I lie there, content in his arms, not wanting to move a muscle. My heart bangs against my ribcage, and every nerve ending still tingles. Ash's touches linger on my skin as if trying to commit this feeling to memory.
For a moment, we don't say anything else, just enjoy the aftermath of our union. His skin feels warm against mine, his heartbeat steadying beneath my hand. I didn't expect this feeling of closeness, of wanting to stay in his arms forever.
I'm floating in a haze of pleasure. Everything feels soft and warm. Ash's weight against me is comforting, grounding.
But then his muscles tense. The change is subtle at first, a slight stiffening in his shoulders, a catch in his breathing that has nothing to do with exertion. Before I can process what's happening, he pulls away from me, the sudden absence of his warmth leaving me cold and exposed.
My heart sinks as I watch his face close off, that familiar mask sliding back into place. The tender lover who just showed me such care disappears, and I see regret in his face. He won't meet my eyes as he gets up, movements sharp and jerky like he can't get away fast enough.
I want to reach for him, to tell him it's okay, but the words stick in my throat. The rejection cuts deeper than I expected, even though I knew this might happen. After all, he loves someone else. Still, I wasn't prepared for how much it would hurt.
He grabs his clothes, his back to me as he dresses quickly. The silence between us grows heavier. I can practically feel the self-loathing radiating off him, see it in the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his hands shake slightly as he buttons his shirt.
My blissful afterglow shatters completely when I catch a glimpse of his face. The torment in his expression makes my heart crack. He looks like a man being torn in two, and I realize that in giving me pleasure, he feels he's betrayed his first love's memory.
I pull the sheets around me, suddenly feeling exposed as Ash frantically buttons his shirt, the magical intimacy we shared just moments ago evaporating.
"I'm sorry," he mutters, still not looking at me. "This was a mistake."
His words are like salt on an open wound. The pain intensifies. I want to yell out at him. I want to hurt him as he’s hurt me. But he’s already hurting. I imagine nothing could cause him more pain than losing Meghan.
I watch him tug on his shoes, his shoulders rigid with tension. The Ash I know is back, the distant, closed off man wrapped in guilt and regret.
He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, movements jerky and uncertain. For a moment, he looks lost, like he's fighting some internal battle.
I don’t know the right words to ease his obvious torment. But I’m the source of it, aren’t I? I'm part of what's tormenting him. I pushed for this closeness, encouraged his touches, responded to his passion. And now he's drowning in remorse because of me.
He moves to the door, still not looking at me. His hand grips the doorknob. “Sorry,” He says again, and then he exits the room.
I lie in the tangled sheets, my body still humming from his touch even as my heart aches. Should I have stopped him? Yes, he initiated it, but I could have said no when he wanted more.
The memory of his tortured expression twists my insides. I knew about Meghan, knew he was still in love with her. He'd just opened up to me about her death, about his guilt.
I shake my head. It was his idea. He’s the one who asked about touching. His guilt is as much on him as me. Still, maybe I shouldn’t have gone along with his idea. I should have said I understood about Meghan, that we didn't need to do this. Instead, I encouraged him, responded to every touch, beggedfor more. Instead, I should have protected him from his own desires, saved him from this self-loathing.
Despite everything, I treasure this memory. Whatever guilt drove him away afterward doesn't change how beautiful that moment was. I at least have that.
But now it’s over and I need to move on. His rejection is a reminder of what this marriage is. It’s not about me or what I’d like. Ash needs my family's support to destroy the Keans, the people responsible for taking Meghan from him. This isn't about love or building a life together. It's about revenge.
Sitting up, I wipe away my tears. If this is what he needs from me, a wife in name only, someone to maintain appearances while he pursues his vengeance, then that's what I'll be. I can go back to living separate lives under one roof, give him the space to deal with his demons.
Rolling out of bed, I straighten the sheets and pull on my robe. I head to the shower. As I wash away my sorrow, I vow to return to being the perfect wife, running his household and staying out of his way. I'll focus on my art, my charity work, anything to keep busy and give him room to breathe.
My heart may ache for more, but I made a promise when I agreed to this marriage. If helping Ash get justice for Meghan means stepping back, then that's what I'll do.
16
ASH
Istorm toward Flint's condo like I’m trying to outrun my betrayal. What the hell was I thinking, having sex with Hannah? Fucking hell.
My hands clench into fists as memories of Hannah's soft skin and breathy moans flash through my mind. The way she trusted me completely, let me guide her into pleasure. The pure joy on her face when she came. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.
I shake my head violently as if it will rid my mind of the memory.
The doorman at Flint's building barely has time to nod before I blow past him to the elevator. I need to work off this anger and guilt and pain.
I bang on Flint's door hard enough to hurt my knuckles. "Open up!"
