“We’re still not out of each other’s systems. That’s what I know.”
There’s no time for me to digest this grim truth before he yanks the bottom of my dress up, guides me to wrap a thigh around his waist and bends just enough to get the angle right. Then he takes that big dick and slides it home between my thighs, making my world wobble on its axis.
Just a little bit.
We cry out and stare into each other’s faces for one arrested second. He looks exactly the way I feel, which is shocked. Shocked to realize that, yes, I’ve actually allowed things to spiral out of control to the point that I’m letting this man I hate do me up against a wall. Shocked to discover that he still feels this exquisite inside me. Shocked to learn that the witch’s brew of emotions inside me includes this wild euphoria.
“You’ll be thinking about tonight for the rest of your life,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the steely edge of confidence and resolve in his voice as he plants his hands on the wall on both sides of my head. Meanwhile, I wrap my arms around his neck and help myself to handfuls of his wiry hair, bracing myself. “I promise you that.”
“Big words,” I say, even though I don’t doubt him. Not for a second.
“Keep talking,” he says before giving my lower lip a quick nip. “I’m just going to fuck you harder.”
He’s as good as his word when he starts pumping.
In a world where men are happy to sext you about their intimate knowledge of the Kama Sutra and follow it up with a dick pic, as though any of that proves a damn thing, Liam Wilder is still the real deal. His thrusts are deep, sharp and fast, exquisite enough to bring tears to my eyes. They’re also so relentless when it comes to hitting my sweet spot and generating electrical pulses that I cry out. Every. Single. Time. There’s no shutting me up. Trust me, I try. I know he’ll throw this in my face later, but what can I do? It’s like a law of physics. You can’t shake a bottle of champagne and then expect it not to explode. Things just don’t work that way.
I let my eyes roll closed and give myself over to the thrill of his groin grinding against mine, grateful he’s got his face pressed to my neck and therefore can’t see the way I smile and, yes, shout for him. Nor do I give him any yesses or oh, God, Liams. Small victories, admittedly, but I’ll take any victory I can get. Matter of fact, the way his rhythm falters just as his groans get louder makes me feel as though I’ve won several Olympic gold medals. But then the delicious pleasure washes over me in a wave so enormous that it wipes out everything in my existence but this.
Him.
The way he smells. The way he sounds. The way he feels. The way he tastes.
The way his voice sounds broken and awed as he stiffens and calls my name.
He spasms against me, and the aftershocks go on forever. His and mine, ricocheting between us.
I’m tempted to laugh with triumph now that I know I can still affect him like this, but this is no time for celebration. Not with the realization setting in.
Is cataclysmic too big a word to use for something as commonplace as an orgasm? What about devastating? Or here’s a good word—humbling.
I’m humbled to realize that I’m still the same when it comes to Liam Wilder. Still weak. Still profoundly stupid. I thought I’d moved on in my life. Found some success. Enjoyed other men. Become a strong and confident woman with only passing pangs of loneliness, quickly overcome. But it was a lie. All of it. Now I know, thanks to this wall quickie, that I’ve been living my life on mute this whole time. I enjoyed parts of it, sure. But its full potential wasn’t quite there no matter how much I pretended it was.
And now?
My heart seizes up and my throat tightens down.
I don’t want to think about it. I can’t think about it.
Besides. I’ve got more pressing issues.
He murmurs something vaguely soothing against my neck, the brush of his lips sparking additional ripples of sensation across my cooling skin. He works his way up to my chin, nuzzling. I could die from the gentleness of his touch even though I know it’s from gratitude for a great orgasm versus, say, actual tenderness. But if he keeps going, he’ll discover the tears on my cheeks and realize that more of me is implicated than just my body.
Obviously, I can’t have that.
“Mia—”
“I think we’re done here…?” I say, turning away before he can kiss me.
He slowly raises his head.
I arch away from him, forcing him to ease his hold on me and pull out. I feel his loss as a continuous tingle between my legs that I’m sure will be there for days. As if I need a reminder of my ongoing foolishness where he’s concerned.
Another reason—I must be up to number four million or so by now—to hate him.
I try to get my spaghetti legs under me, but it’s easier said than done. Especially in these heels. I wobble. He helps me stay upright via a firm grip on my upper arm. I pull my arm free. He adjusts himself and hitches his pants up, his face lowered and shadowed as he heads for the bathroom.
He doesn’t want to look me in the eye any more than I want to look at him.
I hastily wipe my cheeks, find my panties and adjust my dress. By the time he returns, I’m leaning over the dresser mirror wondering if I should bother reapplying lipstick to my ruined face, which would be the equivalent of rearranging those Titanic deck chairs after the ship has sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I pretend I don’t see him there, but that’s the thing about Liam. He’s always there, even if it’s just in the back of my mind. He persists despite all my best efforts to eradicate him.
He clears his throat. “What now?” he asks quietly.
“Now I go home,” I say, putting the lid back on my lipstick with a snap.
“That’s it?”
I arrange my expression into something carefully neutral as I turn to face him. “I told you. One and done. That hasn’t changed.”
We stare at each other across the space of ten feet or so.
The lighting isn’t great in here, but several things jump out at me. He looks good as new with his damp hair and clothes back in place, as long as you don’t look too hard at his untucked dress shirt. I wonder if it’s hiding a stubborn bulge. His face is set and grim. I can barely force myself to look into his eyes. They still see way too much.
“A lot of things haven’t changed,” he says. “You probably noticed just now. Why don’t you grab a drink with me somewhere? We need to get some things settled before this weekend.”
“This weekend?” Dread skitters up my spine. I can almost hear the crane swing the anvil over my head and lower it into position. “What are you talking about? I designed a dress for a wedding in the Hamptons this weekend. I’ll be out there. With any luck, you and I will never lay eyes on each other again.”
His features rearrange themselves into gotcha position.
“Didn’t you know? That’s my sister’s wedding,” he says, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Looks like you’re out of luck, Starlight.”
4
Mia
After Liam leaves, I cobble my hair and makeup back into some semblance of normalcy and use my app to call for a driver. None of which is easy to do with my frazzled nerves, shaking hands and wobbly legs. Then I hurry downstairs to Michael’s first floor, cursing the fact that I have to now make it onto his building’s elevator to get to the lobby and praying I can sneak out of here and make it home without any further human interaction. The idea of interacting with more people tonight or doing anything other than drowning my new troubles in a long bath and a couple of glasses of Sauvignon Blanc after I devour that slice of cake does not fill me with glee. So I’m less than thrilled when the elevator doors open and reveal Michael sitting idly on a bench. I scowl at him and began a determined march toward the other elevator doors. With any luck, my driver will be waiting curbside for me by now. But Michael intercepts me.