CLUB
Sara
The club is sizzling when we arrive. It’s on the lower floor of a modern structure encased in glass, invitation only, with tons of classy cars parked outside. All the young and rich in the city are present, without a doubt. I force myself to hold my head high.
There are women in glittering white dresses, men in stunning black suits and black ties.
“I’m not dressed for the occasion.”
“And yet you’re easily the most stunning woman in the room,” he says with a glance that reminds me of the way he made love to me very, very recently. He introduces me to the friends that come to greet him. “This is Sara.”
His friends look at me in interest as they shake my hand and I shake theirs back. I can tell they’re not used to seeing Ian with someone. Or maybe, with someone else. Especially considering he’s not yet divorced.
I squirm uncomfortably, but Ian squeezes my hand and I exhale.
The only way to survive the walk deeper into the room is to hone every bit of my attention, my senses, on the connection of our hands. My legs follow him inside. When we get deeper into the crowded room, the walls enclosing us flash with shimmering waterfalls and lights, synced to the loud music. There are dancers in cages suspended from the ceiling, a fluorescent bar to the right, and a variety of lounge areas where tables greet you, leading into the massive dance floor where there’s hardly room to dance among the moving bodies. Beyond the dance floor, more tables spread out as far as the eye can see. The backdrop is a stunning pair of velvet curtains, which are partly open to reveal a terrace outside.
Ian talks to one of the guards and points toward the back. As he continues leading me through the crowd, he stops a waiter and orders us drinks. Ian greets a few friends on the way, and all the while, his hand holds mine, saying, I got you.
I feel safer than I thought I would. I trust him. I took a leap of faith and I trust him. I wonder if he will ever trust me after having had a bad marriage. I vow to myself that somehow I’m going to win his trust, and his loyalty, things a man like him must value.
With the whole club circling around him, I realize he must not attend these sorts of events that often, because everyone is ecstatic to see him, men and women alike. I feel myself pulled to him like my anchor and my safety and my universe. And yes, there are a thousand eyes inside this place, and a thousand eyes were on Ian as soon as we walked in. I can feel the stares on me, bouncing from him to me, me to him.
Every fantasy I’ve ever had of finding the right man for me… none of those included the environment. None of those included me feeling as if I don’t quite fit—and yet how can it feel so right to stand beside him?
The glances are frequent and almost too heavy to stand. I feel judged, and vulnerable, but a lot of those stares—I begin to notice—aren’t mean. They are curious, as though they want to know more, like why we are together. I’m trying to smile and act normal when a young hostess comes to assist us. “Mr. Ford, would you like me to show you to your table?”
“Ian!” the blond guy we bumped into at the hotel a while ago calls.
“That’s Hilton,” Ian whispers in my ear, leading the way. Hilton’s date is giving me a frown and Hilton is looking at me like he’s seeing a vision.
“Well, well, well,” Hilton says. “What are you having?” He jerks his face to my empty hands.
“Nothing strong enough,” I admit, spreading my arms to show him I got nothing.
“How about Red Bull and vodka? Goes straight to your head.” He nods in full recommendation, blue eyes twinkling naughtily.
“I’m not having that. I want to be able to walk into my apartment, thank you.”
“Yours or Ian’s?” He grins.
I blush beet red and settle down in the corner of a banquette to leave room for Ian.
Ian slaps his friend’s back and wishes him a happy birthday. Alcohol is flowing freely, and so is the fun. There’s humming laughter, clinking glasses, and shuffling dresses, and the pounding music coming from the crazy dance floor. I’m enjoying it, drinking it all in.
“You know Ian has three sides, don’t you?” Hilton baits me. “His good side. His reckless side. And his side you don’t want to see.” He leans over the lap of the girl sitting next to him. “You better thank your stars you didn’t see him when that shit blew up,” he warns.
My heart squishes in my chest. A female voice calls, “Ian!”
A strawberry-blonde comes up to him flashing a white smile and looks up adoringly into his face. As the woman turns the full force of her charms on him, I want to be rational. He’s the hottest thing in the room, and being here with me says he is available. But he’s still got a wife. Ugh, this is not normal. But those women want a piece of my Dirty Workaholic, and I’m the greediest of them all. He stands to greet the woman and other people slap his back. Then his dark eyes meet mine and my heart swoons. I smile a little. But that’s when I overhear Hilton’s date complaining about me.
“Where did he find her? What does she have that’s so special?”
