Chapter Eighteen
Jess
Pulling the handle of the passenger door, I let out a frustrated breath when it doesn’t budge. My foot starts tapping against the pavement as I wait, jaw tight, until the car finally beeps and the locks click open.
I get in the passenger side and slam the door. Logan gets in the driver's side a second later and quietly starts driving.
I'm too hyped to even form a word, so I stay quiet too, stewing in the fact that my husband once again saw fit to cross that boundary with a client.
I'm so focused on my anger that I don't notice us pull up to the house instead of the office. Once Logan throws the car in park, I glance outside and get out without another word.
Getting my keys out of my purse, I head to my own car parked in the driveway. When I go to pull open the driver's side, it slams closed as Logan's hand slams flat on the surface.
His chest is plastered to my back. Ignoring that, I try pulling the handle again, only to not even move it an inch.
I'm taking deep breaths now, trying to stop myself from screaming and giving the neighbors a show when Logan grabs my hand off the handle and starts pulling me towards the house.
I try pulling my hand out of his not cause it hurts but because he doesn’t get to lead me anywhere right now.
Logan doesn’t even slow down until he gets me in the house and slams the door closed, leaning his back against it.
Our chests heave as we stare each other down, my lungs burning with each ragged breath. His dark eyes flash with something dangerous, anger mixed with hunger.
Then without warning our mouths collide in a brutal, punishing kiss, his teeth scraping my bottom lip until I taste copper, making me gasp against his mouth. His calloused hands roam my body with desperate, raw need, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips hard enough to bruise.
His tongue drives into my mouth; I taste him, my husband and the man I love; and the white-hot anger unravels into a different, primal fire that pools low in my belly.
Our tongues duel in a slick, aggressive dance, neither willing to surrender. I meet his intensity, sucking his bottom lip between my teeth, nipping until he groans, trying to wrest some control back from this hurricane between us.
He breaks the kiss as abruptly as it began, a thin strand of saliva connecting us for a heartbeat before it breaks. He grips my arms, fingers pressing into my biceps with bruising force.
In one fluid motion he spins me around, the world blurring. I stumble forward, my hands slamming into the plush back of the leather couch to catch myself, nails digging into the material.
Before I can straighten, Logan's behind me, the heat of his body scorching through my clothes as he kicks my legs apart, his knee nudging mine with unmistakable intent. His hands yank my pencil skirt up, bunching the expensive fabric at my waist, exposing the lace of my panties.
I hear the metallic rasp of his zipper splitting and feel his hard, pulsing cock pressing against me, insistent and unforgiving through the thin barrier of my underwear.
Pausing he stills as if waiting for me to say no. I don’t, instead, I reach back and grip the hair at the back of his head and pull. With a growl Logan moves my underwear to the side and slams into me in one brutal thrust that steals the air from my lungs.
A sharp cry tears from my lips, echoing in the quiet house. There's no slow build, no hesitation as Logan sets a punishing rhythm, each powerful thrust driving me down against the couch, the friction delicious and almost too much.
His hand leaves my shoulder to grip my breast through my silk blouse, fingers finding and pinching my nipple while our skins slap together in a frantic, obscene beat.
The room fills with ragged breaths, the wet sounds of our bodies joining, and his guttural groans that vibrate through me. I bite the back of my hand to keep from screaming or worse, telling him I love him.
Logan's hand tangles in my hair, wrapping the strands around his fist before pulling my head back until my spine arches painfully.
The angle is cruel, heightening every sensation as he drives deeper. He fucks me like he hates me, his frustration unleashed on my body, each thrust a punishment and a pleasure I can't resist.
My stomach coils tight as a spring, the anger in my veins morphing into electric need that crackles along every nerve ending. I push back against him, meeting his thrusts, desperate to come, to find release from this exquisite torture.
The couch creaks in protest under our weight, leather squeaking with each movement. Broken moans slip out of me involuntarily; tears prick my eyes as the edge of orgasm rises.
