Page 6 of On the Rocks
“You didn’t." Her voice is stronger this time. Ambivalence replaced by a vehemence that I rarely hear from her. But really fucking like. "I know the difference between you and them.”
Like she can read my mind. Shouldn’t even be a fuckingthem. I should fucking kill her father too for even letting them have the opportunity to abuse her.
Yet, somehow, some way she actually means it. Fucking resilient enough to try and forget the past and allow me be her future. My sunshine’s tiny, but tough.
Pink fingernails guide our coupled hands over the burgundy splotches on her chest and tits. Caressing the reminders of my earlier devotion to her body.
“Besides I love how you touch me.”
My greedy cock jumps from her enticing tone. Not sure if I could really fuck her four times in one morning. Although my dick's sure damn willing to try. “I fucking love touching you, but I have to get to work.”
“I know. That’s why I’m going to be good and not follow you into the shower.”
She actually fucking winks at me. All sexy and bold and gorgeous. That I have to force myself to resist. "I'll make it up to you tonight after the party."
Although I'd rather stay home and keep her all to myself. But since I screwed over the only other woman I love out of her opportunity to help plan a wedding, I can't deny her demand to host an extravagant reception. Audacious, expensive, and excessive. Just like my mother loves. Almost as much as she loves me. And how I know she'll feel about Trinity when she actually gets to spend more than five minutes with her.
Letting the sheet fall away, Trinity climbs to her knees and places an innocent kiss on my cheek. “Promise?”
Fuck me. My wife’s kneeling and naked on my bed. A deep groan rumbles from my throat to my pulsing balls. "I fucking guarantee it."
Her laughter follows me all the way to the bathroom. My cock in wholehearted agreement that I'm a fucking lucky bastard. Stupid, but lucky. I yank off my clothes and step down to the cold tile, flinching under the even colder water. Failing to calm my angry dick which wants her now, not later. Patience not a strong suit for either of us. Especially when I'm too damn aware she's naked less than fifteen feet away.
Until I discover that's no longer true when I return to the bedroom.
An irrational ache brews in my gut. She'd never make it past the guards, but that still doesn't mean I can deal with not knowing where she is. Or accept that she might try to run because I spooked her with my fucking stupid comments earlier.
Very few places she could be. Only three spaces have doors in the penthouse that I gutted, along with the floor below it, to make the loft. I stride first to the walk-in closet.
Trinity.
My body relaxes, yet the relief from finding her evaporates along with my confidence. Motherfucker. She's shoving shit into the go-go bag. The silly childhood moniker she named the pink backpack that somehow stuck over the years. Always packed and ready to grab after too many sudden departures from places she was kicked out of. Regardless if she loved or loathed them, the decision was never hers to make. Just hustled out by well-meaning social workers, forced to leave behind the few possessions she actually owned and cared about.
Disappointment surges through me, to see her huddled on my god damn floor, slipping in a folded paper, when she thinks I'm not around to catch her. One of my biggest fucking failures. Never able to convince her to unpack the damn thing and throw it away.
I could do it myself. Nothing would give me more pleasure than slicing up the cheap neon fabric and helping her display her photos and frame her mementos. But the satisfaction would be hollow. Just me wielding my power. What I want is for her to be free of the doubt. To believe in us enough to let go of the uncertainty herself.
I suck up my frustration and backtrack out as quiet as I can. Never letting her know I saw. I don't want her fucking guilt or embarrassment. I just want her heart. And her genuine faith in me.
3
Chapter Three
Why do I always overreact?
I shove the trowel deeper, turning the rich soil one more time before I drop in the seeds.
Drake would never throw me out. I don't think. But he caught me off guard talking about building me a house. Most women would be thrilled. And, of course, all I do is panic.
Which is so undeserved. He's never given me any reason to doubt him. Or his commitment. Always treating me with gentleness despite the savagery lurking underneath. Tender. Attentive. Generous. Just like with this garden. I asked if he cared if I buy a small potting bench and a few containers to plant some herbs and a few vegetables. Now I have twenty raised beds surrounded by decorative pots, trellises, and shepherd's hooks.
I only hope I can give him something in return that's just as thoughtful. He's a difficult man to surprise. His suspicions even bigger than his enormous heart. Which worries about me so much.
Too much. Because I talk too little and hide too much. Took longer than he liked sharing the story of my past. To the point of him interrogating Trish and accessing all of my supposedly confidential files from my vagabond life.
But, I’m not as damaged as he thinks.
At least I don’t want to be. Not anymore.