“Haven’t asked, but if you don’t want to say sayonara to being a good friend of mine, you’d better be nice to Ian’s girl,” Hilton tells her.
“Who says she’s his official girl?”
“I don’t know the specifics, but if you ask me, and I’m the birthday boy, she’s his girl tonight and by the way he keeps checking out where she’s sitting, she’ll be his girl tomorrow night, too. In fact, Loki and I have this little bet on how long it’ll last. We don’t remember Ford being this hooked on anyone for a long time,” Hilton says.
I stand and head to the restroom, where I stare at myself in the mirror. Okay, breathe. You knew this would happen. Not everybody is going to be happy. It doesn’t matter as long as you and Ian are okay. God, but I’d rather stick myself with a fork than endure those bitchy stares and complaints.
“He’s in the corner, but Cindy said he came in with someone,” a waitress entering the restroom tells another as she enters a stall.
“What? Who?” the voice in the stall asks.
Ducking my head after washing my hands, I head back outside and find a guy with curly brown hair at our table, sitting with a beautiful cougar far older than him. She is openly staring at Ian’s ass. Ian is standing near the table as if waiting for me. He smiles as I approach and lets me slide inside the booth, and only then does he slide back in next to me.
Loud music pulses through the exotic room. Ian’s familiar scent teases my nostrils and I relax a bit. I take a sip of my drink as we lean back, the loud music making it hard to talk. He’s loyal to his friends, I can tell, because they look at him fondly, and that’s why he’s here, but he’s got his hand on my thigh, caressing up and down, slowly, and I think that, just like me, he would rather be alone. Or working.
He spreads his arm out on the couch behind me and draws me a little closer. He breathes heavily over the top of my head and lowers his mouth to my ear. “You’re the hottest thing here, so stop scowling.”
I laugh. “I don’t know anyone. I’m trying to determine if they’re friend or foe.”
“My friends are your friends. My foes, your foes.” He winks, and I laugh as he starts pointing randomly. “Friend. Foe. Friend. Foe.”
Exhaling as I realize he wants me to know that I’m not in this alone, I scoot closer to him and breathe in his shirt, and I feel the others in the group watch us suspiciously.
Our eyes meet in the dim light—through the music, the crowd, the drinks—and I’m transported to every evening he’s looked at me like this before. In his townhouse. At his office. Even in room 1103. But there’s an edge to his stare that wasn’t there before. An underlying hunger.
In the dark his features are classically perfect. His black button-down shirt is tailored for him. He looks incredible, smells incredible; he’s flawless in this room. I keep stealing looks at him, and I inhale a sharp breath when he kisses the top of my head and calls a waiter to our table, ordering more drinks. Women flock to this table. There are a thousand more beautiful women in this room, but in this moment I feel like I’m the only one.
Hilton stands and makes a speech, thanking everyone for being here on his birthday.
“Ian! This is for you, for coming to the party!” The girls on Hilton’s side of the table wiggle their hands under their tops and take off their bras and toss them in the air, and my mouth almost pops open in surprise, but thank God I contain myself. Sounds and jeers emanate from all over the room.
His lips curl in mild amusement but his hand moves on my thigh as if telling me I’m the one, and his eyes lower to rest on me and no one else. Yet I’m entranced as the girls begin to give a little show, dancing together, shimmying their rears.
I look at them moving, seducing, the look of rapture on the guys’ faces while Ian turns to look at me almost with the same rapture. I feel his inky eyes on my profile and I want to drive him crazy like that. “I can make them stop,” he tells me, quiet but a tad amused.
“No. I’m wishing I could dance like that for you right now.”
The amusement fades from his eyes. He shifts. He’s so big and his presence so overpowering, he’s an expert at helping me become invisible when he shields me with his shoulders. “You don’t need to dance like that for me here. Just blush for me the way you do,” he says, smiling at me.
He slips his hand under my dress, to the top of my thigh. I’m glad it’s dark, the light focused on the dancers, because I’m starting to color bright red. I raise my hands and stroke his hair at the collar of his shirt, caressing it. He kisses my throat and shoves the necklace I’m wearing to the side; then he dips his tongue there, to my pulse point. I nuzzle into the top of his head and melt into the sofa.
His eyes smolder.
He caresses his hand down my back and nudges me closer, until my body is nestled against his. He lowers his head to brush his lips over my mouth, then moves them to feather over my ear. “You’ve been throwing fire at me all night. I know exactly what to do to quench that.”
