Chapter 29 Addison
TWENTY-NINE
ADDISON
I’d succeeded in making it to the cab before succumbing to the water works. As much as I despise showing my weakness to anyone—including a cabbie who’s likely seen it all—I can’t hold myself together until I get home. C’est la fucking vie.
On the bright side, I make good use of the ride over and get it all out.
I stop crying a few minutes before the cab pulls up in front of my building, allowing me to walk into the lobby area with a modicum of dignity.
The best part about reaching the bottom of your well of tears is the numbing emptiness that follows.
I embrace it, letting my mind go vacant and my body run on autopilot.
Once inside my apartment, I close and lock the door behind me. Dropping my small clutch and keys on the console table, I catch my reflection in the mirror and wince.
So much for dignity.
I forgot that I’d run out of my waterproof mascara and had to use my backup.
My cheeks are stained with black streaks, evidence of my broken heart for all to see.
A choked sob escapes before I can stop it with the back of my hand pressed against my mouth.
Numbness. It doesn’t matter what sort of volatile storm of emotions is rioting on the inside.
If I can keep the numbness wrapped around it all, I won’t have to feel the deeper stuff.
Taking a slow breath, I cross the room and use the remote to put on the local channel showing the New Year’s festivities out at Navy Pier to drown out the silence of my surroundings.
Maybe with the sounds of music and happy people floating around me, it’ll make me feel less lonely and pathetic. Or not. Whatever.
I toss the remote onto the couch and head to the kitchen.
Alcohol will help me sustain the numbness I need.
But my lack of motivation to do any grocery shopping lately has left me without any of my usual stock.
No wine. No beer. Not even the vodka I use to make my chocolate martinis.
Then, I remember that I do have something.
Opening the far cabinet, I stare at the half-full bottle of Glenfiddich I kept for Roman.
Fuck it. I grab it, unscrew the cap, and place the bottle to my lips for a healthy swig.
I cough as the burn takes my breath away, but bring it with me as I head to the bathroom.
I suddenly want to sit in the shower and let the hot water wash away the night, the pain, the loss.
Somewhere along the way, I step out of my heels and take several more drinks of the whisky.
Minutes of my life are swallowed up by thoughts of Roman and the way he looked tonight, so sexy and confident, just like the first time I met him.
Nothing has changed for him, and everything has changed for me.
I blink, realizing I’ve already turned the water on and steam is starting to build in the large glass enclosure.
I almost remove my dress, but stop myself.
I can deny it all I want and say that I didn’t get ready tonight with Roman in mind, but it would be a lie.
I chose my dress carefully, wanting to wear something he would like.
My hair, my makeup, my jewelry…everything.
All were catered to his tastes. I wanted to look good to him. For him.
Now I want it destroyed. I want my outside to match my inside.
So I step into the hot spray. Prada dress, bottle of whisky, and all.
Giving in to the weight of the last three months, I slide down the wall and bring my knees to my chest, letting the water soak through the black lace and nude lining.
I tip back another drink of whisky and think I’m fine, but as I pull the bottle away and swallow the fiery liquid, my tentative composure breaks.
The shower is doing its job, the spray eroding everything in its path, including the blessed numbness I’d found, if only temporarily.
Tears flow freely, unchecked, to mix with the falling water.
“Addison.”
I almost don’t hear the tortured sound of my own name, but it finally registers when I see movement in the corner of my eye and turn my head to the right to find the sexy devil of a man standing in the doorway to my bathroom.
Roman.
The alcohol must be doing its job to dull my senses. I don’t startle at his presence, or even question it, half-believing he’s a figment of my twisted imagination. But he must be real because I don’t feel even the slightest bit drunk. I just feel…sad. So very fucking sad.
I’d left the glass door to the shower open, giving me a clear view of him instead of what should be a blurry image through foggy glass.
He’s so perfect, it almost hurts to look at him.
Refined with an edge. Safe with hints of danger.
A good man and a bad boy. There’s no one in the world like Roman Reeves. And he doesn’t want me.
So then why is he here? What does he want?