My entire body convulses as the wave crashes over me, pleasure so intense it borders on pain. I clamp down around him, muscles spasming wildly as I come apart. My vision blurs, sparks dancing behind my eyelids as my consciousness narrows to this single point of ecstasy.
"Fuck, Jess," Logan growls against my ear, his rhythm faltering as my body milks him. "That's it."
I can't speak, can't think, can only feel as the aftershocks ripple through me. My legs tremble, threatening to give out entirely. If not for Logan's arm snaking around my waist, holding me up, I'd collapse onto the couch.
He's still moving inside me, chasing his own release, each thrust sending new jolts of oversensitive pleasure-pain through my system. I whimper, overwhelmed but unwilling to stop him.
Logan’s pace slows for an instant, his breath hot against my neck, but then he grips my hips harder and drives deeper, his thrusts more angled and desperate.
He's hitting that spot inside me that makes my knees buckle, and I'm still so sensitive from the first orgasm that every movement sends electric currents through my body.
My fingers claw desperately at the leather, seeking purchase as another wave begins building inside me. It's too soon, too intense, and I'm not sure I can handle it, but my body betrays me, responding to his relentless rhythm. I bite my lip to keep from crying out his name.
He slides one hand around to where we're joined, his fingers finding my swollen clit with unerring accuracy. The first touch nearly buckles me. He circles it with torturous precision, knowing exactly how to touch me, how to wind me up again.
My breath comes in short, desperate pants. Sweat trickles down my spine as the pressure builds again, impossibly stronger than before. Every muscle in my body tightens, trembling with the strain of holding back what's coming.
Then it happens, another wave of pleasure crashes over me like a tsunami, more powerful than the first. My body convulses uncontrollably, inner walls clenching around him with such force that I hear his breath hitch.
I'm coming so hard I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel as wave after wave of pleasure tears through me, turning my bones to liquid, my mind to static.
Behind me, Logan's rhythm falters, grows erratic.
His fingers dig deeper into my flesh, and his breathing becomes ragged, desperate.
His entire body tenses against mine, muscles coiling tight as a spring before he buries himself to the hilt with one final, brutal thrust. I feel him pulsing inside me, the hot rush of his release triggering another aftershock that makes me gasp and shudder.
For a long moment, we stay frozen in place, connected and trembling.
The anger that drove us to this point has burned away, leaving only the raw, honest connection of our bodies.
His forehead drops to rest between my shoulder blades, his chest heaving against my back.
I can feel his heart hammering, matching the frantic pace of my own.
Slowly, gently, his hands move to brush the strands of hair that have fallen into my face.
The softness of it breaks something in me. It feels too much like pity.
Straightening I push myself off the sofa. Logan’s hands drop instantly.
He stares at me, expression unreadable, chest still rising and falling heavily as I smooth my skirt down and fix my blouse. My fingers tremble as I try to make myself look composed.
I can still feel him. The evidence of us dripping into my panties.
“That’s it then,” I say, running my fingers through my hair again, trying to steady myself.
The emotions I’ve been holding back all morning press at the surface, threatening to spill.
I sniff and finally risk a glance at him.
He hasn’t moved.
“So,” I ask, the word scraping out of me, “are you moving out? Or do you expect me to?”
Logan
“What?” I say, genuinely stunned at how we went from having sex against the couch to this.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she throws a hand up, her voice tipping into something dangerously close to hysterical, “that was a great goodbye fuck. Really. Ten out of ten. But I’m guessing you’re ready to move on to the next part.”
“Jess, I-”
“It’s fine,” she cuts me off, louder now, the words coming too fast. “I mean, I thought this break was for you to evaluate your feelings. But I guess you evaluated.”
She laughs, and it sounds brittle.
“I’m just wondering if I get to stay in my home, or if I have to leave. Since you don’t want to be a weekend dad.” Her voice is pointed as she throws my words back in my face.
My stomach drops.
“It’s not too much to ask, is it?” Jess continues, eyes glassy but defiant. “Just let me know before I find out on Instagram.”
“Instagram?” I repeat, confused.