My arms clench around his neck and my body presses closer. His hands spread on my back and he drops a hot kiss on the back of my hair and flattens me to his chest until we’re almost one.
He lowers his hands to hold my hip bones and dips his head and kisses down my neck, to my collarbone, my shoulders, down to the nook under my necklace, and back up. His lips roam over my jaw, to my ear, and then they head to my mouth.
Aching all over, I let my hands wander up the muscles of his back, and he takes my wrists and pulls my hands up above my head to rest on the backrest of the booth. He interlaces our fingers and starts to kiss my lips, softly. I push upward to feel him, rubbing my breasts against his flat chest. “I need… God, I…” I gasp in his ear.
He expels a breath, trying to control himself. He loves foreplay, but this time it feels like we’re both too wound up. He cups my face and turns my head to kiss me, deeply and passionately, and though I can tell he’s trying to be gentle, I can taste the violence in his kiss.
“Hey, girlfriend. Hey. I bet you can’t do this.” One of the girls shakes her ass to show me.
“Just because I’m sitting on it right now doesn’t mean I can’t use it,” I flash back as I pull away from Ian.
“Oh, well, let’s see!”
My head is spinning. Did I offer that? Hell yes, I did. After his kisses I don’t feel like the black swan; I feel like the white one. Ian reaches up to sip his drink, and finding it empty, calls the waiter and tells him, “Straight up on the rocks.”
“Ian can tell us how well we rate, huh?” the girls insist.
I look at him and he’s leaning back, looking at me as he continues with his delicious caresses on my knee.
“All right.” I stand and climb up onto the table, kick off my heels, and slowly, without looking at anyone but Ian, I start to dance to “How Deep is Your Love” by Calvin Harris.
I move a little, turn my ass one way, and then the other. I laugh and though I’m not dancing ballet, I know how to move, and I notice nobody is looking at me, they’re looking at Ian. And Ian sits there, immobile, his eyes so fiery and bright he almost looks mad. His eyes crawl up and down my body hungrily, and the little bit of inhibition that remains is nearly gone as I feel the high of Ian wanting me. I’m putty and I don’t know why, or maybe I do.
Because I love him.
Because I’ve loved him for a while, no matter how much I tried ignoring it.
He looks into my honeyed eyes, outlined by sooty lashes that I spiked up tonight with the mascara I used on our way here as I tried to dress up. I thought I was underdressed. I thought, when I saw the women in the club, that there was more than enough fabric covering my body, but now Ian looks like there’s not enough.
“Okay,” I say, dropping down. “Don’t flunk me,” I warn, feeling a little high and reckless. I’ve never done that before.
“On a scale of one to ten, Ian?” one of the girls asks.
“Whoa, Ian,” the guy with curly hair, who I realize must be Loki, says.
Ian clenches his jaw and stares down at his fingers as he curls them into his hands, then uncurls them. “One to ten?” He raises his eyebrows after a few heart-stopping seconds and says, “She broke the scale.” Hilton cackles and Ian leans over and spreads his arm around me, drawing me to his side in a familiar, both protective and possessive, way.
Hilton whistles. “Ian doesn’t buy companies or buy the stock—he either owns it all or takes no part in it.”
Ian whispers in my ear, his voice husky, “Are you going to dance like this for me in private tonight?”
The sharp, clean smell of his soap envelops me, weakens me. My senses are on Ian Ford overload. I nod, and he groans as his mouth opens on mine. I press myself to him and let him get my lipstick all over his lips.
A dozen people come talk to him, and though he scrapes the back of his hand over his lips, I love seeing the tiny feminine mark of my coral lipstick on the corner of his sexy mouth. Ian, what’s that? Ian, how about that? A lot of them are women. Are you filming in the city?… Some women blatantly come up to offer to see him later tonight, but he whispers a negative and sends them on their way. I blush from where I sit.
“Men like him won’t ever marry again. Not after what his ex did. He’s looking for someone to get over the wife, don’t you think?” the cougar is telling Loki.
Ian covers my ear with one hand and draws me to his chest, his eyes concerned but comforting. “Tomorrow they’ll have someone else to skewer.”
“But tonight it’s me.”
His lips look swollen from all our kissing, and I can feel his lust for me swirling around us. “Did you know you were this popular?”
He laughs.
“Did you?”
“What does it matter?”
“I don’t understand why, when you had all these women available, you chose me to be the one to fuck in room 1103.”