A dozen questions are pushing at the walls of my mind, but they don’t make it to my lips.
I don’t want to speak, to provoke him to say things I don’t want to hear.
Things like he’s only here as a friend. Or he saw me with Sam and was driven here by a jealousy he has no right to feel.
Or he’s in the mood to fuck someone familiar, someone he can have an easy one-night stand with and then go on with his life like it never happened.
I can’t even bring myself to look him in the eye for fear that I’ll be able to read the answers in his arctic-blue gaze.
The water is hot, but a shiver trails goose bumps over my flesh at the thought of being cast aside again. I tremble because I know that if he touches me, I won’t have the strength to turn him away. Not tonight. Not now.
He removes his tux jacket and drops it carelessly to the floor.
I watch him warily as he moves toward the opening to the shower, then suck in a breath when he steps inside, fully clothed.
As he sinks down next to me, I draw my knees in tighter and shy away from him.
His white shirt is plastered to his body and now completely see-through, revealing the arcs and swirls of his tattoos over his chest and arms.
Deft fingers skim over the inside of my ankle, zapping me with electricity that races straight to my core, melting parts of me that have been frozen for months.
It feels so damn good. Like my body’s been lying dormant, waiting to stir and come to life under his touch.
I’m tempted to look for those answers in his eyes when his hand moves up the inside of my calf, so I turn my face away in favor of the whisky.
Before I can drink any, the bottle is pulled from my grasp.
I follow it to where Roman places it to his lips and tips it back, but then sets the bottle aside without swallowing.
Instead, his hands palm the sides of my face to hold me still as he looms over me.
I can no longer avoid his eyes, and when our gazes finally collide, I’m struck by the mirrored emotions I see swirling in those blue depths.
Pain, sadness, passion, longing. All the things twisting around my heart like thorny brambles, they’re doing the same to him.
Lowering his face to mine, he kisses me softly.
Eyes on mine, he presses his thumb lightly on my chin and encourages my lips to part.
I allow him to physically manipulate me to his liking.
I’m malleable clay in his dexterous hands, ready to be molded and shaped into whatever he wants, whatever he needs.
The whisky trickles from his mouth into mine, and I drink it greedily, as though he offered me water after I crawled through the desert.
That’s what this kiss feels like. Life-giving sustenance for my malnourished soul. I’d fooled myself into thinking I could be happy with my heart perpetually catatonic, but one taste reminding me of how it feels to be alive and my survival instincts kick back in.
He tentatively licks the underside of my upper lip and the edge of my teeth, testing his welcome. I want to give in so damn badly. To let him in. To let him take. And that’s exactly why I can’t.
“No,” I say weakly as I push on his chest. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
“You’re wrong, baby. I was wrong. Here with you is the only place I should be. I need you.”
I defend myself against the husky desperation in his voice with a huff of indignation. “Need me?” I choke out. “You don’t need me. You don’t even want me, remember?”
“No.” He shakes his head. Water droplets fall from the heavy chunks of his hair hanging over his forehead.
His hands wrap around the sides of my face just below my ears, his fingers gripping the back of my head and his thumbs pressing in on my cheeks.
“That’s not true. Not back then and not now.
It’ll never be true because I will always fucking want you. Do you hear me? Always.”
The truth of his words is written in the crystalline blue of his eyes. I believe that he wants me. I even believe that he needs me. The question is…for what? Does he need me to be his—completely and solely his? Or does he need me to be the woman between him and another man?
As much as I’d like to pretend the answer doesn’t matter—that I can go on happily enjoying the benefits of a frequent sexual triad and accept that the man I love needs to have someone else in our bed to feel fully satisfied—I can’t.
But I also can’t pretend that I don’t want this. That I don’t want him. I choke back a sob and curl my fingers into the base of his neck. This might be the last time we’re together, so I’m overruling my head and giving my heart temporary free rein. I’ll deal with the broken pieces tomorrow.
With a tiny sound of resignation, I let my lids drift closed and I surrender myself to the moment. I surrender myself to Roman.