Page 30 of Rebound

Sanjay turns around to face me and passes me a piece of folded up paper. “That’s my number, Mrs. Smith. You call me any time you need a ride. An account has been set up with the cab company, and I’m available to you twenty-four seven.”

“But what about the diapers?” I ask, widening my eyes in mock horror.

He winks. “Well, truthfully, it is nice to escape them sometimes. You call me, though, any time at all. I am at your service.”

I thank him and tuck the number away in my purse. Elijah probably paid for his exclusive services for the foreseeable future, and Sanjay must be wondering what the hell is going on but hasn’t embarrassed me by asking. I’m not sure I could quite explain it even if I tried.So, it’s like this—the man I was arguing with the night we met is my husband, and we’re getting a divorce. But we’re also having an affair, and my name isn’t Mrs. Smith. Confused? Me too.

Sanjay assures me he’ll have his phone with him all night if I need a ride home, and I climb out of the car. Immediately, a smartly dressed man appears from the townhouse and holds a huge golf umbrella over my head to protect me from the elements.

“Mrs. Smith, please follow me.” He gestures toward the steps into the building. “Mr. Smith is already here.”

Inside, I’m shown through to a small room furnished with tables and chairs. We pass a sleek mirrored bar, the shelves lined with expensive brands. It’s super stylish, small but perfectly decorated—and also completely empty. The place is probably usually bustling, but tonight there’s nobody but Elijah. He’s waiting for me at the back of the room, away from the door. Exactly where somebody having an affair would sit.

He stands, looking completely edible in jeans and a fitted short-sleeve white shirt that makes his muscles pop, and I try not to swoon. It’s a laid-back look for him—seems I’m not the only one recreating themselves. He’s also wearing a new cologne, something spicy and masculine as hell. It flies directly from my nostrils to my lady parts. They are subtle changes, but enough to keep up the illusion that this is a sexy stranger.

“Amber.” His gray eyes rake over my face and body. They linger on the foxy spike-heeled boots, just as I thought they might. “You look stunning.”

I find myself blushing at the compliment and smile as he holds a chair out for me. Two bottles of wine are on the candlelit table, one white and one red, along with his glass of Scotch. I’ve already eaten, which is lucky because there’s no sign of food. I had no clue what our “date” was going to look like—dinner, drinks, straight to fucking? Damn. I blush even harder, imagining the fucking.

“Thank you. Mr. and Mrs. Smith?” I say, arching an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I thought it was fitting, no? This is certainly the right kind of place for it.”

I look around, putting two and two together. No sign outside. Heavily shuttered windows. A secluded spot away from the busier thoroughfares.

“Mr. Smith, have you brought me to a high-class by-the-hour hotel?”

“I don’t think that would be on their marketing brochure, but yes, that’s exactly what it is. An exclusive venue designed specifically for couples who need their, uh, privacy.” As he speaks, he holds up the white wine. He’s obviously messing with me—he knows I prefer red. I point at the other bottle—my favorite pinot noir—and he grins as he pours.

“Well, we’ve definitely got our privacy tonight. Why is it so empty?”

“Because I booked the whole place out,” he answers, giving me the lopsided smile that always makes my heart leap.

I raise my glass in acknowledgment and offer a slight nod. “That’s quite ambitious, Mr. Smith.”

“What can I say? You bring out the best in me, Mrs. Smith.”

If only that were true, I think, sipping my wine. The same thought seems to cross his mind as well, because his eyes, stormy with emotion, meet mine over the flickering candlelight. I don’t look away, and we simply stare at each other for a few moments. I love this man. I really, truly love him. So why couldn’t I be happy with him?

“Why is it,” I ask, knowing that I risk breaking the spell, “that we had to pretend to be strangers to have the best sex of our lives?”

“I don’t know.” He picks up his Scotch and takes a small sip. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing. This may make me an asshole, but could we carry on pretending? Even if only for tonight? I hated today, Amber. And I know I’m going to hate tomorrow even more.”

The pain in his voice is real, and it does at least answer one of my earlier questions—yes, he’s also sad. Just like me.

But also like me, he’s not making a case for giving our marriage another shot. It seems we both know that ship has sailed, and right now, we’re clinging to the life raft of what’s left between us. He runs his hands through his hair, and his eyes look haunted.

I pick up the wine bottle and stand. “Yes, we can carry on pretending. Come on. Let’s go and see one of those rooms, Mr. Smith.” His smile transforms his face, and he takes my offered hand.

The guy from earlier—concierge, maître d’, pimp, whatever his job title is—sees us on the move and gestures us through a red velvet curtain into a hallway lined with wood paneling. He hands Elijah an old-fashioned metal key on an oval fob and nods politely before disappearing. We climb the stairs together, and Elijah lets us into a grand room that’s dominated by a spectacular four-poster bed. Everything is deep red and black, from the sheets to the canopy to the carpet, and the room is scented with something musky and spicy. I briefly wonder if there’s a specific aroma made for places like this—Classy Hot Sex No° 9 or something.

Elijah takes the bottle of wine from me and sets it down on a mahogany end table. His eyes shine with dark delight, and he closes the distance between us in a split second. Delicious nerves dance along my spine as he slides his arms around my waist and tugs me toward him. A little gasp escapes my lips at the feel of him pressed against me. The firm length of his cock leaves me in no doubt that he’s ready for us to take this to the next level. His big hands run over my backside, squeezing possessively as he crushes me closer.

He buries his face in my hair, inhaling. “I want you so much,” he whispers, his breath warm on the skin of my neck. “I’ve been hard since the moment you walked in. I can’t wait to be inside you.” His words and his tone and his touch all combine to flood me with need.

“I can’t wait either,” I murmur, circling my hips against his. My clit is already throbbing from the contact.

I pull his shirt from his waistband and slide my hands up his back. God, I forgot how good he feels. His skin is soft over the steely strength of his body, like velvet over iron. Muscles ripple with every movement, and as ever, he makes me feel small and protected, but also vulnerable. Vulnerable in a way that has me achy and wet.

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