10. Cassie #2
The kiss deepens. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, and I feel his tongue trace the seam of my lips.
I open for him without thinking, and the sound he makes in response is low and hungry and does something complicated to my insides.
He kisses like he does everything else: controlled, deliberate, devastating.
Like he’s taking me apart piece by piece and enjoying every second of it.
I forget that Celine is watching. I forget that this is supposed to be an act. I forget everything except the taste of him, the feel of his body pressed against mine, the way my heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathless.
Elliot’s eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide. He looks almost as wrecked as I feel, and that knowledge sends a thrill through me that I’m not ready to examine.
“Still think we’re lying?” His voice is rough.
I turn to look at Celine.
Her face is ashen. Her hands are shaking. She looks like someone who’s just watched their entire world collapse, and I feel a savage satisfaction at the sight.
“You can’t.” She can’t even form a complete sentence.
“I’ll make sure to make myself at home,” I say sweetly. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of him.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Celine’s voice rises to a shriek. “This is my home! You can’t just throw me out in the middle of the night!”
“I don’t fucking care,” Elliot says flatly. “Go to Charles. Go to your parents. Go to a hotel. I don’t care where you go, as long as it’s not here.”
“You can’t do this!”
“I can. I am.” He pulls out his phone. “Or I can call your parents right now and explain exactly why you’re being asked to leave. Your choice.”
The threat lands like a physical blow. I watch a thing break behind Celine’s eyes. The fight drains out of her, her shoulders slumping in defeat.
“You’ll regret this,” she whispers. “Both of you. You have no idea what you’ve started.”
She storms toward the elevator, her heels clicking against the marble. At the doors, she turns back one last time.
“Whore.”
The word is directed at me, spat out like poison.
The doors slide shut before I can respond.
The silence that follows is heavy. Charged. I’m suddenly very aware that Elliot’s arm is still around my waist, that his body is still pressed against mine, that the kiss we shared is still tingling on my lips.
“That was.” I clear my throat. “That was quite a performance.”
“Was it?” He doesn’t move away. “Are you sure it was a performance?”
I look up at him. His eyes are still dark, his expression unreadable.
“What else would it be?”
“I don’t know.” His thumb traces a circle on my hip, and I feel the touch like a brand. “But I think we should figure that out.”
My mouth goes dry. “Elliot.”
“Not tonight.” He finally steps back, and I feel the loss of his warmth like a physical ache. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been through hell. And whatever this is between us, it deserves more than a conversation we’re both too tired to have properly.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But part of me wants to say fuck it, wants to pull him back, wants to find out if the rest of him feels as good as his mouth did.
“Guest room is upstairs,” he continues, his voice returning to almost normal. “Second door on the left. Everything you need should be there.”
“And you?”
“I have some calls to make.” He moves toward his office. “Lawyers. Damage control. The usual.”
“At this hour?”
“The people I pay don’t get to complain about hours.” He pauses at the doorway. “Cassie.”
“Yeah?”
“That kiss.” His eyes meet mine, and I see a rawness in them, unguarded. “That wasn’t entirely an act. Just so you know.”
He disappears into his office before I can respond.
I stand there for several minutes, staring at the closed door, my fingers pressed to my lips. The taste of him lingers. The memory of his hands in my hair, the way he held me like I was precious, the sound he made when I opened my mouth under his.
What the hell did I just get myself into?
I don’t have an answer. I’m not sure I want one.
I climb the stairs to the guest room, my legs unsteady, my mind racing. The room is beautiful. Huge windows overlooking the city. A bed that could fit four people. An en suite bathroom with a shower that has more settings than my car.
I should be impressed. I should be grateful. Instead, I just feel numb.
I strip off my dress and leave it in a puddle on the floor. I shower quickly, letting the hot water wash away some of the tension in my shoulders. I find a t-shirt in the closet, soft cotton that smells like laundry detergent, and pull it on.
Then I climb into the massive bed and stare at the ceiling.
This morning, I was Cassie Wallace. Married woman. Assistant to my husband. Living in a house I helped decorate, working at a job I helped build, existing in a life that felt, if not perfect, at least stable.
Now I’m something else. Someone else. A woman who caught her husband cheating, announced it to his entire office, quit her job, moved in with a billionaire she barely knows, and kissed him in front of his wife.
Ex-wife. Soon to be ex-wife.
I think about Charles. Is he looking for me? Wondering where I am? Or is he with Celine, somewhere, trying to figure out how to spin this to his advantage?
I think about Celine. Where did she go? To her parents? To a hotel? Is she crying right now, or plotting?
I think about Elliot. Downstairs in his office, making calls, preparing for the war we’ve just started. What does he see when he looks at me? A weapon? An ally? Something more?
What do I want him to see?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
But for the first time in years, I’m not afraid.
That has to count for something.