He frowns. “Let’s take this outside.”
He comes to his feet and helps me up to mine, and the watching crowd steps aside as he leads me to the pair of velvet curtains that open to the terrace.
“Where are we going?”
“To be alone for a while.”
“I… I haven’t even finished my drink.” He tugs me outside and I gasp at how pretty it is, with the balcony overlooking a waterfall wall, surrounded by what could only be a forest of trees—in the middle of New York.
“This is surreal,” I say, and when he doesn’t reply, I turn to find Ian standing a few feet away, looking at me. Need explodes in my stomach when my eyes meet his onyx ones.
He eases us against a nearby pillar, fingers digging deliciously into my hip, and drags me up against him until we’re flush.
“I didn’t pick you; I wasn’t even looking for you. But here you are, kitten. And I want you.” I grab his shoulders as he slides a hand up and into my hair and opens my mouth with his. Breaths mingle. His kiss is possessive, determined.
“I…” I lick my lips when we stop. “Is this casual to you?”
He raises his brows at my question. Maybe it’s not an appropriate time to have this conversation, but I need to know if those women were right—if he’s using me. Or if my body, and my heart, know the truth. And there’s more between us than what my brain can possibly understand.
“I’m having a lot of fun with you,” I begin. How do I even phrase it? How do I say: I don’t want you to break my fucking heart, you stupid, sexy man?
“I’m having a lot of fun too.”
“Sex with you is amazing. Euphoric. Out of this fucking world. I’ve never been so in love with a guy’s dick. It’s perfect. Gorgeous. Thick and—”
“I get it. You like my dick. That’s not what I wanted to hear,” he says, seizing my shoulders in his warm grip and pulling my face back to his. “I know you tremble. Hell, I’ve never liked to fuck someone so much. I like fucking, yes, but with you it’s a whole other level, Sara.”
“What level?”
“What level?” He sounds exasperated. “Every fucking level. I want you, Sara. You. Not just your pussy.”
I laugh and flush, shaking my head. “I’m sorry I went on about your unbelievable—”
“That’s okay, my dick liked it, and I’m very glad you like my dick. But I want to know how you feel about me.”
“You?” I’m shell-shocked for a moment by the question. “Well, you’re selfish, arrogant, you need a lot of work.”
“But I’m not hopeless,” Ian says, raising one brow almost commandingly.
“No.”
He exhales, the corner of his lips moving. “Then let’s do it, Sara. Let’s have a go at it for real.”
I look away, feeling like my composure is under attack. How much do I want this?
So much it scares me.
“Look at it this way: as a bonus you get my dick.”
A soft laugh leaves me as I gather the courage to glance back into his face, and I notice his features aren’t exactly stoic. His expression is taut with passion, a living light shining in his eyes. I don’t want to admit that I like him, too, and that I am drawn to him, recklessly, like a magnet. But he’s opening up to me, and no matter how scared I am, I don’t want to shut him out.
“Look, I know you have reservations. But my divorce will come through very soon. And I want you to think about it not being so casual anymore.”
“It’s not casual for me,” I admit. “It hasn’t been for a while. But I don’t want you to hurt me, you stupid, yummy motherfucker.” I groan.
“Good that it’s not casual. And come on, Sara.” He laughs a low, sardonic laugh, tutting at me. “We both know that’s not what I want with you.”
Fuck this guy.
I want this, and I want him, and I reach out to grab the back of his neck and plant a solid, wet kiss on him so that he knows it.
* * *
That night, on our way back to his home, I feel a little tipsy and know Ian has had his fair share to drink too. I feel like I’ll die if I don’t have him, and I’m desperately trying to shake my fears out of my mind. Maybe it’s too soon to get involved with a man whose marriage just shattered. Sex is sex, but this isn’t just sex here, is it?
He leads me into his home and up to the bedroom, addressing the elephant in the room.
“You know that if I had a production company, I’d hire you on the spot?”
“And I’d dance exclusively for you.” I smile and kick my heels off. The move making me dizzy. “Then again, right now, I’d dance in a corner for free.”
Ian unbuttons and shrugs off his shirt, his muscles hard as he tosses it aside. “I’ve been thinking, and I don’t want you to miss this opportunity.”
Surprised, I unzip and start undressing down to my underwear. “I don’t want to miss it either, but I’ve been thinking too and…”
Ian raises his brows.
I sway on my feet, laughing when I almost fall.
