“Drink?” he asked, and I nodded. Might as well.
He poured two fingers of whiskey into mismatched mugs and handed me one.
“It’ll take the chill off.”
I took it, our fingers brushing. The contact lingered, but neither of us pulled away immediately.
We sat on the floor in front of the empty fireplace, close enough that our knees almost touched. Our backs were against the couch we’d covered with an old sheet.
Rain hammered the windows like fists, and thunder rolled so deep it vibrated through my bones. For a while, we just drank in silence, listening to the storm rage. The whiskey burned smooth down my throat, spreading heat through my chest and lower belly.
He spoke first, and I didn’t miss how rough his voice sounded. “Found out about the affair by accident.”
I was stunned he brought that up but said nothing so he would continue. I wanted him to feel comfortable confiding in me.
“I came home early one day. I thought she was out. There was a truck in the driveway. I walked in and heard them in the back room.”
My heart started pounding hard. I didn’t know if I actually wanted to hear this. My stomach twisted. “Marcus?—”
“I turned around and just left. Drove around for hours. And when I came back after she’d gone to bed, I said nothing. I didn’t confront her.”
“Why?”
He took a long swallow. “I don’t know. I was processing it all. I guess I had already checked out of the marriage the same as she had.”
I set my mug down and shifted closer, resting my hand on his knee. The denim was warm from his skin underneath and working all day. “You were trying to hold things together.”
He looked at my hand then at me. “Holding on to something already broken doesn’t make it whole.”
His muscles tensed under my palm.
“Lila,” he said, a low warning in his voice.
I didn’t move my hand. “You deserved better.”
His gaze searched mine in the candlelight. “Maybe.”
I felt brave right then. Maybe it was the alcohol that made me slide my hand higher, slow caress along the inside of his thigh. His breath hitched.
“This is wrong,” he rasped, but he didn’t push me away. His hand covered mine. Large and callused, it kept my hand in place instead of lifting it away. “You know it is.”
“I know.” My voice came out soft, trembling. “But I don’t want to stop.”
His grip tightened on my hand. “Jesus, Lila.”
“Being with you is all I’ve been able to think about.” The words were soft from me. “Every night since I came back. Every time you brush past me. Every time you look at me like you’retrying not to. I fantasize about you touching me. About you finally giving in. About you fucking me.”
My words hung between us, filthy and forbidden. Lightning flashed, throwing his face into stark relief, showing me how dark his eyes had gone with hunger.
He moved first with a harsh growl. One hand cupped the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, pulling me forward. Our mouths crashed together. It was hard, desperate, and there was no gentleness in what we were doing.
His tongue pushed past my lips, immediately claiming, tasting of whiskey and desperation. I knew I tasted of the same thing. I moaned into his mouth, hands flying to his chest, fingers curling into the cotton, feeling the heat of his skin and the rapid thud of his heart.
His groan was low and guttural, and a second later, he hauled me onto his lap in one, rough motion. My thighs straddled his hips, and I could feel how hard he was through his jeans.
God, Marcus was thick and pressed against my core. I rocked instinctively, grinding down, rubbing my pussy on him and chasing friction. He hissed, hands sliding under my T-shirt, rough palms skating up my bare sides, and then thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.
“Fuck,” he growled against my mouth. “You’re not wearing anything under this.”
