Chapter 11
AYLA
Carson tenses beside me and the air in the room goes heavy. He takes a gulp of wine, then says quietly, “Of course I do.”
“Really?”
He eyes me. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
I nod slowly. “I think about him all the time. Not every minute of the day. But a lot.” I pause for a sip of wine.
“I go into his bedroom every day. Sometimes, I sit in the rocking chair for a while just to think about him. I try to remember how he smelled, all warm and baby powder. How soft his skin was. His gummy smile. God. That smile.”
I’m talking about it, but my insides don’t feel shredded like they used to.
“I’m so scared I’m going to forget him,” I whisper.
Carson’s jaw hardens.
“You don’t like talking about him.”
He flicks a glance my way, his mouth set in a harsh line. His voice is flat when he says through clenched teeth, “I’m trying to get on with life.”
Anger flushes hot through my body, burning in my stomach.
“Oh, I know.” His desire to “get on with life” pissed me off.
It felt like a betrayal. And that was a double loss.
I’d lost my son… and my husband betrayed me.
It made me angry. It made my grief even deeper.
It made me doubt myself and question our love.
I didn’t want to talk about what happened either, at first. I was a zombie.
But then… I wanted to talk about my baby.
About how I felt. I wanted Carson to talk about it, too.
I thought that would help him move on. But he shut me down all the time, saying he was fine, he’d dealt with it, he was moving on.
The firelight flickers warmly over the room, the silence thick. I stare into it and sip my wine, trying to temper my anger. I swallow and say, “I wish things could have been different.”
“Fuck.” He shakes his head. “No shit. I wish that fucking asshole that T-boned us had never been born. I wish that accident had never happened.”
“Well, yes.” Of course I wish the accident never happened.
But that was out of our control. It did happen.
We have to deal with it. And how we deal with it is in our control.
But Carson’s idea of control is different than mine in this situation.
And I know he loves to be in control. I give him a sideways glance, his face still carved in stone.
“But I meant what happened after the accident.”
His mouth twists into a bitter pucker. I can see him struggling about what to say. In the end, he says nothing.
I was supposed to take care of everyone else. But I fell apart. And when I tried to claw my way back to actually living, to helping Carson deal with his grief, I couldn’t. I couldn’t help him.
My lungs constrict and my throat tightens. It still hurts.
This was a bad idea, inviting Carson to spend days with me in a hotel room. Or cottage. Whatever. It’s just bringing back those old feelings and old hurts. Those hopeless wishes and futile efforts.
“I’m sorry.” I stand, my wine glass empty, and walk stiffly to the kitchenette to get the bottle. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
I fill my own glass and take the bottle back to the couch to hand it to Carson.
I take my seat again. “Would you rather talk about sex?”
His hand jerks, spilling pinot noir onto his jeans. “Jesus!”
“Oops.” I jump up and scoot over to grab a towel. I jog back and start patting it on his thigh. His massive hockey quadriceps that could crush me like a… Never mind.
He grabs the towel from me and presses it to the wet denim.
“Sorry.” I sit again. “I was trying to change the subject.”
His mouth puckers and I think he’s trying not to smile. “I got that.”
“What sex act have you always wanted to try that we never did?”
The smile breaks free. “We tried everything, Ayla.”
Heat unfurls in my belly and spreads through my torso. We did try a lot of things. “We couldn’t have tried everything,” I argue. “We never had a threesome.”
Now Carson chokes on his wine. “Jesus, Ayla.”
This wine might be making me a little loose. “Oh, wait. You might have had a threesome before we met. I hear a lot of hockey players are into group sex.”
His jaw sags as he stares at me. “Well…”
“Oh my God! You did!”
He looks at the ceiling.
“Was it with other players?” Now I’m a little gobsmacked.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “I never knew that.” I pause. “Have you ever made a sex tape?”
He closes his eyes. “No.”
“I remember you wanted to.”
His eyes stay closed, the expression on his face suggesting he’s suddenly experiencing a severe dental infection.
