“I know. And?”
I swallowed, shifting in my seat. “He wants to try counseling,” I said quietly. “He said he’s sorry. That he still loves me.”
I could feel him studying me, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes.
His voice was even when he asked, “And do you still love him?” like the answer didn’t matter.
He was so confusing.
My fingers tightened around the glass. I didn’t want to answer, but I did. I was trying to be more open. Like him.
“Yes,” I admitted.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, just as I was about to look up, he spoke again.
“And me?” His voice was low. “How do you feel about me?”
I lifted my gaze to his, searching his face, trying to find the right words.
“I care about you,” I said slowly. “But we don’t want the same thing. I want a family.”
He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “The white boy wants to be a husband and father,” he rebutted. “You got your lick back. Got the best dick you ever had. You want him back, tell him.”
He moved then.
His hand found my thigh, and the air changed. His fingers began to trace something—a hypothesis—on my skin.
A soft, traitorous moan escaped my throat before I could catch it. My hips made a small, involuntary arc toward his hand.
His eyes locked on mine.
“But keep me too. I understand parts of you he doesn’t,” he whispered, his voice like smoke—thick and heavy in the space between us. “Why not have the best of both worlds?”
I was confused, but still, somehow… heat spread through my body, pooling low in my belly as his touch got firmer.
I forced myself to whisper, “What does that even mean?”
His lips brushed my jaw, a ghost of a touch that sent a fracture line of lightning down my spine.
“It means I’m not a contingency plan,” he said, voice rough. “If you want to go back to your husband, go back. But on your terms. Tell him I come with you.”
Then his mouth was on mine. He kissed me like it was a form of persuasion, an argument his tongue was making against mine. His hands gripped my thighs, pulling me into his body until there was no space left for reason.
My fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt.
My breathing turned ragged, broken against his mouth.
Then—my phone rang.
Oak’s Evil Brother Calling.
The name flashed across the studio monitor and echoed overhead through the Bluetooth voice.
Ciarán pulled back and stared at me.
“I’m not answering.”
He nodded.
