I should have never pretended I wanted to wipe the slate clean or that our past meant nothing. It means everything to me. Every moment, laugh, and corny jukebox dance are what have kept me breathing for the past ten years.
Yes, Emerson hurt me, but I hurt her too.
I didn’t fight for her—for us. I let ten years slip by without a word being spoken between us. I tried. Believe me, I did. But after numerous failures, I started to wonder if fate was trying to tell me something, and I gave up.
I’ve never felt more stupid.
This is us. The fights. The passion. The love that can weather any storm.
This. Is. Us.
I draw in closer to Emerson, wishing I could take back what I said, but aware the damage has already been done. Scars are visible on both our hearts, and they will remain, but they’re not solely signs of a vicious battle.
They are also a sign of healing.
“Em,” I murmur at the same time Emerson whispers, “She wants you. Even knowing you’re married doesn’t stop her from wanting you.” Her tone is defeated, as slumped as her shoulders. “And she’s had you.”
“No,” I disagree, shaking my head. “She’s never had me. Not once.”
“She—”
“We fucked. That wasallwe did.” Her shoulders slump further until I add, “We didn’t make love or tilt the axis of the world. We didn’t create fireworks that can still be seen a decade after they erupted. We didn’t even kiss. We did nothingbut have meaningless sex that meantnothingto me. It was an emotionless transaction, a chore. It was nothing close to what you’re imagining.”
I feel her resolve weakening, but she still makes sure she’s not misreading what I’m saying. “You don’t want her?”
“No,” I answer without pause for thought.
“Why?” she asks, disbelief echoing in her low tone.
I throw down the gavel, choosing honesty. “Because she isn’t you. None of them were ever you. I fucked them purely because it was the only time I could go an hour without thinking about you.” I push in closer when she mistakes my words, making her one with the door. “Because we never fucked. We made love. We made memories. We made every other exchange outside of ours a mundane trailer of a love story too pure for the masses.”
She chokes back a sob, but that is the start and end of her reply.
“I also never kneeled in front of them.” I inch back before pulling her away from the door and spinning her around. It is time to let bygones be bygones, to push the ghosts of our past back into the closet and move forward from the hurt. “But you… I willalwayskneel in front of you.”
Her gasp when I fall to my knees is liquid gold. It rolls through my veins, clearing out the whiskey and replacing it with lust.
I stare up at her for a moment, the noise of the bar fading into the background. It’s just us, two soulmates caught in a moment of raw emotion, and the entanglement grows when Emerson joins me on the floor. She butts her knees with mine and cups my cheeks before she accepts the victory of her win in true Emerson Morozov style.
She kisses me.
Chapter 32
Emerson
The tenderness of our kiss and the emotions fueling it reveal that feelings don’t fade. They evolve, becoming more manageable and functional, yet they never truly disappear. Each lash of our tongues and nip of our teeth are a reminder that love, once ignited, continues to burn within us, despite the heartache we endured.
The warmth of Mikhail’s lips against mine is a reminder of our past, while also being a promise of a better future. Moments like this remind us that feelings aren’t fleeting. They are eternal, woven by the fabric of our souls.
The remembrance sees me raking my nails through his hair. I pull his mouth closer to mine before dueling our tongues together. Through touch, I express my sorrow for the pain he suffered ten years ago, without taking all the blame, and Mikhail does the same.
We communicate without words, and unsurprisingly, things move forward fast when forgiveness is issued in less than a nanosecond.
One minute, I’m kneeling on the carpeted floor near the entrance of Mikhail’s office. The next, my back hugs the plushsofa across from his large desk and my jeans are wrangled down my thighs.
Mikhail trails kisses from the seam of my printed cotton panties to the sensitive skin behind my knees. His curved lips trace the grooves my skinny jeans forever imprint on my thighs before his focus shifts to the damp patch in the middle of my panties. His kiss made me wet enough to shadow the cotton, and I’m too horny to act ashamed.
His groan when I sweep my thighs open rumbles through to my clit, and then his hand makes the situation even messier. He backhands my pussy, doubling the throbbing of my clit and forcing my eyes toward the back of my head.