Yes. I remember he wanted to. He thought it would be hot to watch it together. I was too shy. I kind of regret that now.
I think about sex with Carson a lot. It was… well, there aren’t words for it. Hot seems inadequate. Amazing is even insufficient.
Shit. Now I’m getting a warm, twisty feeling in my stomach. This was a mistake.
“I should go to bed.” I stand abruptly. “Oh wait. This is my bed.”
“This is not your bed.” He stands, too, his shoulders a little hunched. “I said I’ll sleep here.”
I sweep a hand toward the couch. “Are you kidding? Your knees will hang over the end.” I huff out a gusty sigh. “I’ll go get ready for bed.”
I scurry over to my suitcase to pull out my pajamas then dart into the bathroom and close the door. Yikes.
This was definitely a bad idea. What was I thinking? First, I mess up by trying to talk to Carson about Kane. Then I try to change the subject and embarrass both of us. Good work, Ayla.
I wash my face and slap on moisturizer and lip balm, then change into the pajamas I packed—certainly not sexy—heather-gray jogger pants with a matching long-sleeved, Henley-style top. With no make-up, especially eye make-up, I look like a white rabbit.
I emerge and put my clothes away, get myself a glass of water then trek to the couch. I find Carson stretched out on his back, eyes closed, hands on his flat abdomen.
“Get off.” I nudge gently. “If I have to arm wrestle you off here, I will.”
He snorts. “Just try it.”
I’m a little stubborn and my need to win battles with my selfish inclination to just take the big, comfy king bed.
I’m not in the best mood after my conversational missteps, so I set down my water and grab his arm, curling my fingers around his meaty biceps.
I tug on him and, catching him unawares, he slides half off the couch.
“Fuck!” He rolls to the floor and bounces up. “What the fuck, Ayla.”
I try to hide my mirth. “You said to do it.”
He blows out a breath like I’m testing the last fibers of his patience, plants his hands on his lean hips, and regards me with hazel eyes that are sparking gold right now. “You’re sleeping in the bed.” And he dips his knees, slides his arms under my butt, and lifts me over his shoulder.
I let out a screech, smacking at his back as he walks over to the bed. I’m prepared for him to toss me down, but instead, he gently lowers me to the mattress. I lay there, panting, staring up at him. Fuck, that was hot.
Oh God.
He points at me, eyes stern. “Stay there.”
And he goes back to the couch.
“You need a pillow and a blanket!” I call breathlessly.
“Yeah. I got it.” He grabs them from the chair and makes himself a makeshift, terrible bed. Before he lays down again, he turns off all the lights, and the fire is the only glow in the room.
As if I’m going to be able to sleep now. I’m quivering inside, hands curled into fists, my mind racing like a thoroughbred at the Derby.
The feel of his hands on me… the feel of his big body under me as he carried me…
the care he used to set me down… I’m a puddle of melting goo.
I loved many things about him, but right now, I’m thinking about how much I loved his strength, his height and powerful muscles and how he used those so gently with me.
I watched him smash guys into the board and punch them in the face, but with me, he was nothing but tender and mindful, okay, sometimes filthy and bossy and controlling, but never scary.
I crawl under the billowy duvet and burrow into the bed. I’m vibrating, a distinct ache between my legs. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex. Clearly, I need it. This is not good.
Carson is lying feet away from me.
Gah. I can’t believe I’m reacting like this. What is wrong with me? I don’t love him anymore. I guess physical attraction is different than love, but it seems highly inappropriate when it’s your ex.
I just have to get through this weekend, go home and sell the house, and I’ll never have to see him again. And I fall asleep with an ache in my chest.
* * *
Somehow, I do manage to sleep, although it’s restless and I wake up several times, disoriented. Then I remember where I am and Carson is right here with me, so close, but not here in bed with me, and the regret and sadness of that is a heaviness inside me, a thickness in my throat.