“Would you care who you work for? Whether it’s someone you loved or hated? Would you care when you want it this much?”
“No, but…”
“But what?”
My stomach clutches in fear of my own feelings for this guy, so I press my lips together and playfully send my panties flying in his direction. “I want you more, you stupid Suit!”
“Stupid Suit.” He catches them in the air, looks at them, then straightens, narrowing his eyes as he walks forward, smelling my panties. “Stupid Suit…” he says, and I giggle and ease back as my hot Suit walks forward, shoving my panties into his slacks pocket.
The way he’s looking at me decimates me. I start to pant, unsteady on my feet as I back away.
I think I’ve had too much to drink. We both have.
And it’s been a crazy day. Ian is walking forward, and I’m backing away. My mogul starts to shake his head in warning. “Don’t push me away, Dancer.”
“I’m not,” I say, but I start rounding the room to keep from hitting a wall. Ian continues chasing me. His gaze narrowing, a slight confusion in his dark eyes.
I’m feeling raw and exposed, so vulnerable I want to hit him for doing this to me.
“You’re not the only one who’s scared, Sara. I’m a man who’s used to getting whatever I want. Women throw themselves at my feet. But reconcile that with being cheated on, on the infidelity spectrum?” He reaches out, seizes my arm. “I didn’t know what we had between us from that first night, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it, Sara.”
I stand there, absorbing what he’s just said, too afraid to believe in this. In this being able to happen to me, to him. Too afraid now that I know he’s been fighting his own feelings for me just like, maybe, I have for him.
And suddenly all my feelings for him boil in my heart to the point where I feel like I have two choices: implode inward, or explode outward.
I exhale shakily, my voice raw. “I’m afraid nothing lasts. Nothing, not even life. I’m afraid of attachment and loss and love and even loss of a love such as dancing. That things that can make me happy will one day be gone. And see? You’re not even guaranteed. I don’t even know if you’ll really want to commit once you’re free. You’re not even free yet! Maybe you’ll never be. You’re not even mine, Ford. What if by the time you’re free, you’re waffling…”
“I’m not waffling.”
“You just said you didn’t want to want this.”
He sets his forehead on mine. “But I’m yours.” A low growl.
“That’s not true. At the club, you said you wanted it to be serious, and then you come here and admit you didn’t want this. Admit it, Ian! You’re using me to feel better about yourself, and when you’re free of your wife you’ll be done with me,” I cry, suddenly, all my fears rising to the forefront.
“I’m not unsure about this. Dammit!” he growls, his gaze shooting bullets at me.
“I’m going home.” I reach for my clothes on the floor. “Don’t you dare stop me, don’t you dare.” He grabs me and pulls me up to my feet, then yanks me to his hard chest.
I start to fight him. Far stronger than I am and just as exasperated with us, Ian grabs my hand, curling his palm around my fist to halt me. “You’re scared, Sara, and that’s all right. But don’t think for a second I’m not scared too. I don’t mean to hurt you. I’m not letting you go and I am not fucking leaving. But I’m fucking open here—and it doesn’t feel very good.”
“See? You’re scared!”
“You’re fucking right I’m scared—I’m fucking in love with you! If I used to feel anything for my ex-wife, it pales in comparison to what I feel for you—do you get me, Sara?” He shakes me, his iron control suddenly snapping. “Do you, baby?”
My eyes sting as a raw and primitive reaction to his words takes over me, and I nod. We both fall still. Suddenly, I wind my arms around his neck and press my face to his, my eyes blurry as I press my nose into his throat. “My dad loved my mom…” I painfully remind him.
“I’m not your dad.”
I swallow. “I’m not your wife, either. You need to trust me. You need to—”
“I do; just be patient with me, Dancer.” Radiating frustration, he grabs my face in both hands and tips my gaze up to his, his eyes roving painfully slowly over my features. “I may fuck up sometimes and one day I may not be there on an important day, but I’ll try. And if I sometimes don’t have the right words, help me find them. And if you need something I’m not delivering, steer me in the right direction… please,” he hisses. “Please.”
“I will,” I breathe, my hands clamping on his hard jaw. “Love me. I love you like I never thought I could love anyone.”
“I do. Fuck, woman, I do.” He lifts me up in his arms and we’re kissing passionately, both a little drunk, a little too unhinged, a little too open. When Ian drops me on the bed, I claw at his slacks, needing his touch, his skin, his love.
