In my imagination, she swallowed everything I gave her.
In reality, I opened my eyes, panting and sweaty, my stomach and thighs sticky.
I took off my glasses and set them on the desk before shuffling to the ensuite and dumping all my clothes into the hamper. In the shower, I washed away the remnants of my frantic masturbation.
Why had I not asked her … pleaded with her … begged her on my knees to take me in her mouth on the one night it was allowed? Now I would never know how much better she would be in reality.
Because I knew she would be better. The reality of her was in all ways superior to anything I could dream.
You bent the rules once … what’s one more time?
I stepped out of the shower and towelled myself dry with more vigour than the act required. I couldn’t do it again. I was barely hanging on by a thread now, and everything felt strange with her since we’d done it.
But what if …
No! I couldn’t let myself think that way. She didn’t need sex from me. She needed a friend, a trustworthy confidante, a partner in crime. Not a bed partner.
I forced myself out into the living room, had a conversation with Josie about the preparedness of theGirl on Firefor sailing tomorrow, and the only thing I remembered about it was asking her to ensure there was dark chocolate—with and without almonds—and tampons stocked before the morning. I made myself eat some toast, while Lucian watched on, munching on a takeaway burger and grimacing at me worriedly.
Then I took myself to bed, and after tossing and turning enough that both cats removed themselves from the bedroom in protest, I finally fell asleep.
I was woken by my phone ringing. I sat up, blinking in the bright sunlight. How late had I slept?
Reaching for my phone, I squinted at the screen, but without my glasses I couldn’t work out who was calling. I’d usually let it go to voicemail to screen the call, but the lurching feeling in my gut had me swiping to answer.
“Hello?” I rasped, my mouth fuzzy from sleep.
“Henry?” Ri’s voice was a barely-there breath. I jerked upright, shoving the covers off my legs. My heart battered painfully against my ribs.
“Catnip? What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“I’ve been arrested.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Bear the Load
IRINA
My fingers were numb as I fumbled the old-school phone back into its cradle. The female police officer, who had been told to wait with me while I made my one allotted phone call, jerked her dirty blonde head and, with a sniff, walked off. On shaky legs, I followed.
The station smelt like decades-old cigarette smoke—the kind that had absorbed into every porous surface years ago and refused to dissipate. It turned my stomach, and I swallowed back bile as I followed the uniformed officer through the narrow hallways. As we approached the interview room, the arguing voices of the two detectives who had brought me in became clearer.
“It shouldn’t matter that her husband’s a billionaire! She’s broken the law!”
“But if she’s telling the truth, and there was a fuck up with their marriage licence, we don’t need some rich tech geek shining a light on failing government systems.”
I dug deep for a scrap of the Ri who would stand up for herself. It was tiny, and fragmented, and buried so deep, but I grasped it and clung to it as the female officer stepped aside and ushered me back into the room.
“Iamtelling the truth,” I insisted, my voice wavering only slightly. “You have the proof in your hands. I am married to an Australian man and have been since before?—”
“Sit down, Miss—Mrs Baxter,” the detective sighed. I did, crossing my arms to hide my shaking, sweaty palms, and scowled at them. It was the only expression I could manage that was keeping the terrified tears at bay.
“Can you run through the timeline of your relationship with Mr Baxter for us, please?”
I blinked. “Are you assessing my application?”
The man stared at me for long enough that I had time to track the progress of a bead of sweat making its painstaking way down my spine.
