So I kiss her again, more fiercely this time, backing her into the wall. My desire sparks fast and hot, urgent now, all-consuming.
I’m getting hard from just the taste of her, the thought of what might come next. I slide my hands down the front of her body, pausing at her breasts, gently kneading, fingers teasing over the lace beneath her shirt, before moving down to her waist.
She arches toward me, her hips meeting mine, and the small sounds she makes nearly undo me.
I drop to my knees.
My hands find the button of her jeans, then the zipper. I tug the denim down, slowly, revealing black lace and warm, soft skin.
But just as I lean in, she freezes.
“Stop,” she whispers. “Spencer, stop.”
I look up, startled.
Her hand finds my chin, gently guiding my gaze back to hers.
She buttons her jeans. Zips them.
“Come with me,” she says. “Come sit down. I have something to tell you.”
Her voice is soft. Steady. But there’s a tremor underneath that sends a chill down my spine.
I stand up, trying to change gears.
“What is it?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”
But I already know.
Her eyes won’t meet mine. And the dread hits me fast—tight and hot and ugly.
It’s another man. Has to be.
Esme’s father. Of course. Why else would she stop me like this?
She’s still not speaking. Her silence is sharp, like she’s calculating every syllable.
My chest tightens. My voice is sharper now. “What is it?”
She closes her eyes for a second. Inhales. “I should’ve told you sooner. I know that. And I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m so, so damn sorry.”
My stomach flips. There it is. Definitely another man. The heat rises in my throat, a mix of jealousy, rage, and a gnawing sense of betrayal.
“Told me what?” I say, flat and low.
She’s literally wringing her hands now.
“Spencer… that night at the gala…”
“What about it?” I cut in, my voice edged with frustration.Just say it.
She meets my eyes. “That’s the night she was conceived,” she says quietly. “Esme.”
My ears start to ring.
My vision blurs.
The room tilts.
