Love Me Like That (8 page)

Shocked, I look in the fridge and, sure enough, there’s a sub sandwich on a plate with chips. I slide the plate off the shelf and look around, thinking he’s lurking in the shadows somewhere watching me take his offering, all the while I’m wondering why he bothered.

I sit gingerly at the breakfast bar with my prepared meal and eat as slowly as possible, hoping he will show so I can thank him. Honestly, I’d like to have some form of human interaction. I know being around him is asking for trouble, but I’m lonely and not used to spending time with only myself. I need a distraction from my thoughts.

With a full stomach, thanks to Kadin’s thoughtfulness, I carry the plate to the sink, wash it, and return it to the cabinet with other plates of its kind. He still hasn’t shown. The house is completely silent, and I can’t tell if he’s even inside the house.

I make my way to the den, stopping by the open door of the mudroom. His boots are in there, but the pile of clothes he discarded earlier is nowhere to be seen. I shrug my shoulders and continue my journey to the den.

I’ve spent enough time in the room upstairs and can’t stand the thought of going back up there with nothing to do so I park it on the sofa and stare into the fire. The flames are small, and it’s clear that he's not been down here recently to feed it.

I lay on my side watching the flames and listening to the crackling and popping, doing my best not to think of all the coulda’s, shoulda’s, and woulda’s that are racing through my head. It’s almost an impossible task since the sight of Trent plowing into my best friend from behind is all I see when I close my eyes.

Her breasts last night in the light of the fire, while she was lying down, were incredible. Standing, in full unobstructed view with the lights on? Without a doubt, no contest, the best set of tits I’ve ever seen: in person, on TV, or in a movie.

I could tell I shocked her when she came out of the bathroom. Hell, it shocked me that she was topless. I stood there like a statue and just gawked at her perky, pink buds, taking notice that they tightened further under my scrutiny.

My cock seems to have a mind of its own around her and my attempts to control it have gone unnoticed. I’m sure she noticed my lack of discipline in regards to him. I was in full tent mode by the time I closed her bedroom door behind me, spontaneous erections being a recent rediscovery of my body.

Did I know she was in the shower? Yes. Did I know she was out of the shower? Yes. Did I slowly go about my business in hopes that I’d see her if even for a brief moment before leaving her room again? Yes. Did I ever, even for a minute, consider the possibility that she’d step out of there without clothes on? Never in a million years. One of her suitcases was gone, and I figured she’d grab clothes out of it already, a happy misconception on my part.

Then I think about the words she muttered to herself as I left the room earlier.
You’re the one with a fucking wife.

This is coming right on the heels of her shutting down any notion that I might have had about a repeat performance. I can accept that she feels like last night was a mistake. Hell, I felt exactly the same way when I climbed out from under her just a few short hours ago. Hearing it from a mouth surrounded by completely fuckable lips? Depressing.

What else besides fucking like rabbits is there to do for the next couple of days?
You could take a long hike outside without any desire to make it back alive.

When she told me it couldn’t happen again, all I could do was stand there and look past her. It was the only way to keep myself from arguing with her and citing all the reasons why I think sex would be the perfect way to pass the time until I can get her out of here and follow through with my other plans for this trip.

I have to tuck my erection behind the waistband of my sweats as I make my way down the stairs. Maybe her staying away from me and locked in her room is for the best. My constant state of arousal has me concerned about blood flow and circulation problems.

Since I’m not much of a cook, I decide on sandwiches for what would be considered brunch since it’s later than breakfast and too early for lunch. My mother raised me with manners, so I make her a sandwich also, placing it at a setting across the dining room table from mine.

I tinker around in the kitchen washing the coffee pot from earlier, wiping down the already clean counter. After thirty minutes of her not showing her beautiful face, I sit down and eat, slowly. After I finish, I put her food in the fridge and leave a note so she can find it. She has to be hungry; she’s not eaten all day.

Twenty minutes later I’m in a full speed run on the treadmill. The oversized home gym attached to my master suite was a must when building this house. At the time, I had every intention of moving here and becoming a hermit, however; these days I don’t even like my own company. A number one complaint from family and friends back home, seems I’m hard to be around. Running outside is not the safest around here and a complete impossibility at the moment. An hour and seven miles later I hit the shower. Surely she’s out of her room and bored out of her mind by now.

Maybe she’d be interested in a board game or something. Hopefully, the decorator stocked some. Wouldn’t be a proper cabin near the mountains if there aren’t any. Remembering the tiny size of the firewood holders makes me begin to doubt there are any here. It’s becoming apparent the decorator was only going for looks and not practicality. She must not be from around here, an area where it is not uncommon to be trapped inside for days at a time during the winter.

I head straight downstairs after my shower. Her door is shut, so I keep my distance. The sandwich from the fridge is gone, and I notice that the plate is not in the sink. She must have washed it and put it away. Clean. I like that.