One time when I awake, I get up and fumble around the dark cottage for my phone to plug it in and also set an alarm. I bump into one of the chairs in the small dining room and it makes a grating noise across the wood floor. I freeze.
Carson lifts his head. “Ayla?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Sorry. I bumped the chair.”
“Everything okay?”
No. No, it really isn’t. “Fine. Go back to sleep. I just wanted my phone.”
His head disappears and I shuffle back to bed.
In the morning, my alarm wakes both of us. Carson must have drawn all the blinds last night, because the cottage is still dim, but I can see the brightness of sunlight around the edges of the windows.
He always wakes up more quickly than me.
The alarm goes off, he rolls out of bed, and heads to the shower.
Whereas I like to linger a little, enjoying the warmth and comfort of bed, letting my thoughts ramble, maybe even dozing off a bit again.
I’ve learned to set two alarms when I really need to be up.
I don’t doze off this morning though, as I listen keenly to the sounds from the bathroom.
This small cottage doesn’t have a lot of privacy.
I hear him running the shower and the door closing, and I imagine him naked under the water.
He has the most gorgeous, perfect body: lean and strong, with firm pecs, defined abs, and thickly muscled thighs.
He’s an athlete. I remember showers together and how his hard, wet body felt against mine.
How I’d slide my hands over sleek skin, squeeze his hockey butt, and…
I press my thighs together. That ache is back, or maybe never went away because I think I had a lot of filthy dreams last night. I slip my hand inside my pajama pants. I’m so wet. Biting my lip, I move my fingertips through the moisture and over my needy clit. Oh God… yes…
I know Carson’s going to come out in a minute. I have to do this quickly.
Pleasure builds inside me, heat swirling. I squeeze my inner muscles and sensation intensifies, everything winding tighter and tighter.
Carson’s shower takes longer than I thought—I think?
—and I hear the bathroom door opening just as my orgasm peaks.
There is no way I can stop, so I roll to my side, facing away from him, my hand clenched between my thighs against my pussy pulsing.
I try to keep my quick breathing quiet, hiding my face in the duvet.
“Bathroom’s free,” Carson says quietly. Then, “You awake?”
“Yeah. I’m awake.” I yawn and stretch under the covers. “How did you sleep?”
“Like shit, to be honest.”
“Told you so.”
He barks a laugh. “Okay, you did.” He rolls his head. “My neck is killing me. The shower helped a little.”
“We’ll take turns. I’ll sleep there tonight. No more manhandling, okay?” Even though I fucking loved it.
“Manhandling.” I hear the amusement in his voice.
I sit up and see him standing in the corner going through his suitcase. He’s only wearing a towel around his hips. With his back to me, his round ass is clearly delineated by the terry cloth, and droplets of water cling to his wedge-shaped bare back.
I whimper.
He glances over his shoulder, a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“Nothing!” I throw back the covers and vault out of bed.
In the bathroom, I study my face in the mirror. I’m cranberry-red. Great. Hopefully, it’ll fade by the time I get out of the shower.
I find towels in a cupboard and grab a few things from my toiletry bag.
The shower is still steamy and smells like Carson.
Yes… he’s left his bottles of shampoo and body wash on the shelf.
I pick up the bottle and sniff more deeply of the toasted vanilla, spice and musk scent.
I’m transported back again to other showers where we were together, surrounded by steam and heat and desire.
I turn on the water and lean against the wall of the shower, eyes closed, letting the water pour over me. When I soap up my hands with my own body wash, I rub it over my breasts, cupping them, then sliding a hand between my legs. God, I could come again.
So I do, fingers circling my sensitive clit, getting myself off again with a quick, frenzied orgasm.
With trembling arms, I shampoo my hair, my knees feeling like soap bubbles, my chest rising and falling with my choppy breaths.
I love orgasms. I miss sex. A lot. Carson was really good at sex.
Daaaamn.
I need to get over this little burst of horniness and focus on why I’m here. Why we’re here. To give Nonna no reason to think our marriage is over and give her a happy birthday. And then go home, sell the house, and never see Carson again.