6. Dangle - Cash
The sky is spewing buckets by the time the cab pulls up to Mont Tower. The skyscraper stands forty-seven floors high, a glass high-rise sparkling like a beacon in the downpour. The rain doesn’t bother me, but it does make me think of tea and silky blond hair.
I pay the driver, grab my carry-on, and enter the lobby through the revolving glass doors. The night concierge greets me by name, and I give him a quick nod as I make my way across the marble tile to a bank of elevators. A swipe of my keycard gains me access to a private lift, and the ride to the top ratchets up my anxiety. The closer I reach the penthouse I share with my wife, the closer I am to confronting her.
Will she deny it? Burst into tears and beg for forgiveness? There’s no telling with Monica. Her moods swing back and forth as much as the weather does; one minute warm and breezy, and then chilly with the shadow of cloud cover.
The elevator comes to a smooth stop, and the doors slide open with a nearly soundless swoosh. I’m thankful for the quiet arrival as I step into the foyer of our overpriced home. I should know, since MontBlake owns the building. She wanted the exclusive luxury at the top, and I would have hung the moon to give it to her.
Making as little noise as possible, I leave my luggage in the foyer, slip off my shoes, and pad toward the grand living room, but my gut roils at the thought of catching her with him. Rain beats in a muted onslaught against the windows. That wall of glass takes up one side of the condo and rises two stories high. I’m about to climb the spiral staircase that leads to the second floor when I spot her sitting alone in the dark at the far end of the room.
She’s lounging on the divan, one elbow propping her up as she stretches her long legs across the velvet cushions, her robe parting to reveal a creamy thigh. As she sips on a glass of red wine, the city lights provide the only illumination. She doesn’t see me at first, and I’m taken aback by the worry pinching her features.
“Monica?”
She turns her gaze on me. “I called the hotel when you didn’t answer my texts. They said you checked out.” With an arch of her accusing brow, she stands in a fluid motion, silk robe billowing around her smooth legs. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home early?”
Gauging her expression is like decoding a puzzle. I tilt my head for a better angle, but her face is a porcelain mask. A dark curl escapes her up-do, and the longer I stare at her, refusing to answer her question, the more she purses her full, luscious lips. She’s refined grace, sex, and class rolled into a delicious, curvy body she hasn’t let me touch in months.
And for the first time since she froze me out, I’m in no hurry to.
She lowers her gaze to my fly then immediately looks away. No doubt she thinks the heavy bulge behind my zipper is her doing. She has no reason to believe otherwise—has no clue that a pair of brown eyes are haunting me. I’ve had a perpetual hard-on for the last four hours. I can still smell Jules, still feel the warmth of her breath on my lips and the softness of her skin under my fingertips. The memory of her is imprinted on my being, shadowing me home in disgrace to confront my cheating wife.
In that moment, I feel as guilty as Monica should feel. I might have held back from kissing Jules, but my mind has fired on all cylinders since I left the airport. I’ve mentally undressed her at least a dozen times.
Dragging her gaze back to my face, my wife brushes that stray curl from her blue eyes, and the humongous diamond on her ring finger catches the lights shining through the windows. “Is everything okay?” she asks, pausing long enough to bring the wine glass to her lips. “I was worried when you didn’t text me back.”
Rage, hurt, and lust collide in my gut. I don’t know whether to shout at her, strangle her, or throw her down and fuck my anger away. My throbbing dick votes for the third option, though Jules’ face is the one flashing in my mind.
I’m seriously fucked in the head, and it’s all Monica’s fault. The need to conquer is a life-force inside me. I span the distance between us until I’m close enough to detect the heat of her body.
“Why wouldn’t everything be okay?” I say, my voice teetering on a lethal edge as I cup a hand around her chin, holding her with enough strength to set her on alert without hurting her. “I missed my wife, is all.”
Her eyes widen, shooting disbelief at me, as if she picked up on my sloppy deceit. “I missed you too.”
Liar.
I loosen the sash on her robe, and a small part of me revels in the breathless gasp that puffs off her sinful lips. Her generous tits spill into view, and I imprison a nipple between my thumb and forefinger, fighting the urge to pinch until she cries out in pain—until her knees buckle and she begs for forgiveness in the same breath she begs to take my cock in her mouth.
“Cash, stop.” Shock washes over her features at my bold moves. I can’t remember the last time I rolled her pretty nipples between my fingers, let alone manhandled her.
