Filed to story: Swallow Me Whole (Sadie & Ashton) Book Free
4. The Touch of Your Hand
Cash
And a temporary moment of insanity.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, horrified by my unforgivable actions. I’ve known this girl for a couple of hours, but it feels longer. A sheen of inquisition deepens her brown eyes, and I’m positive she’s wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
She isn’t the only one.
Smoothing her palms over jean-clad thighs, she turns her attention to the window. It’s a move I’m coming to recognize as a nervous one.
Pull it together, man.
But the ensuing silence, which was comfortable before I lost my head and almost kissed her, is stifling. I raise a hand to tug at my tie, except I’m not wearing one. The constriction around my neck and the tightness in my pants is all her doing.
The plane hits more turbulence, and the seat belt light comes back on, followed by a reassuring message from the pilot. My flight companion isn’t reassured. She holds the armrests in an impressive death grip, and I’d give anything to cover her hand again because she seems so damn scared.
But I don’t dare touch her. She brings out a weakness I hadn’t realized I possess—the ability to feel something for a woman who isn’t my wife. Guilt lances deep, staggering in its searing truth. I could justify my lapse of judgment by placing blame on Monica’s infidelity, but I won’t.
My wife’s shitty actions have no bearing on my own. I’m attracted to this beautiful woman with eyes the hue of sable, and hair that falls in soft sheets over her shoulders—gorgeous honey-blond hair I’d love to sink my fingers into again because I’ve never touched strands that silky.
Hell.
Dragging air into my overworked lungs, I force her hair and eyes from my mind. But my dick refuses to settle down, so I place my hands in my lap to hide the erection that won’t quit.
“Tell me about your friend in Seattle,” I say, desperate to break the silence. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about her friend at the moment, but we both need something to shatter the awkwardness that’s fallen over us.
“I met her in—” Another jolt of the plane cuts her off.
Jesus. What is it about this girl that brings out my protective side? My hands are tight balls of frustration in my lap. I’m a few seconds away from brushing my fingers over her skin again. I want to take away her fear. More than anything, I want those arresting eyes of hers back on me.
“You’re probably wishing you weren’t stuck with a total basket case right now,” she says.
To hell with it.
I grab her hand and entwine our fingers. “Not at all, Jules.”
Her attention lowers to our hands for a few seconds before she meets my eyes. “You’re very kind.”
I’m very messed up in the head, but as long as my touch soothes her nerves, I’ll keep touching her.
“I’ve flown a lot. Trust me, this kind of turbulence is normal, especially during a storm.” No way will I tell her that I hate it as much as she does. “You were telling me about your friend,” I remind her.
She lets loose an exhale that disrupts the fine blond strands framing her cheeks. “I met Lesley in college. She majored in business like me, but she’s a free spirit.” A smile I can only describe as fond shapes her lips. “She moved to Seattle to chase her dreams. Joined her brother’s band.”
“Another gutsy move. I can see why the two of you are friends. So what about you?” I say, lifting a brow. “Got any dreams you’re chasing?”
“I’m boring. My last job was in an office.”
Boring, my ass. Everything about her intrigues me. There’s an air of mystery shrouding her, and maybe that’s why I’m so entranced.
“I wouldn’t call you boring,” I say with meaning.
She dips her head but still can’t hide the pink tinting her cheeks. Relaxing her free hand against the armrest a little, she says, “At one point, I wanted to be a writer.”
“Yeah? Did you ever explore that?”
“A little. I wrote a few short stories in high school.”
“So what made you go into business instead?”
“My mom, I guess. She hated how much I had my nose stuck in a book. Pretty much shot that dream down the drain from the get-go. She wanted me to be more like Brit. Model material, basically.” She pauses, shaking her head. “That’s my sister. Sorry, I guess I’m rambling.”
“Ramble away. I don’t think we’re going anywhere for a while.”
“Very true,” she says with a laugh. “I guess by the time I hit college, I went for practicality instead. Either way, my mom wasn’t happy with my decision.”
I can relate to the complexities of family all too well. I wouldn’t be married and running a corporation right now if it hadn’t been for the pressure my father put on me for as long as I can remember.
“What do you do for a living?” she asks a few moments later. “Wait, let me guess.” She narrows her eyes, studying me. “I’m picturing you in a business suit, sitting in one of those swanky high-rise buildings. Am I close?”
“You’re not far off. I run a company, and I also have a background in architecture.”
Surprise tugs her brows toward her hairline. “Wow. I’m impressed. I don’t think I’ve ever met an architect before. What kind of buildings do you design?”
“Hotels. But I’m not part of the design team anymore.” Not since taking on the responsibility of CEO, that is. “I work on blueprints.” Clinging to the anonymity between Jules and me, I squeeze her hand in a dick-like move, hoping to distract her from further questioning. “Feeling better now?”
She nods, but her attention veers to our laced hands again. Reluctantly, I untangle our fingers and put some space between us. But it’s too late. Her warm eyes tell me what she doesn’t say.
It isn’t only turbulence that has her strung. Sexual tension buzzes between us, growing with each mile through the air, with every minute we sit close together talking.
Touching.
I think about the possibility that Monica isn’t the only one at fault here. When was the last time we had sex? Definitely before she bought that new comforter I’d spotted in the photo—the one she’d fornicated on top of with some other man.
And the last time we made love? Even longer. There’s a difference, and I can’t remember the last time we connected with genuine intimacy. Work keeps me busy. Expansion has been great for the company, but maybe not so much for my marriage, since we’ve shared a bed but little else for the last few months.
For the first time since laying eyes on that photo, I ask myself a difficult question.
Did I push her into it?
I give myself a mental kick. I’m not the one who put a lock on our sex life. I don’t know why she’s been so cold and distant lately, but it’s time to rip off the Band-Aid. Our marriage has been in trouble for a while, and I’ve been too busy—too careless—to take serious notice.
Until that damn photo blasted my phone. Sharp pain pierces my chest at the thought. This isn’t what I imagined when I married her.
“Now I think I’m the one who needs to ask if you are okay.” Jules’ voice pulls me from the dark place I’d tumbled into.
Perceptive, indeed.
“I’m fine,” I say, leaving it at that.