Why was I torturing myself by staying here?
That was the question that had been looping in my head, over and over, for the past week.
I heard them fucking.
I caught them kissing in the kitchen, Jordin’s body pressed into him like she couldn’t get close enough. Like he was hers. And she was his. Like I was never even a thought.
It made me realize what my marriage had been lacking.
Jordin and I had never been so feverish for each other. The sex had been good—great, even—but we had never been so desperate. So reckless. So fucking consumed by the need to touch, to taste.
Not like this.
Not like them.
It was like watching a fire I couldn’t put out. Like watching someone take a match to everything I’d built with her, knowing I’d be the one left standing in the ashes.
And he knew how to light her up. Gifts for no reason. Whispered words that put a smile on her face. It was like watching one of their songs come to life.
I should leave. Pack my shit, call a driver, and leave this whole fucked-up situation behind. But I couldn’t.
Because deep down, I still thought she was mine.
And I couldn’t stand the thought of letting her go.
Not like this.
Jordin hit a high note, pulling me from my thoughts.
I tipped my glass to my mouth and drank.
The whiskey burned as it slid down my throat, but it didn’t dull the sharp edge of whatever the fuck I was feeling.
Jordin had forced me to participate in the “activities” tonight—dinner and a movie that turned into them putting on a show, singing to each other in front of me. She and Ciarán had turned it into a full-blown production.
I wasn’t in the mood, but she had asked me with the smile she used to get anything she wanted from me, and I didn’t have it in me to tell her no.
So now I was tipsy, she was tipsy, and she was in the middle of the living room, singing along to some old R&B record, her body moving in that slow, lazy way that told me she was feeling good.
She danced around in a simple little black dress. It hugged her curves, and the thin straps kept sliding down her shoulders.
She was so sexy. The type that crept up on you, slow and intoxicating, like good cocaine. She wasn’t trying to be sexy—she just was. The kind of woman who could make a man ruin himself.
At the very least, I knew my dick was back to working fine.
My attention kept drifting to Ciarán.
He wasn’t grinning like usual, wasn’t cracking jokes or running his mouth. He was leaned back on the couch, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, one arm draped over the back, his other hand holding his drink. Watching her.
He looked like he had a headache, or maybe he was working through something.
I wondered what was wrong.
I wondered why I cared.
Jordin noticed it too. I watched her walk over to him, her bare legs brushing against his knees as she leaned down, cupping his face with both hands. She whispered something that made him smile.
My hand flexed around my glass.
