She’s silent, fingers shaking a little as she traces the edge of the flap. She doesn’t open it. Instead, she says, “Why now?”
“Because you deserve to know,” I say in a rough tone. “And because I keep seeing you walk around in stress, and I think you should be allowed to have it, but then I get conflicted because maybe you should rest instead. I don’t know, sweetheart. I’ve been so fucking confused myself that I hardly know what’s going on.”
The beautiful blonde stands, coming around the island. She’s close enough that I can see the little scar on her chin, the one she got in third grade from a jungle gym. I wonder if she remembers telling me about it when we were in bed late at night … with Brent on the other side.
But the moment passes. Marnie reaches for the letter, but instead of taking it, she puts her hand over mine.
“Did you ever try to help him?” she asks.
I nod, because I can’t lie about this. “I did, and I failed.”
Her hand is small, and impossibly soft. I want to pull her to me for dirty shenanigans, but I know this isn’t the time.
“I believe you,” Marnie whispers, and it’s the most fragile thing I’ve ever heard from her.
I don’t plan to kiss her. But when she tilts her head up, lips parted, I close the gap. Her mouth is warm, a little salty from tears I didn’t know were there, and her hands find the collar of my shirt. I gather her in, arms around her lush form, feeling her heartbeat through the fabric.
We stumble to the couch—a designer piece that looks like it belongs in a museum and is almost never used. She crawls into my lap, dress riding up, and kisses me with a need that’s not about sex at all, but about not being alone in this for even another minute.
Her hands work at my buttons, and I let her. The room is dark except for the city’s pulse through the glass. We undress each other, slow and deliberate, and I take the time to memorize every inch: the curve of her waist, the old scar on her thigh, the faint tattoo at her hip. Those big breasts, swaying gently, with their peaked pink nipples, and I can’t resist. I lean down and lick a taut tip, making Marnie gasp as she throws her head back.
“Ahhh!” she whines. “Mmm James!”
But Marnie doesn’t want gentle tonight. She bites my neck, digs her nails in, hisses my name in my ear. I like it. I like her wild, even if she doesn’t want to be.
When I slide my fat cock into her tight pussy, she grabs the back of my neck and says, “Harder,” and I give it to her, the way she needs. I hold her waist still, and fuck up into that wet twat, drilling her like an automaton going at full speed. But she loves it, and we fuck like animals—like the only way to survive the night is to outlast it. Marnie comes twice before I finish, her eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream as her pussy shakes on my hard dick.
“Unnnh!” she shrieks, eyes closed with her tits bouncing. “Ooooh!”
“Fuck baby,” I rasp as my own climax hits. “Shit shit shit!”
Afterwards, we lie tangled on the couch, sweat cooling. I brush her hair out of her face and see the tear tracks, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s already drifting, breathing slow.
I lift her up, carry her to the bed—why not, it’s there—and tuck her under the duvet. She’s out before her head hits the pillow, one arm thrown across my broad chest.
For the first time in years, I don’t want to move. I just want to keep Marnie here, safe in my arms.
I lie awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the envelope still on the counter, unopened.
Tomorrow, Marnie may read it, and maybe she’ll hate me, or maybe not.
But for tonight, she’s here.
And that’s enough.
17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN — CONFESSING MY SINS
MARNIE
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m a mess of split ends, dry, reddened eyes, and the salt-sting of tears that start and stop without warning. I meet Eliza at Café Vitesse because it’s quiet, and because the chance of running into anyone from the office is low enough that I don’t have to scan every face in the room. I’ve barely slept. The barista has to repeat my order three times before I process what she’s saying.
When I sit, Eliza nods wisely, sipping black coffee with her phone face-down, as if she’s made a vow not to look at it until I arrive. The pretty blonde’s clad in athleisure, hair twisted up, zero makeup. She looks so composed I want to scream.
“You look like hell,” she says, but it’s not a dig. “Are you okay, girlfriend? Seriously, I was kind of worried when I got that text from you.”
I nod, but my hands won’t stop shaking. I reach for my latte and almost spill it. “Long week,” I say, which is the understatement of the year.
