There’s no shame to his words, no color of embarrassment heating his cheeks, but it is still a fight not to scamper for some coverage when he heads to the bathroom.
He’s all muscles and ink, and I’m soft and flabby.
We arenotthe same.
As Nero enters the bathroom, I sling my eyes to a mirror in the corner of the room. The angle is off. I can’t check if I have raccoon eyes and bird’s nest hair, so I scoot off the mattress and tiptoe across the plush carpet.
Three seconds later, I glance into the mirror, taking in my flushed cheeks, dilated eyes, and messy mop of curls.
Instead of grimacing, I feel heat slick my skin.
My choice of lingerie is even more risqué now since it is caressing impassioned, lust-spurred skin. I feel beautiful and uplifted—two things I hadn’t considered experiencing today.
A faucet shutting off shifts my focus. I head back for the bed, not wanting to look like an unconfident fool—or worse, a cocky airhead.
I make it halfway back before a groan stops me in my tracks.
I recognize that moan.
It’s beaten me to the finish line dozens of times over the past fourteen years but never lingered long enough for me to mimic it.
“Roy?” I murmur while moving closer to the closet at the far side of the room.
This hotel is new, but it has louver doors that were the rage from the ’50s until the ’80s. The slats on this one are mostly open, and the shadow my horniness hid earlier is human-sized.
With my heart in my throat, I lock eyes with the glossy pair peering at me through a louver before carefully prying open the door.
When I find Roy in the closet, my hand shoots up to muffle my squeal. He’s bound to a chair, and his almost naked frame is covered with a range of bruises and cuts. His eyes are wet and wide, and the red lettering scoured across his forehead wasn’t there when he left home this morning.
Cheater.
I’m not given the chance to fret. The photographs scattered beneath his shoeless feet warrant nothing less than pure rage. They show Roy in a range of positions. All of them are sexual, and I don’t feature in a single one of them.
My eyes dart up from an image of Roy tied to a bed that looks oddly similar to our marital bed when he grunts and groans as if possessed.
My body registers the cause of his alarm in his bloodshot eyes half a second before the voice of a man who brought me to climax more times in the past hour than I’ve achieved myself over the past three years confirms it.
“I planned to kill him.”
When I twist to face Nero, he dumps a damp washcloth and props his shoulder on the bathroom doorjamb before folding his thick arms in front of his chest. His stance displays the aggression in his tone has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with my husband.
“I was in the process of doing precisely that when you interrupted us. Then I figuredthiswould hurt him more.” He thrusts his hand between us during thethispart of his reply.
As I struggle to work out what he means, he pushes off the doorjamb to fetch his pants from the foot of the bed. I watch him with eagle eyes as he gets dressed. He moves with such fluency that it is as if I am attending a Broadway show. I can’t take my eyes off him.
Once his cock is concealed and he’s absently placed on his shirt, Nero lifts his eyes from the surveillance images scattered around Roy’s feet to my face. He features in as many of the surveillance images as I do—not at all—but the ticking of his jaw makes it obvious the tall, slender blonde draped across Roy in multiple pictures is known to him.
“I don’t know what pissed me off the most. My soon-to-be ex-wife thinking she could take me to the cleaners by sucking her divorce attorney’s cock, or her assumption I wouldn’t find out she secured the best divorce attorney in VegasbeforeI filed.” He rakes my body with a hooded gaze, almost making it seem as if we’re lucky our spouses chose to cheat with each other. “Neither point mattered once you arrived. One glance and I realized I hadn’t lost anything.” He snarls at Roy as he crosses the room. “He won’t be so lucky.”
Roy is gagged with his own stinky sock, so his mumbles make no sense, but two words make it through the chaos. “Run, Miranda!”
I glare at him like he’s insane before shaking my head. I can’t get my legs to move. They’re not frozen in fear. They’re exhausted from endless orgasms and growing more wary the longer Nero stares. His eyes are pumping out a range of emotions. I pay attention to the sheer ownership in them the most.
Before I can overthink how quick I am to trust a stranger, Nero’s fingers knot into my curls, and he tugs my head back. A sliver of silver catches my attention. It is obvious the switchblade Nero is clutching is the cause of Roy’s fret. His pupils are massive, and I can smell his stinky armpits from here.
He thinks Nero is going to hurt me.
I don’t feel the same way.