“Hard,” I beg as he drops his slacks and boxers and kicks them aside. “As hard as possible, and don’t stop until morning.”
Ian’s tongue drags down my throat and cleavage as he spreads my thighs open, grabs his cock, and drives in so hard, I see stars. I claw at his back, bite his neck. Ian drags his hands up my sides, cupping my breasts in his warm palms, then curling a hand around my neck as he ducks to suck on my nipples. His hand stays on my throat, and suddenly he lifts his head. “Look at me. Look at me, damn you.”
I look at him, my pulse fluttering against his palm. I’m so undone by this guy that I wonder if I’ll ever be complete without him. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” I hit his chest, my eyes wet with tears.
He gentles the pace, gentles his voice. “I’m too busy fucking you. Huh. Who’s fucking you?”
“You. Motherfu—”
He kisses me. Wipes a tear from my cheek. His face raw. “I wanted here. All fucking day I wanted here.”
I stroke my fingers down his jaw, gasping and thrashing as I moan. “I want you here, Ian. Always.”
“You do shit to me. I don’t like it either, but it’s there. It’s here.” He drops a hot kiss to my left breast, licking his way back to my mouth. “It’s everywhere, all the damn time, Sara. You’ve got me twisted up and I’m in so deep, I’m not planning to do anything about it but go deeper, baby.”
I groan softly as he flicks his tongue into my mouth. He rolls his hips harder, over and over, faster and faster, the tempo of our kiss increasing in synchrony with his thrusts, my own hips pushing up to meet his.
It’s a dance—and as much as I love dancing, I’ve never loved anything as much as I love doing this with him. Every part of my body is alive and moving, straining, searching for Ian, reaching for Ian, more and more Ian. Ian’s movements stimulate mine, just like my touches and kisses stimulate his. I’ve seen dancers move on stage, but I’ve never felt a man move so beautifully—or dance this dance or any other dance so fiercely—with me before. We’re the song and the dance, the tune and the variation, the violin and the player… the ache and the balm that heals it.
Ian’s own wild hunger somehow makes this dance of ours even rawer, more primitive. A dance you can only dance in the dark, or by yourself, or with your mate, so raw and primal that you don’t need lessons—you just move and follow the ache. Feed the ache. And nothing aches as much as my need for this guy.
I push him back and go down on him. He lets me, for a minute, two… then he rolls me back around and goes down on me like I’m his last supper.
I let him, briefly. Then I pull him up by the hair and straddle and ride him.
He lets me, but still needs more, so he rolls me to my back and bends my legs around his shoulders, and when he drives back in, I contort with pleasure and let out a long mewl of pleasure over being filled like this. Just like this.
All the time he watches me.
All the time I ache, need, want, dance, hum in silent pleasure. His voice is husky and thick when he tells me I make him hot and that he’s never been so fucking happy or wanted anyone or anything as much as he wants me. I tell him how hot he looks and how I never want to be without him.
When he rubs his thumb against my clit and continues pummeling me—watching my breasts bounce and my chest heave—I come, I come in colors, songs, movements, fabrics. I come in all ways and at the same time in no other way but this one. I come for him and because of him, and as if he knows this yet isn’t satisfied in my complete undoing nor in taking me every which way possible, Ian pulls out and takes his cock in his hand, pumping his fist down his hard length as he climaxes with a deep groan and eyes of twilight watching me, watching me as he rains his semen all over my abdomen.
Gasping as the warm drops touch my skin, I pant and watch his muscles ripple, his eyes flash on me, his jaw clench. I lick my lips, drinking him in, weepy, drunk, scared, in love, undone like only my hot Suit makes me. But I know as he’s finished and pulls me roughly, almost violently, to him, that whatever he makes me feel… I’m not alone in this.
Minutes later, I can feel his uneven breathing on my cheek as he holds me to him, the touch of his hand almost unbearable in his tender possessiveness. “Ian… did you mean what you said?” I whisper, tipping my face. “That you lo—”
He wraps his arm around my midriff and shifts me to lie over him, his breath hot and moist against my face, my heart racing when he answers.
“I mean it.”
“Say it again when you’re not drunk, please.”
“I’m not that out of it.” He eases out of bed and heads off to clean up, then comes back and slides into bed with me. “I’ll say it again when we’re both ready to deal with it.”
“What do you mean?”
