Page 100 of Riding the High

“Will my husband make me come, please?” I ask sweetly, ready to ignite around him. His hand squeezes my throat, pulling the breath from my lungs just enough to make me lose all control. Dots line my vision as he thrusts into me so deeply, fireworks ignite behind my eyelids.

“Fucking mine,” he growls as he grows inside me. “My wife.”

He spills into me just as my vision goes static and I freefall with him, calling out his name as he calls mine. I come harder than I ever have in my life. We both moan and pant as our euphoria comes in waves, our sweat-slicked skin pressed together.

A few minutes later, when our breathing returns to normal and we lie in a tangled mess, Cole kisses me gently through my hair and on my shoulder.

“Guess we’ll have to test that pineapple theory later …?” I grin.

“You’re going to be the death of me, woman,” he says, still breathless.

I peck his lips. A warm feeling spreads through my chest as he wraps his arms around me and hugs me close.

He whispers into my ear, “But Ginger … this? Us? It’s fuckingeverything.”

I sigh. Maybe that talk I told the girls I’d have with him can wait until tomorrow … or even the day after that.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Cole

27 days to go

Iwake to the sound of Ginger’s phone vibrating on the bedside table. My bets are on it being her father. He’s called her three times in the last twenty-four hours to remind her of all the things she needs to do for him, never once asking her if shewantsto. I’ve been biting my tongue, but one of these days I’ll be reminding him she is his daughter, and that her job isn’t to help him win an election.

My brow furrows as I roll over and wrap my arms around her soft, warm body. Not only is it election day, but today marks the first step in our divorce plan. Mabel is also coming home from the cottage later and this protectiveness I feel over mine and Ginger’s situation has only increased tenfold over the last eight days.

For the past week, we’ve barely worn clothes when we’re together. We’ve talked; we’ve eaten every meal at home; we’ve swum in my pool, with and without bathing suits. We’ve watched movies, and turned some heads during our grocery shopping in this small, gossipy town. We’ve managed household chores and we’ve fucked, a lot. In every corner of my house and yard, yet still I never seem to get enough of Ginger. It’s given me a glimpseinto what life might be like if I can convince her to stay. With Ginger by my side, I feel … whole.

I go to work and deal with everything there with an ease I’ve never experienced before. Even Brent seems less annoying because I know that, at the end of the day, I will drive home and she’ll be there, waiting for me, lounging by the pool in one of those skimpy bathing suits that turn me savage, or tending to the garden so as not to miss a beat while Mabel is gone. Hell, I even came home and found her on FaceTime with Mabes the other day, and the feeling I got when I heard them talking almost knocked the wind out of me. I watched her from the patio door as she paced around, asking Mabel whether she was remembering her pleases and thank yous, her sunscreen, telling her that the coloring page she held up was beautiful. I watched as they talked about what they’d do when Mabes got home. It wasn’t like how a nanny would talk to a child in her care, but how a mother would address her daughter.

I’ve witnessed how Mabel has blossomed under Ginger’s attention this summer. Their relationship fills the void of her own mother, who only went up to the cottage last week for four hours. The whole time Ernie and Trudy have had Mabel, and Gemma couldn’t even be bothered to spend one night with her.

Now, lying here in the morning sunlight that is starting to filter through my blinds, I’m a ball of nerves. Because, over the last week, it’s fucking hit me. Somewhere along the lines of friends to best friends to ‘fake’ wife, I’ve fallen in love with Ginger Danforth. Deep fucking in love with her. And this isn’t a fake marriage we’re both trying to get through. In many ways this is more real than the marriage I did my best at living in for years.

I make a pact with myself to figure out how to tell this woman how I feel—how to get her to stay longer, to convince her to be a mother to my daughter, to tell her that she’s the final piece of our puzzle.

Ginger hums beside me as she stirs and her phone buzzes again just as I’m about to slip a hand between her silky thighs.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “He’s called three times already.”

Ginger groans. “I have to answer it or he’ll just keep calling.”

I grunt and move to get out of bed while she picks the phone up to talk to her father.

I slide my sweats on over my hard-on and make my way to the kitchen. Ginger joins me twenty minutes later to work out the schedule for the day. I stare at her as she talks; she looks way too enticing in just my t-shirt and her bed hair falling around her shoulders in waves.

“So Mabel comes home at one p.m.,” she says, typing on her phone before looking up at me. “And you’ll be home when?”

I hand her a coffee, which she takes eagerly. “I’ll be home at four-thirty,” I say. “I’ll grab a pizza for me and Mabes on the way back.”

“Okay. I have to be at the Masonic Temple at five or so, and it’ll be a late one, whether he wins or not,” she says while chewing her bottom lip. She takes a sip of her coffee as she stares out of the window.

“Do you need Mabes and I there?” I ask. I am fully prepared to be there for Ginger tonight but I also don’t want her to feel overwhelmed with questions from the press and her parents aboutwhyI’m there.

“Um …” she says.

She looks way too stressed and I’m not having it.

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