“You have a habit, don’t you?” she shoots back. “Telling people about our problems before me. Whether it’s bankruptcy or divorce.”
Ok, that was a low blow. I drag a hand down my face.
“Jess, I did not tell her we were divorcing.”
“But you told her enough,” she says, her voice cracking now. “Enough for her to think our marriage was over.”
I step toward her.
She steps back.
“I was venting,” I admit. “I shouldn’t have. But I wasn’t planning anything. I haven’t decided anything.”
“That’s the problem,” she whispers. “You haven’t decided.”
“I need more time,” I say, and I hate how desperate I sound.
“I can’t, okay?” she says, walking around me, putting space between us like I’m something volatile. “I can’t keep living in this in-between.”
She turns back to face me, eyes red.
“I get that I hurt you. I get that I messed up. I’ve owned that. I’ve been here. I’ve done the therapy. I’ve swallowed my pride. I’m willing to do anything for you to forgive me.”
She inhales shakily.
“But you don’t…”
“Don’t what?” I ask.
“Don’t trust me,” she says, her voice breaking. “You never have.”
“How the hell is this my fault?” I fire back.
“Are you forgetting how we ended up in this mess in the first place?”
“You’re seriously blaming me?”
“No,” she says quickly. “But you have to accept responsibility too. What I did… it wasn’t some deep-rooted conspiracy. It was a reaction. An impulsive, terrible reaction. And I’ve been working on that. But you-”
She gestures at me.
“You won’t even go to therapy.”
I open my mouth to argue.
She beats me to it.
“You told Lenore things you never told me. And I told myself it was because you were protecting me. That you didn’t want to worry me. I defended you.”
Her voice cracks.
“But telling a stranger we’re separated? While letting me believe we still had a chance?”
She shakes her head slowly.
“That’s cruel, Logan.”
I open my mouth to argue. Then I close it. Because I hear what she’s actually saying.
“I’m not trying to be cruel,” I say finally. “I just… don’t know.”
She nods once, like she expected that.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Then let’s do this.” Walking to the kitchen table, Jess pulls out a chair and takes a seat.
I follow, but I don’t sit. I stay standing, like I’m on trial.
“Tell me what you imagined telling me,” she says quietly, referencing to what she suggested last night. “I can take it.”
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t have the words.
Because I do.
They’ve been sitting in my throat for months, burning. But saying them out loud makes them permanent. It makes them something I can’t hide behind anger anymore. A part of me wants to protect her from that. Another part wants to protect myself.
She’s right, though.
We can’t keep living like this.
My jaw tightens. I look away for a second, then back at her.
The words come out before I can dull them.
“I hate you.”
Her eyes shatter. But her expression stays steady.
Go on,” she whispers.
“We were happy,” I say, my voice rougher now. “We were so fucking happy. And then you ruined everything. And I hate you for that.”
The words taste bitter.
“What’s worse,” I continue, “is that I still love you. And I don’t know what the hell to do with that. Because every time I look at you, I see him, touching you, kissing you, fucking you.”
Her gaze drops to the table. Shame settles over her features, heavy and quiet.
“And then you hid it,” I say, my voice tightening. “For a year. You let me beg. You let me apologize. You let me think I was the only one who screwed up.”
A hollow laugh escapes me.
“I turned myself inside out trying to fix us. I changed everything. I became whatever you needed me to be.”
I shake my head slowly.
“And the whole time you were laughing at what a cuckhold I was.”
Jess flinches, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“And the worst part?” I swallow. “I still can’t stop loving you. Even after knowing all of it.”
I drag out a chair and sit down across from her because my legs don’t feel steady anymore.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” I ask quietly. “Tell me. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
She watches me like I’m made of glass.
“And don’t say therapy,” I add quickly, frustration sparking again. “I’m tired of sitting in rooms talking in circles while nothing actually changes.”
Even as the words leave me, I know they sound defensive.
But I’m exhausted.
Exhausted of loving her.
Exhausted of being angry.
Exhausted of this limbo that won’t break one way or the other.