Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
“The hell you doing parking here?”
Nash’s voice stills me mid-slam of the trunk.
Glancing over my shoulder, Frank is on a leash—that jerk probably ratted me out—and Nash has traded his usual clownish button-up for a plain grey T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.
I refuse to admit he looks good, but a case could be made that there’s an appeal to him when he’s dressed so casually.
“Rue?”
“Right. This.” I squint at my station wagon like I’m surprised to see it. “I do this to walk.”
Even though I watched the house like a hawk this morning and showered in the outdoor shower before sunrise, every time I tried to escape, Frank was sniffing around. Waiting.
“Was that your luggage?”
I fall into step next to him.
“I wasn’t sure what we were doing, so I brought all my clothes.
” I smile brightly but steer the conversation with rambled real-time thoughts about live oaks, where the gold might be, and way too many questions about Frank’s walking patterns.
I talk about anything except where he slept or where I slept.
In the kitchen, I settle on a stool as Nash pours himself a cup of coffee with hazelnut creamer.
Without Cap grunting and coughing, I’m hyperaware of how alone we are.
He looks good.
I like his house.
He broke into a tree with me.
Every minute I’m around him reminds me of how badly I’ve missed him.
This is not good.
I fidget with the ring on my finger and remember it’s not mine. “I found some things we can try to get the ring off,” I say to fill the quiet. “Dish soap. Oil. Lube.” That last one makes him do a double take, so I add, “Not that I know if you have lube.”
He cocks an amused brow. “You went through my things, I’m sure you know what I have.”
“I know you’re using condoms now.” We exchange a look, knowing damn well we never did. Not once. “Very responsible.”
He wets his lips. “I’m more responsible in all avenues these days, it seems. Even sex.”
I press the back of my hand to my cheek: hot. I’m not talking about sex with this man.
“Me too,” I say, talking about sex with this man. “Jonathan had a vasectomy.”
“Good for him.” He leans against the counter and takes a sip of coffee through a smirk. “That cause any performance issues?”
My nostrils flare. “No, it does not. Would you like for me to go into detail about how excellent his performance is?”
“If you’d like to swap sex stories from the last eight years, by all means.” A flash of him and Emma naked makes me throw up a little in my mouth. “I’ll go first.”
I laugh in disbelief. “Pass, thanks.” I blow my bangs out of my face. “Either way, you’ll have your ring back today.”
He sets a kettle on the stove, clicks the gas range to life, then rounds the counter to lean a hip beside where I’m sitting. He nibbles his bottom lip and looks at me like a man who didn’t just spend the night with another woman and her child.
I notice it like a woman who isn’t hiding a child and engaged to another man.
“You nervous about spending the day with your husband?”
I scoff. “Hardly.”
He reaches over and puts two fingers on my throat, brows lifting as my pulse jackhammers against them. “Feels like it.”
I make a disagreeing sound. “That’s a reaction to this awful ring being on my finger.”
Instead of pulling his hand away, he strokes the opposite side of my throat with his thumb.
My heart rate, that slut, refuses to play it cool.
His eyes are bright, reading my bullshit as clearly as if it were spray painted on the Fontain water tower. “I get that ring off and you’ll relax?”
I swallow, the motion of my throat rubbing against his fingers. “Yes.”
His fingers drop from my pulse to take my hand in his, tugging at the ring and getting it nowhere.
“Gee, Nash, why didn’t I think of that?”
He laughs softly and licks his lips. “Bet I could get it off with my mouth.”
I scoff. “What exactly can your mouth do that my hands can’t?”
His look doesn’t need translation. “I think you know.”
It’s unfortunate for me that I do.
“You okay if I try?”
“Try?” Why am I thirsty? “Why wouldn’t I be? We’re adults. It’s just your mouth. Just my finger.” I look at him like I’ve never been less concerned with anything in my life. “Whatever it takes to get it off, be my guest.”
He works his teeth over his bottom lip, then in a single fluid movement, brings my ring finger to his parted lips and dips it into his mouth.
My entire finger goes into his mouth.
My.
Entire.
Finger.
When he stills, his eyes challenge me to react, but I refuse. I’m nonchalant. Like I’m so happily engaged to another man that my finger in his mouth on his tongue doesn’t instantly make my vagina drip with delight.
Lips wrapped around the base knuckle, his teeth clamp down, just barely, eyes not leaving mine as his tongue and teeth gently work to free the ring.
I clear my throat—twice—while he swirls his tongue—twice.
I swear he’s dragging it out.
Swear he’s taking his sweet time.