He pulls me back to his side and looks down at me with eyes that I can easily get lost in. “Questions, questions, kitten.” He smiles at me, pecks my lips, then licks softly into them. “You’ll see. If all goes well, you’ll see very, very soon. Just don’t quit on this opportunity—promise me you won’t.”
“I…” I’m about to tell him I cannot promise this, but the look in his eyes gives me pause. He’s never looked that determined before. “I promise. But I don’t want—”
“She won’t be a part of it,” he assures me.
Ian
We’ve been waiting for twenty-three minutes and I’m clutching the pen like a man too eager to put his signature on something. Though the truth is, I signed the minute I arrived. Click, click, click.
Mattias Wahlberg clears his throat, his eyes on my pen. I smile at him apologetically and place the pen back on the table. Across from us, Cordelia’s lawyer, Aaron Goldberg, is seated, an odd-looking little man but a good lawyer. I hope he knows there’s no way out of this one except to get this over with.
“Is she always this late?” Wahlberg asks me, tapping his watch and sighing.
I shrug. “There’s no ‘always’ or ‘usual’ when it comes to Cordelia.”
I don’t know why it bothers him; I’m paying him by the hour. Unless he has reservations about today’s proceedings.
“I trust we’re all good for today?” I ask him. “This should be it, right?”
He hesitates and the lawyers exchange glances. Goldberg smooths down the sparse amount of hair on his otherwise bald head and readjusts the handkerchief in his jacket pocket.
“One can never be certain about these things,” Mattias finally says, “but we have a good feeling about today. Assuming she turns up, of course.”
Right. I lean back in my chair and take a deep breath. I need to relax.
The door swings open loudly and the three of us glance at the doorway.
Cordelia saunters into the office, taking her sweet time to close the door behind her. She’s wearing an expensive-looking trouser suit, and I notice diamond earrings twinkling through her lavishly coiffed hair.
She’s always spent an obscene amount of money on her appearance, but I was always genuinely happy to give her everything she ever wanted. Her infidelity, however, is a flaw I refuse to overlook.
She takes a seat at the table, offering no word of apology for being late. I’m tempted to say something, but I know better and keep my mouth shut. I can feel her looking at me and I look back in silence.
“Oh, this is what it has come to, has it?” she huffs. “You can’t even acknowledge me?”
I take a deep breath. I’m going to need all the self-control I can muster for this meeting.
“Thank you for finally joining us, Cordelia,” I say. I give Wahlberg a look and he slides the paperwork across the table toward her and Goldberg.
“Mrs. Ford, everything is as previously agreed, but please take your time to read over it again and then sign… here.” He indicates where to sign, and Cordelia purses her lips in anger.
“Mrs. Ford…” she mutters bitterly as she peruses the papers in front of her. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to being called by my maiden name again soon.”
“It’s one of the conditions for granting you all of the assets that we are,” Wahlberg responds indifferently, handing her a pen. “Mr. Ford would like his name back.”
She takes the pen, frowning, the nib hovering inches from the page. She pauses and asks Goldberg if he’s read it already. Goldberg nods at Cordelia, giving her the go-ahead.
But she puts down the pen and sighs, wiping an imaginary tear from her cheek. She looks up at me, her long lashes fluttering and her bottom lip quivering. Once upon a time I would have felt something. But her act no longer fools me.
She reaches out her hand to touch mine, but I pull away before she can.
“Ian,” she whispers, “please. I know you don’t really want this. We’re good together. We can try again. It’ll be different this time.”
“It’s too late, Cordelia. There’s nothing you can say to change my mind.”
“Maybe,” she retorts, regarding me in speculation. “But that doesn’t mean I have to agree to the divorce.”
My gut tightens in frustration and we glare at each other over the table. I knew deep down that she was going to fight until the end, and I just hope that whatever Wahlberg has up his sleeve will finally convince her.
“I know why you want this so much,” she continues, her eyes narrowed to slits of contempt. “It’s what your dumb little floozy wants, isn’t it?”
At the mention of Sara, I can’t help but feel my patience slip. “Leave her out of this,” I warn.
Wahlberg clears his throat loudly. “Let’s keep this civil,” he says to both of us in his usual monotone voice. I’m breathing deeply through my nose, trying to control my rage.
He turns to Cordelia. “If you really want to take this to court, by all means we can,” he says. “However, I can assure you it will be to your detriment, financially speaking. Mr. Ford’s offer is extremely generous, given the circumstances. And we have solid proof of your affair.”
