“You think I’m still in love with Claudia,” he said.
“Why would I think that?” I asked, all sarcasm. “Because you didn’t stop your parents from talking about her all night? Or—oh—maybe because you can’t bear to part with anything she touched in this apartment?”
“That’s not what—” Ford started.
“It’s no big deal,” I cut him off, “any girl would be flattered. In fact, what kind of wifewouldn’tbe thrilled to live in an apartment where she’s constantly reminded of her husband’s ex? I love it.”
“This is how you want to be?” he said. “Come on, then. Let me give you the proper tour.”
Grabbing me by the arm, he pulled me out of the room and down the hall. In the living room, both of us huffing, I was steered over to the bookcase.
“This vase?” Ford spat, pointing to a beautiful, reddish brown piece of pottery with an intricate pattern carved into it. “We got that in Sri Lanka. We spent the day at Polonnaruwa and a group of women were selling things outside the entrance. She said she wanted something to remember the day by, since I first told her I loved her in front of the Parakrama Samudra.”
My stomach was in knots so tight that I felt sick, but I didn’t walk away. Instead, I let him turn me around and push me to the glass-fronted cabinet in the dining room.
Ford flung open the doors, revealing shelves of neatly stacked porcelain dishes with a delicate red pattern visible at the edges.
“That china my mom was talking about? I still have it, right here in the sideboard. Claudia chose the pattern because my grandmother used to have the same one and she wanted to build on tradition together.”
My eyes were stinging, but I refused to let my tears spill over. Ford was hurting me on purpose, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
Next up was the den, where I had to look at the obscenely huge, vaguely erotic painting that I hated so much.
“This painting?” Ford growled. “The one you hate? It’s by an artist Claudia and I once met at a gallery opening that neither of us wanted to be at. We’d fought all day beforehand and the first time we’d spoken in four hours was to agree that we both loved it. It became a symbol of communication for us.”
As we went from room to room, Ford telling me the stories of all his precious fucking belongings, the tension built between us. Ford’s eyes seemed to burn into mine and the way he was looking at me, I couldn’t tell if he wanted to throttle me or rip my clothes off. I honestly couldn’t decide which one I wanted either.
Finally, we made it into his office. Both of us stared at the antique desk that stood against the wall.
“This desk?” Ford slapped his hand on it.
The sound made me jump, but I wasn’t scared. I was turned on. The anger I felt had begun to morph into lust and I could tell by the way Ford’s eyes kept raking up and down my body that he was feeling the same way.
“Tell me,” I said.
“You want to know about this desk?” he asked, advancing on me.
I nodded and he grabbed me by the hips to shove me toward it, pressing my ass up against the edge. With one simple lift, Ford could have me sitting on top of it.
“We bought it in Paris,” Ford said, his face close to mine, his voice low in my ear.
His fingers tightened against my hips and I pressed against him. He was hard. I was wet. I wanted him, and he wanted me.
“How nice for you two,” I said, glaring.
“At a famous flea market,” he continued. As he did, he began unbuttoning my shirt. “The seller swore that Hemingway had once written on it.”
My shirt was hanging open now, exposing my lace bra. Ford reached out and gave the front clasp a little flick, and my breasts spilled out.
Breathing hard, he reached out and cupped them, his thumbs dragging over my nipples more roughly than they ever had before. I arched into his touch. I wanted more.
“Tell me,” I ordered.
I spread my legs and his hands dropped to unbutton my pants and yank them off, my thong going with them in one fast, rough movement. In half a second, I was naked and Ford was hoisting me onto the desk. He was grinding against me, cock straining behind the zipper of his jeans. Groaning, I opened my legs wider, wrapping my legs around him.
“Tell me,” I repeated, my voice throaty.
“You want me to tell you that we didn’t believe for a second that Hemingway had written on it?” he asked, slapping one hand on the desk behind me, the other undoing his jeans, his hard cock springing free.
