“Why are you smiling?” I whisper.
He props himself above me, and I trace the indentation of his triceps with my fingernails.
“Because fucking you in the bed you once shared with Brooks is vindicating, don’t you think?” His voice is breathy, his gaze intense in the dark.
I nod, my chest rising and falling, my skin sticky against his.
“This should’ve been us, Demi,” he says. “This should’ve been our bed. You should’ve been living in a house I bought for you, wearing a ring I put on your finger. This was always supposed to be our life.”
I’ve had that thought a thousand times before. Maybe more.
“Anyway,” he says, depositing a kiss in the hollow beneath my neck. “Back to this amazing revenge sex we’re about to have . . .”
I bite a smile and widen my thighs, heart pounding in my ears. Royal has a way of making shitty situations a million times better. Right now, I should be packing, thinking about my eviction and my jobless situation. I’m technically homeless.
In under two weeks, life as I knew it completely evaporated into thin air.
I should be lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.
But this man, the one with the stormy blue gaze and dimpled smile, who looks at me with nothing but love in his eyes, is all I can think about.
His hips circle in mine. One slip, and he’d be inside. And I want that so fucking badly.
Holding his chiseled, bristly face in my hands, I swallow a deep breath and lick my lips.
“I’m on the pill,” I say.
“And I’m clean.”
My heart hammers so hard it almost hurts, and I nod. And with one sliding thrust, he’s deep inside me.
He settles into a riding rhythm aided by my slickness, and his girth stretches me until I’m formed to him. We fit perfectly, and it feels natural. I’ve never been with anyone bareback before. Even in high school, we only ever used condoms because I was too scared to ask our family doctor for birth control pills.
I’ve never even been with Brooks bareback before. We always doubled up because he was adamant about not wanting to become a father.
Apparently, exceptions are made when your pussy is attached to the name Afton Mayfield.
Tingles ricochet from every part of me, and my body shudders when the hint of an orgasm ripples between my thighs. They’re like little mini earthquakes, and the build intensifies with each one.
The sheets tangle around our bodies, another subtle “fuck you” to Brooks and his Pottery Barn catalog lifestyle. God forbid our bed ever looked a hot mess. And God forbid he ever took the time to make it. He hated duvets yet insisted upon them because they looked better than quilts.
Royal’s taut, steely muscles flex and bulge as he moves above me, and his thrusts grow harder, needier. His face lowers to mine, and I welcome his lips with an open mouth.
I could never tire of his kisses, his tongue, his lips. His taste.
His body possesses mine with every impalement, and our breathless sighs mix in the dark night air of the room I once shared with the man I was never supposed to be with.
Once again, in a roundabout way, Royal saved my life by intervening at exactly the right moment.
“I love you, Demi,” he breathes into my ear.
His words send tingles dancing across my flesh.
The words are there, on the tip of my tongue. The feeling has never gone away, no matter how much I tried, no matter how many times I told myself I hated this man.
“I love you so much,” he whispers, burying his head in my wild hair.
He’s not expecting me to say it back. At least I don’t think so.
He’s simply telling me. Stating his truth. And I know, when I look into his eyes, that he means it. That it killed him to stand back and watch me live our happily ever after with the wrong man. A man who clearly didn’t deserve me.
“I love you too, Royal. I never stopped.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Demi
I’m wrapped in twisted sheets the next morning. Royal is passed out beside me, his masculine musk invading my lungs.
Nothing got packed last night.
We were a little . . . preoccupied.
The alarm clock on my bedside table gives off a shrill ring at six in the morning. My eyes hurt so badly and refuse to open, but I don’t have a choice. I reach over and silence that annoying little thing. It’s one of those vintage looking ones that don’t have a snooze button, or else I’d tell it to shut up for at least another eight minutes.
Sliding out of bed, I tiptoe downstairs to where the empty cardboard boxes line my counters. Fishing around in the junk drawer, I pull out a permanent marker and start labeling them.
I don’t have much, really.
My clothes and shoes.
Some toiletries.
Some artwork painted by my sister, Daphne. Some family photos that do not include Brooks.