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I taste her. Lick her. Devour her as she has my ability to think and behave rationally.
My tongue laves at her clit, tasting sweeter than any diabetic disaster pancakes ever could. This is what I crave. This is what I’ve been fighting against for so long.
Her fingers grip my hair, moving my face closer against her. The leg still standing shakes until it freezes, all her muscles tighten along with her fingers in my hair. Her moan the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
Before she can come down, before she can even open her eyes, I’m up, unbuckling my belt ready to thrust inside her. Pump her full of my agitation, all the chaos and mayhem she’s imbued into my life. Become the unchecked man she makes me feel.
I shift, ready to lift her by her ass and—
‘Mr Moore?’
I freeze, cock in hand, as Alice’s eye flare open.
‘I was just wondering if you wanted me to bring the other dresses that I mentioned?’ The saleswoman prattles on as a bead of sweat trails down my temple.
Alice’s gaze flicks from the closed dressing room door to my hand wrapped around my dick that’s pointing right at the apex of her thighs.
Over her shoulder, my eyes are dilated, my hair wild, my lips swollen and glistening from her orgasm.
Closing my eyes from the evidence of my failure, I take a breath. Roll my shoulders back. Then slowly, methodically, I tuck myself back into my trousers, muffling the clinking of the belt with my hand.
‘Mr Moore?’ A soft knock. ‘Alice?’
‘No.’ I clear the passion out of my throat. ‘We’re done here.’
Alice flinches as she did earlier on the platform. Now is the time I should tell her the price of my regrettable decision to help her. Solidify her hate for me. Finally make it easy to walk away when all of… this is over and done.
However, I’m very conscious of the eavesdropping saleswoman outside the dressing room door. So rather than finally put an end to whatever this is, I’m forced to grab my jacket from the floor while ignoring Alice’s stunned expression and half-naked body and shrug it on.
Then, without a word, I unlock the door and leave. Ignoring the saleswoman on her phone and my mother whose smile vanishes as I stalk past her sitting on the couch with Mary and Mike Hunt.
On my way to the office, my lawyer calls.
19
THOMAS
‘What do you mean we’re not married?’ I place my phone, full of texts from my brother on my desk. Texts that alternate between asking about my marriage to Alice, which is all over the Moore’s Facebook Group page, and gifs – the last one of a cat with throbbing heart eyes.
‘I mean exactly that.’ Henry Farrier, a senior partner at Fielding & Church law firm, leans back in the chair opposite my desk, resting his ankle on his knee. He looks quite pleased with himself.
He could be pleased with the post-nuptial agreement he delivered for Alice to sign, or the announcement he just made, but my money is on his sly smile being due to his ‘unavailability’ to talk until after office hours were over.
But seeing as I was already working overtime on another issue, if his late appointment was a form of petty revenge for me having him work on Sunday, the joke’s on him.
‘You and Alice Truman are not married.’ The light from my desk lamp makes his veneers glow.
As I let his words sink in, I can’t help but study the older man. I’m pretty sure he’s only about ten years older than me, but, ironically, with all the work he’s had done, it seems more like twenty.
Hair plugs are never a good look.
Shaking off my judgments, I gesture for him to continue. ‘Explain.’
He chuckles, the sparse, military-like rows of hair falling across his pate. ‘It seems you haven’t discovered how the marriage process works in Nevada since coming home on Sunday.’
Yes. It’s definitely pettiness that has him smiling.
He’s right, though. I should’ve looked into it. I should’ve been calling the hotel, checking with the concierge to see if I ordered a car at some point, and if not, asking for security footage to find out what seedy chapel we must’ve walked to.
