28. Yellow Tape - Cash
My stolen weekend with Jules goes by too fast. Next thing I know it’s Sunday evening, and I’m having the hardest fucking time leaving her apartment. Wrapped in a sheet, Jules clutches the ends to her chest as I draw her in for what seems like our hundredth kiss. We’re standing in her doorway, and I’ve been trying to leave her place—leave her—for the past ten minutes. I’m sure we’re drawing attention, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“I don’t want to go,” I mumble against her lips.
She pulls me back inside, and the sheet falls to the floor as the door closes. We’re once again inside the privacy of her apartment, and just like yesterday morning, I have her up against the wall with my mouth fused to hers. For the past two days, we’ve lived on sex, takeout, more sex, and more takeout.
I flick my thumbs over her nipples as I kiss a warm path down her throat. “You’re gonna have to tell me to leave, Jules.”
“I’d only be lying. I don’t want you to go.”
“The longer we put this off, the harder it’ll be.”
Letting out a defeated sigh, her shoulders slump. “Will you come back and spend the night?”
“I’ll try. I don’t know how this conversation is going to go with Monica. But I’ll try. I want to be with you more than anything.”
After she wraps the sheet around her deliciously naked body, I open the door and step outside. Maybe this time, I’ll actually make it beyond her welcome mat.
Twirling a lock of her hair, I lean down and kiss her cheek because kissing her anywhere else will only lead to me pushing her back to that wall and fucking her against it. “I’ll make this right, I promise.”
“I trust you.”
She’s trusting me with so much.
Not to be a cliché douchebag who says he’s going to divorce his wife but doesn’t. Jules is trusting me not to break her heart, and I’m going to cherish that trust more than anything.
“I’d better go.”
“You’d better,” she says, nibbling her lower lip, “before this sheet ends up on the floor and I drop to my knees.” She lowers her gaze to the growing bulge behind my shorts.
“Jesus, Jules. For sucking at sucking cock, you do it pretty damn well.” I grab her by the back of the neck and slam my mouth onto hers. As her tongue pushes against mine, all I can think about is sinking into the wet glove of her mouth again. The memory of watching her lips slide up and down my cock has me rock hard. I break away before I lose total control.
“No more goodbyes,” I say, leaning my forehead against hers. “No more kissing or talk of sucking me off. I’m going now.” Before I lose my nerve, I tear myself away and put a few feet of space between us. “I’ll text you, okay?”
“Okay.”
Neither of us move.
“Go inside, Jules. I can’t leave until you do.”
She’s still nibbling on that sexy-as-fuck lower lip. And her eyes—good God I need to get out of here before I never make it home.
And going home is important, despite the dread in my gut, because Jules and I have no future until I hash things out with my wife.
“Why do I feel like this is the end?” she asks, her gaze veering from me.
I shove down the urge to close the short distance between us. “Jules, look at me.” She does, and damn how I want to reach for her. “Nothing on earth could keep me away from you.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“I love you, Cash.” She draws in a shaky breath before shutting the door.
I let out a breath. Yesterday when she said it, I had my cock buried in her. The moment was intense, the kind when emotions run high and people say and do things they might not mean.
But she meant it. I saw it splashed all over her face before she closed that door.
I leave her complex on a rush of happiness and adrenaline, and it isn’t until I’m passing by Pike Place that my erection settles the hell down. Even closed for the day and empty of people, the market will always remind me of her. I think about that bouquet on her nightstand and how I want to bring her a new one to replace it.
Except maybe I’ll give her tulips next time. Maybe I’ll give her flowers every week for the rest of her life.
I can’t do that until I face my wife.
I’m almost home before I remember to turn my phone back on, and I can only imagine all the missed calls and texts I have from Monica. Despite everything, I feel like shit for dropping off the face of the earth for over twenty-four hours. We might not be close anymore, or even talking to each other most days, but I know she’s worried. Even with the deterioration of our marriage, she always insists on knowing when I’ll be home.
I’ve got several missed calls from her and even more texts, all of them demanding to know where I am. There are other missed calls and voicemail messages too, but they’re likely related to work. For once in my life, I’m leaving work alone until the following morning. It’s not going anywhere. Monica, on the other hand, is waiting to lay into me.
Turning onto my street, I lift my gaze from her frantic messages, all of which stopped today for some reason, and that’s when I notice the emergency vehicles outside my building.
Spanning the distance seems to take several long minutes, but in reality, it’s only seconds. People are pushing me back, keeping me from entering through the revolving doors.
Throwing questions in my face. Trying to get my attention.
I barely hear anything beyond the thrashing of my heart echoing in my ears. See anything beyond the panicked haze blurring my vision.
“What happened?” I’m finally able to focus on a face. “My wife’s up there.”
“Which floor, sir?”
“Penthouse.”
He goes still, and the dread in my gut hardens to stone. Maybe I knew it all along and didn’t want to face it. Monica hasn’t been acting like herself for months, and that’s especially true these past few weeks. I open my mouth to speak, but the words catch in my throat. Swallowing hard, I squeeze them past the fear and guilt winding around my neck.
“My wife is Monica Montgomery. Is she okay?”
Those words seem to be my ticket inside. The cop herds me into the lobby and grabs the attention of a man in a suit. There are suits and uniforms everywhere.
“Detective Riley. I found the husband.”
He faces me, and I don’t like the harsh chill in his blue eyes. He looks at me as if he’s judging me. “Are you Cash Montgomery?”
“Is my wife okay?” There’s no mistaking the tremor in my voice. Sweat drips down my temples as I wait for him to reply, the seconds ticking by in dreadful beats.
“Mr. Montgomery, your wife is missing.”