Love Me Like That (6 page)

The image of being in bed again with Trent makes me sick to my stomach. Holding each other all night. Falling asleep with him running his hand up and down the length of my spine. Just one more way he betrayed me. One more way he kept his cheating unnoticeable by never changing how our relationship has always been.

I squeeze my eyes tight and listen as he gathers his clothes and leaves the room almost silently. A tear rolls down my cheek before I can think to stop it.

Thinking of Trent and Keira leaves a disgusting knot in my stomach. Kadin is no better than Trent, and that makes me no better than Keira. I pushed all the warnings and the voices screaming at me last night to the back of my mind, used the alcohol as reasoning, and carried on with base instincts and primal need, using Kadin as vindication that I’m desirable.

The result? I helped a married man cheat on his wife.

Keira was my best friend, and that makes her sleeping with Trent way worse than what I did, I reason with myself. It does nothing to keep the guilt of my actions from settling in my stomach.

Once I’m confident he’s not returning, I roll out of bed and instantly hate the tenderness between my legs. The reminder is a penance for the horrible things I did last night. By horrible I mean the fact that he is married. The sex was above and beyond. Even in my drunken stupor, I was amazed at how incredibly capable he was in that department.

His wife is a lucky woman. The thought hits me unbidden. Ugh. Maybe not. Even being a great lover is not worth having a man that cheats. Trent never left me unsatisfied and I never even took that into consideration as I packed my bags and left him yesterday. Some things you just don’t tolerate no matter how incredible the sex is.

I’m in full castigation mode as I sweep up my yoga pants and panties I just tossed away last night. Never more than this moment right now do I wish I could have been so drunk that I woke up today with no memory of what happened last night.

I reach my hand up to the mildly irritated skin from where his beard abraded it last night. I touch it tenderly as I walk into the en-suite bathroom. If I thought the bedroom was amazing, it has nothing on this bathroom.

When I cleared the threshold last night, I asked if this was his room because it is so over the top I couldn’t imagine it not being the master. The bathroom is opulent, top of the line, and beautifully decorated. Oatmeal colored marble countertops with dual sinks accent the multihued wooden décor perfectly. No way a man decorated this. I think of his wife once again.

I look in the mirror. My intentions are to chastise myself one last time before moving on. What’s done is done, and there’s nothing I can do about it now, even though I regret my choices from last night.

I don’t find what I’m looking for. A disappointed woman, full of regret is not what peers back at me. Instead, I find sated eyes and lips still swollen from last night’s kisses. The redness on my neck makes me wonder how the same irritation would feel on my inner thighs.

“Shit!” I slap my hand on the countertop as the sudden thought runs through my head.

You’re raw and heartbroken. You have to stop picturing not only what happened last night but also what could have been. He’s not available to you or anyone else. Let his lack of morals be on him and move past it.

I tug off my t-shirt and slide my already opened sports bra off my shoulders. It’s not until I’m standing in front of the mirror completely naked that I realize the slickness between my legs is a combination of Kadin and me.

No protection. As if this situation can get even worse. What if he gave me an STD? Shit! What if
I
gave him an STD?

I rush to the shower even though I know whatever potential damage that could have occurred has been literally brewing all night. I turn the shower on full blast waiting for the water to warm. It never does. The generator that wasn’t working last night is apparently still not working. No hot water. No way to fully wash away the physical proof of our sins.

In addition to the red skin and the soreness to my lady bits, I can now add a frigid cold whore’s bath to my atonement. I run a wash cloth under the freezing water from the sink faucet and commence to cleaning myself as best I can.

I redress in my clothes from yesterday and make my way back out into the main bedroom area. The fire has burned down to mere embers, but I refuse to leave the sanctity of this room. I crawl under the blankets on the bed and bury myself as deep as I can.

Another method of torture? The bed smells like him. The earthy scent of rugged man and the slightest hint of the liquor we consumed last night assault my nostrils in the most heavenly way. Clearly there’s no getting around or forgetting about what I did, what
we
did last night. I’m not the only one to blame here. He’s the married one. He should have stopped what happened.

It only takes ten minutes of shivering under the Kadin-smelling blankets before I’ve had enough. I’m done freezing. I’m done feeling guilty and shouldering all of the blame from last night.

I throw the covers back with more bravado than I actually feel and head downstairs. I’m not a confrontational person, hence the reason I just packed my belongings and left Great Falls. It’s also the reason I never answered one of Trent’s calls the dozen times my phone rang yesterday. I’m hoping Kadin’s feeling just as guilty of our indiscretions as I am and he avoids me all day; like I plan to ignore him.

Walking silently, I make my way into the den, sighing in relief at the blaze in the fireplace. Still as a statue, I stand near the fire, warming my hands and listening to determine if he’s near. I’m met with the silence of the house and the intermittent crackle of the logs in the fire.

I settle back on the couch in the same spot from last night and wrap the now cold fleece around my shoulders. As if my presence in the den beckons to him, the outside door into the mudroom flies open, and he appears. From my vantage point, every inch of his soaking wet body is visible.

He’s going to kill himself if he keeps going out in this blizzard.

I sink lower on the couch and watch as he strips out of the soaked outer layer of jacket and coveralls. Momentarily forgetting my shamefulness of last night I watch as he doesn’t stop with the outer layer of clothes. He’s soaked through, and the layers just keep getting ripped off and cast aside.

