“Shit,” I say before I release my orgasm onto the floor, wishing it was inside her instead.
I see her body relax into the chair as her eyes flutter open. We’re both panting from the much-needed release from all the built-up tension between us. When she comes back down fromher high, she lifts her head back up to face me, quirking an eyebrow, and says, “I’m impressed.”
I’m not sure what she was referring to exactly. Was it my dick? Because I didn’t touch her? Or I came twice within fifteen minutes, which I haven’t done since I was in my twenties.
But before I could ask what she meant, she slipped up her panties and pajama pants and walked past me towards the stairs.
“See you tomorrow at two.”
And just like that, she’s gone and back in bed. I look back down at the messy kitchen floor with my dick still out, trying to piece together what the hell just happened. And the only thing I could focus on was how damn excited I was to make grilled cheese sandwiches tomorrow night. I slipped out early this morning, before Mel even stirred. Out of some twisted sense of decency, I let her dog out so she could sleep without the mutt clawing at her. After last night, I didn’t know how to face her, so I didn’t. I spent the whole damn day avoiding her, my mind spinning like a loose wheel.
I didn’t want her getting any stupid ideas about what this was. No fairy tale ending waiting at the end of this thing. But, seeing as she hadn’t clung to me, hadn’t begged for more, hadn’t even tried to kiss me, I wasn’t sweating it too hard.
Still, it scraped something raw in me. No woman had ever just walked away like what we did meant nothing.
I shook my head, forcing myself back into focus.
This marriage is about Diablo’s money, not feelings.
If my math was right, the extra income would shove my restaurant out of the red in ten months, maybe less.
The marketing plan I’d mapped out was still a pipe dream without cash for TV spots. I needed another way to get asses in seats — but social media wasn’t my game. I kept Facebook around to stalk old Army buddies and watch over my sister, not to hand over my life story to the Feds.
The clock glared back at me — almost rush hour. I stretched, feeling the tightness in my muscles, and headed for the kitchen.
LeRoy’s voice was already slicing through the noise.
“Order up!”
I rounded the corner and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You need help with anything?”
Without looking up, he plated a veal pasta, smooth and fast. “Ya, how about you go find your wife and tell her her food’s getting cold? She’s got an eight top and I haven’t seen her since I said ‘order up’ fifteen minutes ago.”
“Are you serious?”
“No, I’m lying.” He finally glanced at me, deadpan.
“She’s been here a month. You’d think she knows better by now.”
“You married her after knowing her a few weeks, so we all aren’t fast learners, are we?”
“Watch it,” I said, my voice slicing sharper than I intended.
LeRoy didn’t know Melanie was diabetic. She could be crashing somewhere, maybe in the bathroom, trying to fix it. The kitchen tickets told me we’d been slammed tonight. She had reason to be lagging.
Still, unease crawled up my spine as I stepped onto the floor.
Alexa caught my eye, her smile stretched wide. Too wide. I ignored her and moved toward the private dinner section where we hosted bigger groups.
The second I rounded the corner, I saw her.
And felt like I’d been punched straight in the gut.
Some asshole had her on his lap, his arm curled possessively around her waist while someone snapped a picture. She bolted upright when she spotted me, stepping away from him too fast, like she already knew the firestorm about to hit. The table roared with drunken laughter. I swallowed down the surge of rage clawing up my throat. Couldn’t lose it here.
I forced a smile so tight it hurt.
“Good evening, gentlemen. How’s everything going?”
