Page 53 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

I chuckle dryly, the sound more self-deprecating than anything else. "Ah, well, there's not much to tell." I tug at the frayed edge of my shirt, buying time, wishing the fabric could absorb the unease that comes with opening old wounds. "Married young, had a daughter...but my ex, she was always chasing something bigger, something I couldn't give her. Eventually, she found it—or someone who could offer it—and that was that."

It was most of the truth. But, saying she ran off with her yoga instructor to Europe to “find herself” sounds as ridiculous out loud as it did when I read her haphazardly scribbled note.

Yup. She left me via a note. And, not just me, but Elodie, who definitely didn’t deserve to be abandoned by her own damn mother.

"Divorced?" Skylar asks, the word soft but heavy, like it's soaked in empathy rather than pity.

"Yep." I nod, the simple gesture feeling as if I'm affirming more than just my marital status. As if I'm acknowledging the toll it took on me, the way it shaped the man I am now—cautious, yet still craving connection.

"Sounds like we've both weathered our fair share of storms," she says, standing up and stretching her arms, her silhouette blending with the shadows.

"Seems so," I reply, the words hanging in the air, mingling with the scent of rain-soaked earth.

My feet carry me closer to her, drawn like a compass needle to true north. Skylar's gaze, those deep-set hazel eyes hold storms of their own. I feel the pull of her gravity.

"Skylar," I breathe, my voice barely above the whisper of wind outside.

Her lips part slightly, an invitation written in the softness of her breath. I lean in, every fiber of my being screaming to close the distance, to taste the cool air on her skin. But the space between us is more than just inches—it's lifetimes, heartbreaks, walls built so high I can't see where they end.

I hover there, caught in the eye of my own hurricane, then retreat as if snapped back by an invisible tether. Confusion washes over me, cold and uninvited. Why does she undo me like this? Why now, when everything inside me is already a maelstrom?

"Goodnight, Cohen," she murmurs, her voice steady against the chaos of my thoughts.

"Night," I reply, watching her silhouette fade into the house, leaving me alone with the roar of the storm.

Minutes tick by, or maybe hours—the time warps around me. I'm not sure what compels me to follow her, some force beyond reason or logic. My feet move of their own accord, carrying me through the silent corridors, shadows playing tricks on my eyes.

When I reach her door, it's ajar, and the charged energy within hits me like a physical blow. Theo's there, his light brown curls haloed by the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The atmosphere thickens, heavy with something unsaid, something unfinished.

I freeze.

Skylar stands with her back to me, Theo close behind her. His hands rest on her waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of her shirt as if he’s staking a claim. Then, as if sensing my presence, he turns his head slightly—just enough for me to see the look in his eyes before his lips find hers.

Something tightens in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. I should leave. I should turn away. But I don’t.

I can’t.

The air between us crackles, thick with the weight of something I don’t want to name. The storm outside howls against the windows, but it’s nothing compared to the one raging inside me.

And for the first time in a long time, I have no idea whether I want to fight it—or let it pull me under.

I linger in the doorway, a spectator to an unfolding scene that feels both intimate and alien. Each of their movements seems choreographed in a dance I don't know the steps to, yet I can't tear my eyes away.

The air is a living thing, charged with the same electricity that dances across Skylar's skin under Theo's deliberate touch. My hand grips the door frame tighter, knuckles whitening as I watch, unable to look away.

Theo meets my gaze, his smile a silent challenge—or is it an invitation? His hands continue their journey across her body,peeling away fabric like layers of a mystery I'm desperate to understand. Each open-mouthed kiss he places on her flesh sears me too, though I'm nothing but a ghost in the doorway.

Skylar's back arches, and I wonder if she senses me here. The thought that she might knowingly accept this dual adoration sends a surge of heat through me. But she’s made no move to acknowledge my presence. I should leave. But selfishness roots me to the spot. I’m desperate to witness her unraveling, even from the shadows.

Fabric falls away completely, relinquished to the floor, and Theo guides Skylar with a gentle firmness that speaks volumes of their past intimacy. She folds forward, hands pressed into the mattress, presenting to him—to us—the most intimate parts of her being.

It's a sight so raw, so vulnerably erotic, that it has my heart pounding against my ribs, a frenetic drummer urging me toward the brink of madness.

"Fuck." The word escapes me in a breathless whisper. Her plush, pink pussy glistens with arousal.

The bulge in my pants is almost painful. My hand grasps at my erection, feeling the pulse of blood pumping through it with each throb. I’m so fucking hard, my dick is weeping with anticipation. I can feel the dampness, proof of my own unchecked need.

Skylar shifts slightly, whether in discomfort or anticipation, I can't tell. But the movement draws my gaze to the junction of her thighs once more, and I'm captivated by the sheer perfection of her. I'm undone by her, utterly and irrevocably lost to this beautiful woman.

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