Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
I let him do it, let him ruin my future, his hand hard on my waist, pulling me off the wall and hard against his body. I sank in his grip, clutching at his shirt, kissing him back, the bathroom quiet as we dove into hell.
I felt him, his workout pants giving away everything, his hands on my ass, pulling up my skirt, against the hard length of his cock, a small whimper escaping me as my soaked panties dragged across his stiff ridge.
“Nothing noteworthy?” he rasped against my mouth, breaking from our kiss, my mouth hungry for more. “Is that what you said?” He dove back onto my lips, his kiss punishing, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, pushing my hand down, inside the waist of his pants, the fight leaving my fingers when he wrapped them around his cock. “Feel that?” he asked, thrusting against my hand, his voice angry. “You wanna look me in my face and tell me that’s forgettable?”
I squeezed, unable to help myself. It was so thick. So hard. I should have dropped it, should have stepped away, should have smacked the confidence right off his face. But I didn’t. I slid my grip up and down his shaft, my mouth greedy on his, my free hand digging into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, the groan that slipped from him urging me on.
“Fuck me, Ty,” he whispered. “Right now. Please.” He pulled at my panties, and I almost moaned.
“No,” I bit out, in between hot kisses, continuing the jack of his cock, his hands pulling the shirt from my skirt, the other squeezing my ass. “I can’t.” I quickened the speed of my hand and he all but shuddered, his grip on me tightening.
“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “Shit, get me a towel.”
I almost didn’t. I almost dropped to my knees on that Egyptian tile and took him in my mouth. Thank God I didn’t. It was bad enough that I reached over, pulling a stack of white custom hand towels, the team logo finely imprinted on their paper front.
I watched him come, his voice gasping my name, his hand pulling me to him and kissing me on the mouth, hard and desperate, his head dropping back when I shoved at his chest and walked to the sink, damp paper towels tossed in the trash, my hands furious in their wash, over and over, underneath water so hot I flinched.
“Stop thinking.” His voice, broken and quiet, came from behind me. I looked up into his reflection, into his face. An impossible directive, my thoughts frantic in my mind. I just cheated on Tobey. I wasn’t that woman, I couldn’t be that woman and … especially not with this man. This wasn’t a one-time, dirty affair kind of guy. This was the man who owned my soul. This was the man who, despite the miles of separation, and the years, and the gold ring on my finger, I still loved. Fiercely loved.
“That was a mistake,” I said quietly, fixing my blouse, straightening my skirt, my hands shaking in their attempt to right all of this wrong. “A mistake.” I repeated the words because everything I was feeling … the shame, the regret—it wasn’t over my marriage. It wasn’t over my husband, sitting at a table just rooms away. It was the shame of leaving Chase without explanation, of marrying Tobey and not driving to fucking Baltimore instead. It was the regret that I wasn’t, right now, five steps closer, back in his arms, pulling off our clothes until we were skin to skin, heart to heart, future to future.
“It wasn’t a mistake.” He pushed off the wall and stepped toward me.
“Stop.” There was enough strength in the word that he listened. “I can’t think straight when you’re near me. Please. Just … just stay over there.”
“I didn’t want to come here, Ty. Your side is responsible for this. I was happy in Baltimore.”
I shook my head, turning to him with a sad smile. “You hate Baltimore.” He told me that once, back in 2011, over midnight milkshakes on a Baltimore street corner. A story of a terrible childhood visit, a discussion of our youth and how memories can taint cities. He hated Baltimore. I hated Pittsburgh.
“It feels wrong, hating the city where I lived with my mom.” I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder, watching traffic roll by, the downtown street busy, even in the middle of the night. Occasionally, there was a horn, a shout, a fan who recognized him, their arms waving in excitement.
“But that’s not why you hate it, is it?”
“It’s just that … all I can remember from that time was being sad. All of it, the house, the park where I played, everything made me miss her more.” I had been glad when we left. Glad to start fresh in New York, in a house that didn’t have her furniture, in a truck that didn’t carry old tubes of her lipstick in its glove box. It felt like when we moved, we left her behind. And now, every time we returned, the city felt dim, draped in sadness. Thank God the Pirates were in the National League, our paths rarely crossing, my memories in Pittsburgh fading away.