“Proof?” she snorts. Her haughty sneer makes me want to throttle her. “Going through my credit card statements doesn’t prove anything. And if Barry wants to testify, I have ways of discouraging him.”
She’s drumming her long, manicured talons on the table, looking smug, but I know her better than that and I can tell she’s nervous.
“Technically, it’s not your credit card, is it?” Wahlberg cuts in, matter-of-factly. “But that’s irrelevant at this point.”
She raises her eyebrow at me and her voice softens. “Ian, we could forget about all this silliness and go back to how we used to be. Summers in Europe, winters in the Caribbean. You can’t deny what great times we had.”
I shake my head. I have no idea what to say. She just doesn’t get it. We’re past the point of no return. There’s no going back.
Wahlberg retrieves a large brown envelope from his briefcase and hands it to her without a word. We watch her closely as she opens it.
She pulls out the typewritten, signed note inside, then flicks through the pages, her eyes growing wide with horror. Barry provided us with tapes and images of their affair. And it’s all in there.
“How did you…?” she starts, but her voice trails off and I can’t help but feel disgusted.
I hadn’t been keen on getting the written testimony from Barry, my accountant, but Wahlberg convinced me it was necessary. By the look on her face, he may have been right.
She’s glowering at my lawyer, and at me, her face flushed with anger. He goes to take the envelope back from her, but she grabs it from him and starts ripping it to pieces in her fury.
“There’s an additional note in the settlement,” he tells her, pointing to a short paragraph at the bottom of the paperwork. “All copies of Barry’s testimony will be destroyed, along with the video and photographs. As long as you sign.”
“Was this your idea?” she practically spits at me. “I can’t believe it’s come to this, Ian. Really?”
Her eyes are pure thunder as she realizes her circumstances, and even I’m surprised at Wahlberg’s rather bullish methods. But I’m beyond playing nice. I’ve tried that for the last year and it hasn’t gotten us anywhere.
Cordelia glances at Goldberg, who pushes the pen back in her direction, knowing there’s no way out of this.
She picks up the pen. I can hardly breathe as, at last, I watch her sign the goddamn divorce papers with an angry squiggle that almost tears the pages.
I wait for a final outburst from her, some spiteful insult or threat. But she composes herself remarkably quickly, dabbing at her damp cheeks with a tissue. Wahlberg takes out another set of papers. “The paperwork for the purchase of the business, as discussed.”
“You’re really putting what you have left into this?” Cordelia shoots me a shocked glance.
“It’s only money. I started with less than what I have now. I’ll make do.”
“I’m jealous.”
“I know. And I don’t care.”
She signs those papers as well and picks up her handbag, stuffed with shreds of the torn papers and envelope, and storms out of the office, slamming the door as she leaves.
Wahlberg looks at me, a satisfied smile on his face. Even Goldberg looks relieved.
I shake Wahlberg’s hand, thanking him, before I shake Goldberg’s hand and part ways.
And then I breathe. Long and deep, all the stress and anxiety and angst from the last year vanishing. I’m finally taking a good, clean breath again. Finally, free.
I expected to feel weightless. Like celebrating. And yes, there’s relief, a shit ton of it. But a part of me mourns what went down in there. It mourns the girl my ex-wife used to be, the guy I used to be. Because the people who signed the marriage contract years ago were so damn different than the ones who are stepping out of this building.
I tell myself I’m not going to let myself grow apart from the woman I love again. I tell myself I’m going to hang on tight to her and never let go. Because one thing I learned from my marriage is that, even though you think love is enough to feed on, enough to hold a marriage together, it’s not. Communication, understanding, patience, loyalty—that’s the stuff that makes it last.
I regret that I didn’t know this before I let my work consume me, and I let my wife’s ambition consume her.
As I flag down the first cab I see, I smell that familiar perfume once more and turn to face Cordelia. She waited for me. Fuck. It’s typical that she can’t resist a final word, but nothing she says makes any difference now.
“So, you’re going to go and play house with your new little strumpet?” she demands angrily.
“I might, if you hadn’t tainted the word house for me.”
“Fuck you, Ian.”
“Back at you, Cordelia.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s getting into. You’re emotionally unavailable. Even to me, and I’ve known you for years. All you want is to work.”
“Maybe. Because I actually cared about your happiness and your safety. But that’s long gone.”
I open the cab door for her and watch my ex-wife reluctantly board, shooting me a snotty glance that I can’t care less about.
“Goodbye, Cordelia.”