“I can’t touch you?” A low growl emanates from the back of my throat, and I flex my fingers around her jaw.
“I’m not in the mood.” Even as she denies it, she thrusts her tits toward me.
“Your body begs to differ.”
“You should’ve told me you were coming home,” she says before nibbling on her lower lip—a move she knows drives me crazy.
“I wanted to surprise you.” And catch her in the act.
“Well, I was too worried about you. Now I have a migraine.”
Her treachery freezes my veins, but it’s a contradiction to the flames bursting alive on my skin. I’m all mixed up—a cocktail of fire and ice over this woman. Sex with her was amazing before we got married, but she did a turnabout shortly after the ink dried on the goddamn paper.
“Let me go, Cash.”
Instead of dropping my hand like I normally would in the face of her rejection, I scowl at her. My chest is rising and falling too rapidly. I increase the pressure on her nipple, but it’s negligible; just enough to make her wince without pulling away.
“You let him touch you. You let him do a helluva lot more than touch you.”
Her eyes go wide, and I have to give her credit because she smooths her expression in the next instant.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, stumbling out of my grasp.
“Don’t play stupid.” I cross my arms, otherwise, I might wrap my hands around her slender neck. “Tell me you didn’t think you could fuck another guy in our bed and get away with it.”
“How can you even think that of me?” Her tone is indignant, and if I hadn’t seen the evidence for myself, I might fall for her lie, because she’s that good of an actress.
“You sure as hell haven’t been fucking me, so who’s the lucky asshole, Monica?”
“No one!”
I withdraw my phone and enter the code to unlock it. Bringing up the photo of her with some unknown guy—because that fucker’s face is in complete shadow—I thrust it into her line of sight. “Pictures don’t lie.”
With a tilt of her chin, she stares down at the photo. “That’s you and me, Cash.” Now she’s glaring at me. “And I don’t appreciate you taking photos of us having sex. It’s tacky.”
“You haven’t let me touch you in months, so don’t even try it.” I stalk forward, hating how she doesn’t back down. “Do you want a divorce? Is that it?” I cringe to think of the fallout. Not only will it break my heart, but the dissolution of our marriage won’t be a private matter. Instead, it’ll be messy and in the public eye, bringing bad publicity to the merged companies of our families.
“No,” she says with a shake of her head. “A divorce is out of the question anyway.”
Her casual dismissal sucker punches me. She’s standing before me, a stoic shadow of herself, telling me she doesn’t want to end this. But it’s not because she loves me—her tone implies that much.
“The guy you’re fucking. Do you love him?” My question hangs between us, going unanswered as I study this woman who’s become a stranger. She should be begging for forgiveness. Instead, her mouth forms a stubborn line that’s all too familiar.
I grit my teeth. “You’re not going to deny it?”
“I’m not dignifying it with an explanation.” She gestures at the phone I’m grasping in my hand—just as I’m grasping at the last thread of our marriage. “You can believe whatever you want, but you said it yourself. Pictures don’t lie.”
I grab her by the nape, and the wine glass slips from her fingers. The jolting sound of shattering glass is a precursor to the beginning of the end. It twists in my gut with a freshly sharpened blade.
“Why are you doing this to us?” I bring my face dangerously close to hers. “God knows I love you, Monica. But if you’re gonna screw around on me, I’m done.”
She yanks free of my hold. “Things aren’t that simple.”
“No, they’re very simple. We’re either in this together one-hundred percent, or we’re not.” Family expectations and mergers be damned, because I can’t go on playing these mind games with her anymore.
“If you think I’ll let you walk away without a fight, you’re wrong.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Take it however you like, Cash. But I know how much this company means to you and your family.” She folds her arms over her chest. “You’re stuck in this marriage as much as I am. We both knew it going in.”
“The only difference is I loved you!” I launch my cell at the wall of glass, watching it ricochet before dropping to the floor with a thud. The window remains untainted by my rage, but the phone is another story. It’s lying on the marble, bruised and beaten. Undoubtedly broken.
Thick silence stretches between us. I clench my fists, my chest heaving while she stands poised in front of me.
As if she didn’t just smash my heart into tiny shards.
“I’m tired,” she says, sidestepping the puddle of wine and broken glass at our feet. She climbs the stairs, and I watch her go, my mouth agape. Her indifference is confusing. It’s fucking killing me, and I don’t know what else to do but cling to the rope on which she’s got me dangling.