He’s grumbling and cursing to himself, but I can’t make out the words. I notice a streak or grease or dirt on his cheek as he flings his gray t-shirt to the floor. My fingers tingle slightly with the urge to wipe it away. He’s standing in the mudroom in nothing but a tight pair of black boxer briefs and my mouth waters.

His chest and etched stomach muscles are covered in a well-groomed layer of dark hair several shades darker than the mahogany colored hair on his head. How did I miss that last night? My gaze follows the dark hair to the waistband of his boxers, and there’s no missing the growing bulge in the front of his underwear.

He kicks at his pile of clothing and runs his hands through his hair in frustration. He squeezes his eyes closed and raises his face to the ceiling, muttering something with a pained expression on his face. His reaction to the situation and events I have no idea about drag me out of my shameless ogling. Apparently he’s struggling with what we did also.

The sight of his regret makes me want to cry, and I’ll be damned if I allow him to see that. I haven’t been broken in a long time, and the last man who fixed me years ago is the same man who destroyed me yesterday. I’m done with this shit.

I slide off the couch, keeping the warm fleece wrapped around my body and run up the stairs to the room and close the door harder than I’d meant to. I know he had to have seen me, but he made no effort to stop me or call out to me. I know it’s for the better, and it confirms he has no desire to see or speak to me either.

I have to get away from here as soon as humanly possible but from the view outside the window and the still raging snow storm it’s apparent that won’t be anytime soon.

How it is possible to be frozen to the core and still be alive, I’ll never know. I can’t get my drenched clothes off fast enough. My jacket and then my coveralls start the sodden pile of laundry on the floor at my feet.

I misjudged my ability to stay dry in this weather. Feeling like a champion after fixing the generator, my dumbass thought it would be no big deal to trudge down the long ass driveway and get London’s things out of her car. I never gave a second thought to the possible condition of her car. It took me, at least, twenty minutes to remove enough snow away to open the damn door and another fifteen to clear the trunk.

I glance at the two suitcases as I shrug out of my shirt, adding it to the ever-growing pile. Maybe she’ll take it as an offering and forgive me for taking advantage of her last night. Granted she kissed me first, but that’s still no excuse. Less than an hour after telling me she’s running from man troubles, we’re ripping our clothes off, and I’m slamming into her.

Fuck she felt so good.

I should just build an igloo outside to stay in. I have no idea how I’m going to keep my hands off of her if we’re in the same house. This blizzard is honestly turning into the bane of my existence right now. I’m here because I can’t handle being around people back in Spokane-
You’re here to kill yourself, asshole-
and here I am thrown into a situation I just made, even more, awkward by sleeping with the stranded woman.

I crack my neck to try to relieve some of the stress I’m feeling and drop my wet pants in the pile with the other clothes. Out of frustration, I kick the soaked clothes. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. I can’t work through in my head why last night is bothering me so much. It’s not the first time I’ve slept with someone other than my wife. It doesn’t even come close to being as fucked up as some of the other situations I’ve put myself in recently.

I can try to explain it away. I can once again blame the alcohol I drank in abundance last night, but I’m not the type of guy to make excuses and I sure as hell don’t lie to myself. So why was last night the first night in as long as I can remember that the demons that haunt me never showed? Why the absence of pain and regret?

The answer, although simple, is not one I even want to think about.
London
. The sparkle in her moss green eyes flashes in my mind. The way her back arched when she orgasmed last night. No overproduction. No hint that she was performing for me. Just pure uninhibited bliss.

I grip my head in my hands and squeeze my eyes closed as tight as I can. Raising my face to the ceiling, I beg for forgiveness. I pray to a god who deserted me long ago to ease the pain in my chest and give me the strength to resist her, the strength that, as a man, I’m not sure I possess on my own.

When I open my eyes again, I see a flash of her as she runs up the stairs and slams the door to the guest bedroom. It’s like He’s taunting me for losing faith. He’s throwing that temptation at me rather than helping me avoid it. I had no idea she was in the den. Here I am standing all but naked in the mudroom, not even taking into consideration where she may be in the house.

“Fuck,” I hiss. I know she couldn’t have read my thoughts as I just imagined sinking into her again, but there’s no way to look past the half-erect cock jutting out, barely restricted by the thin layer of my underwear. This day just keeps getting better. She probably thinks I’m going to be trudging up the stairs any minute demanding sexual payment for her to stay here.

Oh God! Did she think she was obligated to sleep with me last night? My mind races, replaying the events of last night, trying to remember if in any way I may have said or done something that she misconstrued into sexual demands. I can’t recall anything, and I try to justify it once again with the knowledge that she kissed me first, but I still feel like an asshole.

I keep my underwear on even though they’re wet and sticking to my body and walk to the kitchen. Now that the generator is going I can make some coffee. This will warm me better from the inside than the whiskey I really want. Another way this storm is fucking me. I have to take my houseguest into consideration. If she weren’t here, I’d tip the Jack back rather than standing here putting two scoops of Folgers into the machine. I have a feeling drinking the hard stuff before noon would be rather off-putting for her.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly what I should do. I shake the idea off, knowing the second my mind goes hazy from the liquor the first thing I’ll want to do is get inside of her again.