It’s so unexpectedly hot that I might explode. Right here in the middle of this well-lit kitchen while wearing overalls with a blown-out knee and not an ounce of friction where I want it.
The physical connection Jonathan and I have has always met my needs. The sex isn’t wild, but it’s always been good.
However.
He’s never unexpectedly sucked my finger in broad daylight.
And as Nash does just that with his dark eyes on mine, it might be the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
It’s just my finger and just his mouth and it burns me up like a full-fledged affair.
I should tell him to stop, yet I can’t pull my hand away.
Slowly—so slowly it hurts—the ring breaks free. And with his teeth scraping along my skin, he swirls his tongue, the ring just along for the ride.
One knuckle.
Two.
Until it slips off the end where he—briefly—sucks my fingertip before pulling his mouth away.
If I wasn’t a woman with morals and dignity, I’d demand he do that again. I’d drop to my knees and beg him to suck my finger all day long.
He pulls the ring from his mouth, and it glistens with saliva as he pinches it between his fingers. “Got it.”
I take a few seconds to remember how to breathe, clear my throat, then say, “Good.”
With my thumb, I circle the now-vacant spot on my ring finger and feel the residual moisture. And remember Jonathan. My fiancé. Who I love. Who is practical and buys me flowers and rubs my shoulders and helps me make pros and cons lists.
“Hm.” Nash’s fingers are back on my skyrocketing pulse. He feigns concern. “Didn’t seem to help.”
Dammit.
“I’m engaged,” I snap.
I say it because I don’t know what else to say.
Because I am engaged and he just sucked my finger.
Because my desire to have him do it again is so severe I nearly reach out to him.
Because I want his tongue on so many other places right now.
Because he’s not Jonathan and I love Jonathan, but something very real is happening with Nash, and it might not have anything to do with his mouth or my finger.
Nash grins, gesturing with the ring. “So you keep telling me.”
While Cap isn’t here to wheeze this little party apart, the kettle on the stove whistles and saves the day, pulling Nash’s hand and attention from me.
I swear under my breath then march to the bathroom and nearly waterboard myself under the faucet.
Blotting my face with a towel, I take a deep breath and whisper to my face in the mirror, “Get your shit together, Rue.”
I am a torn sheet of paper in human form. I love Jonathan, I do, but there’s no denying I liked what just happened. Really liked it. With Nash. A man who isn’t Jonathan that I’m already married to and here to divorce. I splash twenty-nine more gallons of water on my face.
This is not good. This is really, very, extremely not good. I pull my phone out of my pocket and fumble to find Jonathan’s number; he answers after two rings.
“Hey, Rue.” His voice is warm. “Good timing. My brother just got here.” A familiar hello calls from the background.
“Hey. Right. Your trip.” I keep my voice low but there’s no hiding the panic.
I’m doubting our relationship in my husband’s bathroom, and my fiancé is going on a bachelor weekend bike ride to the mountains.
Excellent. “I just wanted to call because—” I swallow.
“Because I might be freaking out. Nash is—Nash. I don’t know—I’m-I’m different here.
With him . . . I’m—” Not making any sense. “I don’t know what to do.”
Because crying into Cap’s shoulder broke a seal on my eyeballs, they well up.
“Rue.” Jonathan’s voice is one hundred percent calm. “This is normal. You’re under a lot of stress with the store and the money, and you have shared history—a child—with this man. It’s bound to stir up confusing feelings.”
At the mention of Bennie, I nearly vomit. Maybe he’s right—he usually is—but it does nothing to calm my nerves or quiet the doubt I have surrounding us. “Okay.”
“It’s pre-wedding jitters on top of everything else.”
“This feels like more than that,” I admit. “It feels like I might sti—”
“Damn,” Jonathan says with a chuckle as muffled voices laugh in the background. “We’re a bike down, Rue. I’ll call you back.”
“No. Wai—”
The line goes dead, and it’s just me and my sullen reflection in Nash’s bathroom.
Nash, who I’m still married to but am supposed to be divorcing.
Nash, who doesn’t know about Bennie.
Nash, who is helping me find missing gold he doesn’t believe in so I can save the store and pay for my mom to get brain surgery.
Maybe I’ll ask him to cure cancer while he’s at it.
One more splash of my face, and I force myself out of the bathroom.
In the kitchen, I fumble through my purse and, overcome with confusion and guilt, put Jonathan’s ring on my finger. I ignore how it feels too big and gaudy. Pre-wedding jitters.
“What do you want to do today?” Nash asks, easily and like I didn’t nearly have an orgasm from him sucking my finger followed by an existential crisis in his bathroom.