Chapter 16 #2
Laurel’s name is already open in my messages.
Laurel Cross
I miss you.
I stare at them. Delete them. Type again.
Are you home?
I delete those too, because there’s nothing I can say that does not make this worse.
A soft knock sounds at the bedroom door. Jenna steps in, arms folded around herself. She looks smaller than she did downstairs.
“I’m not going to beg you to want me,” she says.
I stand. “Jenna.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what happened, Mason. I don’t know if it’s work, or us, or… what.”
Her eyes search mine, but I give her nothing. I hate myself for how good I’ve become at that. She waits for me to say something to reassure her, but I don’t. Jenna’s face crumples for half a second before she pulls it back together.
“Whatever. You know where to find me when you decide to talk.”
Then she turns and walks away and I let her. Because I am a coward. Because I am cruel. Because the worst part of me is not the part that cheated. It’s the part that stands in my bedroom after hurting my wife and still aches for Laurel.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Laurel Cross
Just made it home. Looking forward to our meeting tomorrow.
I type back before I can think better of it.
Me, too. In fact, I was thinking we should attend that conference in Seattle this weekend.
Seattle? Sounds fun. I’ll make the reservations.
Good. We’ll leave after work tomorrow.
I stare at the screen after I send it. Five simple words. Clean. Damning.
There’s no conference in Seattle. A networking event hosted by one of our retailers, yes. A panel on consumer trends. A private dinner I was invited to weeks ago and had no intention of attending.
Now it is an excuse.
Two rooms?
I close my eyes.
She knows the answer. So do I.
Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.
I never assume anything.
A laugh escapes me. It feels wrong, considering my wife is down the hall and my marriage is cracking open around me.
But Laurel has a way of making me smile when no one else can.
The smile fades as fast as it came as I look toward the bedroom door.
Jenna is somewhere on the other side of this house, waiting for me to decide to talk.
Waiting for me to be a husband. Waiting for whatever piece of me she still thinks belongs here.
And I am standing in our guest bedroom, texting Laurel about a hotel room in Seattle.
My phone buzzes again.
I’ll make the reservations.
I type back before guilt can stop me.
Good.
Then I set the phone face down on the nightstand like that erases anything. It doesn’t.
Nothing erases this. Not turning off the screen. Not putting my ring back on. Not sleeping in the same house as Jenna while wanting another woman so badly it feels like a sickness.
I lie down on the bed and stare at the ceiling until the dark starts to look gray around the edges, and all I can think about spending the entire weekend with Laurel.
The next morning, Jenna is in the kitchen when I come downstairs. She’s dressed for the day, hair pulled back, coffee in one hand. She stops when she sees my overnight bag in my hand. It’s strange. She doesn’t even seem to notice I left my wedding band upstairs on the nightstand.
“You’re leaving again?” she asks.
“Seattle,” I say. “Retailer event.”
Her mouth tightens. “And you were going to tell me when?”
I slip my phone into my pocket. “This morning.”
She laughs once, but there’s no humor in it. “Are you going alone?”
My pulse doesn’t change. That’s how far gone I am.
“No.”
Her face goes still. “Who’s going with you?”
I could say Laurel. It would even be easy. She’s the lead designer. It’s normal for her to attend retailer events. It would make sense. But Laurel’s name in this kitchen feels obscene.
“One of the product leads,” I say.
“Well, have a safe trip,” she says.
That is all. No kiss. No fight. No accusation. She picks up her coffee and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there with the lie still warm in my mouth.
By the time I get to the office, I am already in a foul mood. It gets worse when I see Laurel isn’t at her desk. I spend the morning buried in meetings and emails, responding to people with half my attention while the other half counts down the hours until we leave.
At eleven, there’s a knock on my door and Laurel enters.
“I have the files you asked for,” she says as she closes the door behind her.
My cock jumps as she presses the lock and crosses the room. She’s wearing a fitted black skirt and a soft green blouse tucked into her waist. The folder in her hand might as well be a prop.
I lean back in my chair. “Do you?”
Her eyes stay on mine. “Very important files.”
“Seattle?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
She reaches my desk and sets the folder down in front of me. Then she walks around the side of the desk.
My entire body tightens.
“I thought we should review expectations before the trip.” Her voice is calm.
Her hands are not. One trembles slightly when she reaches for the edge of my desk. I stand. She tips her head back to look at me, and the second our eyes meet, all the air leaves the room. I reach for her and she comes to me like she’s been waiting all morning for permission to stop pretending.
Our mouths collide.
There is nothing gentle about it. Nothing careful.
The kiss is rough and immediate and full of everything I couldn’t say in my kitchen, everything I can’t put in a text, everything we’re both about to carry onto that plane like contraband.
She fists both hands in my shirt and pulls me closer.
I lift her onto the desk. The folder slides off the edge and hits the floor.
“So much for the files,” she breathes against my mouth.
“I’ll review them later.”
“Bad CEO.”
“Terrible.”
She laughs, but it breaks into a gasp when my hands slide under her skirt. I am already hard. She’s already wet. That should shame me.
It doesn’t.
Not when she’s tugging at my belt with frantic fingers and kissing me like Seattle is too far away, like tonight is too long to wait, like she needs this now as badly as I do.
“We have ten minutes,” she whispers.
I drag my mouth down her neck. “Then stop talking.”
Her laugh turns into a moan when my fingers find her. I cover her mouth with mine, swallowing the sound, because the building is awake and my assistant is three doors down and anyone could knock.
That only makes it worse.
Hotter.
More reckless.
Her thighs part for me, and I step between them, pushing her skirt higher, feeling the warm softness of her skin beneath my palms. By the time I’m between her thighs again, her mouth is swollen from mine, and her breathing is too fast. I push in with one slow, deep thrust.
We both go still and, for one second, I forget where we are.
Then she whispers, “Move.”
So I do. Fast. Hard. Quiet only because we have to be.
The desk creaks beneath her. Papers shift.
My pen cup tips over and rolls somewhere across the floor.
Her heels lock behind my back, pulling me deeper, and I bury my face against her neck to keep from making a sound that would give us both away.
I thrust harder. Laurel bites my shoulder through my shirt, and I almost lose it.
“Careful,” I breathe.
“Don’t start.”
I grip her hips. “You started this.”
“You opened the door.”
“You locked it.”
“And you’re still inside me, so maybe we both made choices.”
A rough laugh tears out of me. Then she clenches around me, and the laugh dies.
“Fuck, Laurel.”
Her hand flies to my mouth. “Quiet.”
I kiss her palm. Then I take two of her fingers into my mouth and suck. Her eyes go wide and her body tightens around me so suddenly I nearly come.
“Sin,” she whispers.
I slide my hand between us and touch her exactly where I know she needs it.
Her back arches. I cover her mouth with mine before she can cry out, and she comes against me, shaking so hard I have to hold her upright.
The feel of it drags me under. I thrust once, twice, then bury myself deep and come with my mouth pressed to her throat, her pulse racing beneath my lips.
For a moment, there is nothing but breath.
Hers.
Mine.
Then reality returns in pieces. My undone belt.
Her skirt around her hips. I pull out carefully and kiss her.
Then, we go through the motions of getting dressed.
When I glance at her, she’s smoothing her skirt and trying to look like she wasn’t just wrecked in the middle of my workday. She is failing. Beautifully.