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“What happened?”
“I found her in a lip-lock with her ex.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Yep. Seems to be a reoccurring theme.” I shoot him an accusing glance.
He chooses not to rise to the bait. “Maybe she’s not ready to move on yet. She shot me down pretty quick.”
The reminder of his date with Jules threatens to boil my blood, and I’m tempted to tell him that she rejected him because he’s not me, but I bite my tongue. Taking cheap shots at my brother isn’t going to fix shit even if it would make me feel better.
“Maybe she just needs some time,” he adds.
I don’t want to give her time. I want to go back to her place now and pin her to the damn wall. I want to bend her over the couch and fuck her hard from behind. I want to withhold her orgasm so long that she’s in tears as she begs to come with every breath.
Yeah, I’m definitely angry, and there’s no denying it, but I can think of no better way to exorcise that anger, to claim what every fiber of my being knows to be true…
Jules Harley is mine.
My cell vibrates from inside my pocket, and my heart jumps with a shot of adrenaline.
It could be news about Monica.
More than likely, it’s Jules.
Both options split me down the middle. Kaden remains quiet, a curious glint in his eyes as I reach for my phone. Two deep breaths later and a swipe of my thumb, and I have my answer.
Jules: Please come back so we can talk.
Relief crashes over me. If she’s asking me to come back, then that means she’s alone. My thumbs hover over the screen, and I’m so close to replying, but I can’t find the right words. Every time I close my eyes I see her in his arms. And then I see her in mine.
I wish like hell I could rewind time, go back to Saturday morning before we fell into bed together. I’d do so much differently, starting with opening my eyes to Monica’s complete downward spiral.
A knife slices through the pieces of my heart. I’d change so much…yet I wouldn’t change a thing.
Another text comes through, and I startle, coming back to the here and now.
Jules: You left before I could explain.
“Is that Jules?”
I nod at my brother.
He makes a point to look at the time on his cell. “I should get to the club. Go talk to her. Air that shit out,” he says, rising. “At least give her a chance to explain.”
Jesus. I let out a breath, and some of the tension in my body dissipates. I’m not sure there’s anything to explain. No matter how I look at our relationship, I can’t find solid ground. We gave in when we should have stayed strong.
We fell in love knowing we’d face a bumpy road full of baggage, so how can I blame her for seeking closure—or whatever it is she’s looking for—with her ex when I’m still wearing a fucking wedding ring?
When my wife is still missing, not to mention possibly responsible for murder?
I can’t.
Not logically.
But that’s the screwed up thing about love—it defies logic. Love turns logic on its pathetic head.
Fuck logic. I want her with every breath inside my lungs, with every drop of blood in my veins. Nothing will quench this soul-burning thirst until I have her underneath me, hot and naked and begging for more.
