what do you do the rest of the time to earn a living?”
Reminding him that he was cheated on probably isn’t a smart move. It could prompt him to the fact that we’re more a rebound than anything, but since I need to be reminded of that as well, I run with it.
There’s a moment of tension, then a trickle of humor. “It is presumptuous to assume there isn’t a ton of money in defiling the cheaters of the world, butterfly.”
Butterfly?
He continues talking, moving my contemplation of my nickname to a later date. “Numerous TV shows on that very subject have brought in millions of viewers and just as much capital.”
Since everything he says is true, I don’t disagree with him.
“I was once one of them,” I admit.
“Once?”
It is almost impossible to keep my eyes on his face, but I must. His tone gives nothing away, so if I don’t drink in his numerous expressions, I will have no clue if he’s angry or relaxed.
At the moment, he’s calm enough for me to say, “I saw a few too many similarities between the cheaters’ excuses and the ones Roy gave me anytime he was out late or didn’t come home at all.”
Now he’s somewhat peeved. “So Tasha wasn’t the first woman he cheated on you with?”
I shake my head before switching it for a shrug. “I don’t have any proof, but I’m reasonably sure she is one of many.”
Nero takes a moment to contemplate before he plucks me from the vanity like my shower is double its size. He drags us under the spray while muttering, “Shows how much of a fucking tool your soon-to-be ex is.”
Shockingly, we fit. There isn’t enough room for a snippet of air to be placed between us, but I’m not bothered. Our conversation is more cleansing than any shower could be.
“So the teddy… that fucking teddy” —his growl sets me on fire—“was that payback? Or for someone else?”
I groan, wishing I could be as vindicative as a perpetrator when done wrong, but aware I would have never gone through with what we did if I hadn’t been handed divorce papers beforehand.
Two wrongs won’t make a right.
“It was more… desperation than anything?” Since I am unsure of my reply, it sounds like a question instead of a confirmation. “Roy had promised to try, and our vows said for better or worse, so I was trying to drill through the worse.” When Nero’s expression switches from lusty to sympathetic, I alter the direction of our conversation. “But that’s enough about me. How about we go back to if you’re looking at filming a remake of Cheaters or keeping it as a side gig until something better comes along.”
He smiles, loving the playfulness in my tone, before he says, “Depends on how well Roy behaves.”
I swallow the brick his reply lodged in my throat but remain quiet.
He didn’t rough Roy up a little like previous participants of the Cheaters show. He bruised him, nicked him, and scoured a derogative word into his forehead.
He also admitted he had intended to kill him before I arrived.
The remembrance should make the shower water chilly.
It doesn’t, and I am at a loss as to why.
I’ve never believed violence is the solution, but my thoughts changed when I read the divorce paperwork Roy forwarded the day of our wedding anniversary.
Roy went for blood, so it is logical that I fight back just as dirtily.
Do I wish he were dead? No.
But I’m not opposed to a bit of help if it plays the player at his own game.
“He wants the house.” I don’t snarl until I finalize my statement. “And Tempy.”
Nero hits the nail on the head. “Because he knows they’re the two things that will hurt you the most to lose.” He stares straight into my eyes while revealing his insides aren’t as hard as his outsides. “He’s a drop of salty water in the ocean. But this”—his eyes flick around my bathroom—“is your home, and Tempy is your baby.”
“A baby with a bite bigger than her bark.”
He laughs like he knows I’m not lying. I guess he can. Tempy bit Roy so hard during our last argument that she left a scar. It is on his left thigh, right near the area I had tattooed months ago.
I still as excitement blisters through me.
Is that why Nero called me butterfly? Because of my tattoo? I got it in rebellion, but a part of me, a side I’ve kept well hidden, was hoping that one day it would reflect my transformation from Roy Martin’s wife to Miranda Richardson, entrepreneur and Forbes Woman of the Year.
The last item on my wish list is a stretch, but if you don’t believe in yourself, how can you believe in anyone else? We will back hair-raising ideas from celebrities but turn our nose up at an idea from a family member or friend.
I truly don’t get it. Support should come from those closest to you, not strangers.
Though I’d rather not remember that right now.
Nero is a stranger, yet he’s supporting me through what is meant to be the hardest time in my life that seems more easy than concerning.
Desperate to return his support, I ask, “Have you filed?”
A hum sounds from his chest before he directs me under the spray.
Once my locks are drenched from the roots to the tips, he adds words to his reply. “A couple of weeks back. I originally filed for an annulment. When Tasha refused to sign, I switched it to a divorce.”
His honesty is refreshing, but it doesn’t hide the truth.
“So, technically, Tasha wasn’t cheating.” I speak slowly, unsure if this is the direction I should take.
I don’t want to defend what Tasha did, but I’m willing to give her a little leeway if it keeps my guilt at bay.
I fucked a stranger an hour after being handed divorce papers.
Tasha may have waited weeks.
“Technically… I guess you are right.” He sounds confused, and it has me wanting to push on the brakes, but I lose the chance when he adds, “But I feel like there’s more to her story than she’s sharing, so I have the right to be apprehensive.”
“You do,” I agree. Needing to ease the tension, I playfully barge him. “Just like I have the right to tell you not to be such a hog.”
I’m an inferno in an instant when he replies, “Are you talking about the water? Because if you’re not, and you are more hinting about your sinfully delicious and tight cunt, I have every right to be a hog.”
Cunt is such a crude word, but it sounds sensual in his native twang. It rolls through me like liquid ecstasy and has me wishing my shower stall wasn’t such a confined space.
“We had an agreement, butterfly. Bite for a bite.” He playfully bites my lips, sending my head into a tailspin. “Lick for a lick.” My thighs squeeze when he drags his tongue along the seam of my mouth, tasting me. “So it is only fair that I get to wholly fucking devour you after your cunt”—he says the word like he knows my thoughts on it—“swallowed my dick like it was created for me .”
His last two words are my undoing. I want him. Again. Now. Any way I can get him.
And I need only one word to have him. “Please.”