Hoping she’s in the den, I head that direction. I find her curled up on the sofa facing the fire. Her gorgeous light brown hair is all over the place, and I resist the urge to reach out and touch the soft, graceful curls I never noticed until now. Her breaths come out softly over hands that are clasped under her chin. Thick eyelashes rest delicately on the pale pink of her cheeks.

Thankful I’m still tucked in the waist of my pants, I turn and leave her to nap. She didn’t go into detail last night about the man problems she’s having, and I didn’t ask, but she whimpered several times in her sleep last night, so I imagine her dreams didn’t allow for a very restful sleep.

I head back upstairs. The last thing she needs is to wake up and see me staring at her even though I’d love nothing more than to sit on the floor in front of the recliner and watch her sleep. I already ran my ass ragged on the treadmill so it looks like weights will be the way to go this time. At least if I exhaust myself, I’ll sleep well tonight.
You’d sleep well if you curl in behind London.

I slide my ear buds in and crank up the music, maybe the loudness of the death metal will keep thoughts of her away. It doesn’t. My mind wanders back to last night. My mind wanders back to Spokane and the fucked up mess I’ve created there. My mind wanders back to my beautiful wife and a pair of soul-searching blue eyes I’ll never have the chance to look into again.

I push my body and exert myself until I hit muscle fatigue and I practically have to crawl back into the bathroom for yet another shower.

I’m beating myself up over this whole situation, but it’s not the way I’ve come to expect from having sex with a woman. My issue is stemming from not really having an issue with it other than her being upset that it happened. My concern is that I enjoyed it on more than a physical level. It was primal and instinctive. Raw and real, and even drunk it was the first time the guilt didn’t slam into my stomach the second I pulled out.

My shower is slow and thorough. My body’s exhausted, but my cock apparently didn’t get the memo. I have every intention of hunting her down if only for companionship when I get out and this guy popping up every ten seconds will only make matters worse.

I lean my head against the tile in the shower and allow the water to rush off my back as I palm my erection. I sigh heavily and for the first time since high school I picture someone else other than my wife as I grip and stroke my length.

“
London
,” I whisper as I explode against the shower wall. I continue to stroke until the surfeit of sensation is so overwhelming my hips jerks back of their own accord.

It’s only a temporary fix
. That’s what comes to mind as I towel off and throw on some clothes.

I stop by her room and knock on the door. She doesn’t answer, and there’s no chance I’m going to open the door and walk in again without permission. Hoping to find her in the den I make my way downstairs.

At the landing, the smell of rich, decadent spices fills my nostrils. I breathe deep and moan as I head into the kitchen. She’s standing in front of the stove stirring something in a saucepan. To her left I can see water boiling in another.

I stand in the doorway and just watch her. My grin grows larger as I hear her humming and occasionally belting out song lyrics. She doesn’t have headphones in so she’s singing from memory; poorly I might add. It’s endearing and a happy change from her mood last night and again this morning.

I clear my throat, and she turns abruptly, dragging the spoon from the sauce in front of her. The movement causes some to dribble on the floor.

We both look down at the mess on the floor.

“Shit,” she mutters, replacing the spoon back into the sauce. She grabs a paper towel and bends down just as I take steps further in the room.

“I’ll get it,” I tell her a second too late, as she drops to the floor quickly to clean up the sauce.

I look down at her and get the full effect of her on her knees. She looks up at me innocently, and I groan as my dick once again takes notice and twitches in my jeans. That’s right I put on jeans, this time, knowing I’d grow hard at some point around her. The denim will be slightly more restrictive than the sweats I had on earlier. My self-love session in the shower didn’t help one damn bit.

Once the sauce is cleared from the floor, I reach my hand down to help her up. She looks at it and back at me like she has to decide if it’s a good idea or not. Reluctantly she takes it and stands. I take a few steps back, releasing her hand. I miss it immediately.

“You didn’t have to cook,” I tell her and make a show of looking around her at the stove.

“You made me a sandwich earlier,” she shrugs and turns back to the stove. “I figured I’d return the favor.”

“It’s much appreciated. I haven’t had someone cook for me since…well, it’s been a while since anyone has bothered.” I respond honestly.

“It’s just spaghetti. I didn’t know if you had any other plans for the ground beef, so I just made it vegetarian. Do you like Italian?” She still has her back to me. Wanting,
needing
, to see her face I step to the side of her.

“Spaghetti is perfect.” I want to sweep the tendril of hair out of her eye so I can see her face unobstructed. “I’ll put together a salad.” I step toward the refrigerator.

“I already made one.” She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard, and I can’t help but smile.

“So I should just sit at the table and wait to be served?” I raise an eyebrow at her.

“Fat chance, Buddy. Grab some plates and silverware.”
Feisty, I love it!

She drains the pasta over the sink, and I do as instructed. We load up our plates at the stove and set them across from each other on the dining room table. We both head back to the kitchen. I grab a bottle of wine and glasses from the small wine rack, and she grabs two premade salad bowls from the fridge. I don’t even drink wine, but it’s here. I take it to the table since I don’t think she’d be amenable to more whiskey after last night.