Page 76 of Rulebreaker
A scared, somewhat innocent young woman who let a famous, successful–much older–man sway the course of her life. No one, least of all me, could have predicted how things would turn out. Atlas will understand that. He has to. Otherwise, how can he possibly feel the way he says he feels?
I have faith in a man who has the ability to rock my world–both in bed and out.
Last night was something else, though.
The winery.
The atrium.
Meeting Jean-Michel Dubois.
I mean, fuck, but he pulled out all the damn stops. From the dress to the jewelry to the purse. The most exquisite petite sirah. The way he peeled that red dress off of me one goddamn inch at a time, using his tongue and lips to kiss every new piece of skin as it was revealed. The most erotic lovemaking of my entire life.
And we didn’t fuck.
He made love to me like a groom on his wedding night, with his heart in his eyes and his soul tangled with mine. I’ve never been loved so well. So completely loved.
Which is why I know he’s going to listen and then help me endure these last months of my marital contract. If I can explain the way everything happened, how young I was, and how complicated the whole thing is, he might be willing to forgive me for not telling him sooner.
“Babe?” I call to him as I pad through the house. All I have on is his dress shirt from last night’s tuxedo, my bare feet barely making a sound as I glide across the marble flooring.
“Good morning, beautiful.” He looks up with a smile and then turns back to the stove. “Breakfast will be ready in five. Did you finish your song?”
I walk up and wrap my arms around him from behind.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “There’s something missing, but I don’t feel like working on it anymore.”
“No? What do you feel like doing?”
“I’m doing it.” I rest the side of my face between his shoulder blades and feel him relax into me. This is the man I love. A man who loves all of me, including my broken, somewhat jagged pieces. Now I just have to find the words to make this hollow feeling in my chest go away.
He reaches around with one hand and skims my bare ass. “Did you come to breakfast without any panties?”
“I couldn’t find them,” I admit, chuckling. “So I put on your shirt and figured there was no point. You’re bound to need easy access again in the near future.”
He rumbles out a laugh. “Indeed. But breakfast first.”
“Okay.” I reluctantly pull away, grabbing two plates and sets of utensils for us. “Do you want coffee?” I ask him as I turn to the machine.
“I’d love that.Thanks.”
We work in companionable silence as he finishes the omelets he’s making and I brew two cups of coffee. He gets something out of the oven that smells amazing and I almost swoon when I see that it’s fresh cinnamon rolls.
“I didn’t make these,” he says, reading my mind. “All I had to do was put them in the oven. I assume Jean-Michel had someone leave them for us. But the omelets are all me.”
“And everything looks and smells amazing.”
“Almost as amazing as you.” He pulls me against him and lets his lips linger on mine for a few seconds.
Why is it so hard to tell him about Stan?
Technically–legally–I’m not doing anything wrong. We’re separated and have been for years. He’s sick, barely lucid most days, so it’s not like he's sitting at home pining for me. The marriage was over almost as soon as it started, but his dementia came on swiftly, leaving me in a position no one wants to be in.
But the flip side of that is that I’ve been keeping a big secret from Atlas, and that’s the part that scares me.
“Hey, I was wondering if we could talk,” I say softly.
He’s busy arranging the cinnamon rolls in a basket, being painstakingly particular about where each one goes, and I watch, somewhat fascinated.
