Page 30 of Shame

I open my mouth and close it.

She crosses her arms over her chest, like she’s not playing around.

Her dress slides up her legs, and the overhead lights glint off the delicate curve of her calf. Shiny, silky… I drag my attention away from her legs. “Yeah, I’ll make those calls. I’ll figure it out.”

“And you’ll make an appearance at the opening?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” I grab a pen and make a note, then show it to her. “It’s the only thing on my agenda next week.”

“Good.” She crosses her legs again.

I can’t stop looking at them. She catches the line of my attention. Busted. “You don’t usually wear nylons.”

She smiles at me like she has a secret. “Nylons?” She smirks. “I’m not wearing nylons, Luke.”

I want a man whose mouth drops open when I strip down and I’m wearing lingerie.My gaze drops from her beautiful, fierce face to the fitted pencil skirt.

She’s wearing stockings. A garter belt.

Fucking lingerie under a fucking fuck-me pencil skirt.

My wife is dressed for sex, has been dressed for sex this entire time she’s sat across from me and discussed using me for publicity.

The pen I’m holding snaps in half.

She stands up, the corners of her mouth lifting in a satisfied smile. So be it. If the only way I can please her right now is by letting her hurt me, so fucking be it. “Bye, Luke.”

The way my name drips off her tongue. Yes. I nod. “I’ll see you later, Grace.”

It’s not my right to claim this yet, and it may not be healthy, but she’s mine. I didn’t see that for too long, I didn’t value that the way I should have, but she is God damned mine.

And she’s dressed for sex.

I see that. I seeher.

15

Grace

My fingers shakeas I pull out my phone in the elevator. The look on Luke’s face as his attention zoomed in on my skirt—to what was under my skirt—felt like such a fucking victory.

That’s right, husband. Remember that I’m a sexual fucking being. Not just that, but I’m sexier and dirtier and a hundred times more clever than the—

I cut myself off.

She doesn’t get space in my head in this moment.

Neither does he. This moment, this victory, is all mine. I throw my head back in the empty space and laugh as rough, relieved adrenaline courses through my veins. Fuck yeah.

I could run a marathon right now. Win a boxing match.

I am woman, hear me roar.

When I drag in a breath and stretch my arms, my skirt slides up my thigh. I look down and catch the bottom hem, pull it up. I look at the exposed edge of stocking.

I look at my phone.

My heart beats a little faster. My fingers shake as I swipe into the camera app and point the lens at my leg. All I see is skin. It doesn’t capture how I feel, this hot, crazy recklessness.

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