Page 99 of A Smile Full of Lies
I shut my eyes again, let myself breathe her in. My scent — cedarwood, leather, citrus — still tangled with hers in the sheets, proof she’d really been here, that last night hadn’t been some fever dream I’d conjured to torture myself.
The ache in my chest said it was real.
I sat up slowly, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and dragged a hand down my face. The motions came easy, practiced, like pulling myself into daylight had always been this mechanical. But today, the empty side of the bed pulled at me harder than the sunlight creeping across the floor.
I stood, joints stiff from too little sleep and too much of her still in my system, and crossed to the closet. Rows of gray and black stared back at me — slacks, jackets, shirts pressed within an inch of their lives. Order. Precision. The armor I wore every damn day.
I pulled down the gray slacks, the black button-down, the silver tie that caught the light when it was knotted just right. Sharp. Polished. Untouchable. The kind of uniform that let me walk into any boardroom, any courtroom, any client meeting, and project exactly what people expected from Philip Knox.
But every hanger I brushed past, every sleeve that whispered against my knuckles, pulled me back to her.
Ros.
I laid the clothes over the chair and sat for a moment, staring at them like they belonged to a stranger.
I left them there, and went to shower and shave, regretting, even as I did so, that I was washing the traces of her scent off my body. Soon, I was back in the bedroom, standing there, staring at the clothes I’d laid out, the clothes that were like a costume – the powerful businessman – so different from what I was inside, in so many ways. Then muscle memory took over. Slacks, belt threaded through the loops, button fastened at the waist. Shirt shrugged over my shoulders, cool fabric ghosting across thescratches she’d left on my chest. Each mark stung like a secret no one else could see.
My fingers worked the buttons automatically. Top to bottom. Fast, efficient. But it felt wrong today. Too neat. Too controlled. Every button fastened was another reminder that I was hiding the proof of her beneath starched cotton.
I reached for the tie next, silver silk pooling through my hands. Familiar weight. Familiar shine. The ritual of it steadied me. One loop. One pull. Knot drawn tight against my throat until the man in the mirror looked like he had his shit together.
He didn’t.
Because behind the crisp lines and polished edges, I still felt her. Her nails on my skin. Her mouth dragging down my throat. The sound of her breaking apart for me like she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to take her there.
The reflection in the mirror was calm, composed, exactly what the world demanded from me. But underneath, I was still raw.
And it was all her fault.
Ros wouldn’t leave my head, no matter how many times I dragged the knot tight at my throat.
I kept seeing her the way she’d come for me at Stonewood Manor. Hunted. Pressed against me in the dark where the only thing that mattered was how far I could push her. Grinding down on my thigh until her body shook, her voice breaking into sounds she probably didn’t know she was capable of making. Her lips parted, eyes wide and wild, trusting the predator she thought was a stranger.
Christ, the way she’d given herself to me that night — unwitting, reckless, desperate. She’d wanted the danger as much as she wanted the release, and I’d been the one to feed it to her. Behind the mask, I’d watched her unravel and nearly broken cover just to claim her in my own skin.
But then there was last night.
The same woman barefoot in my kitchen, hair wild in that messy bun, stirring a pot of minestrone she’d made from scratch like it wasn’t the most absurd, ordinary, intimate thing she could’ve done. She’d turned, ladle in hand, and looked at me like feeding me was second nature. Like we’d done it a hundred times before.
And then she’d said it — like a joke, like it was nothing — that we could be friends with benefits. Neighbors with a side arrangement. As if I could ever accept that.
Casual.
She really believed that was what I wanted? That I’d be satisfied skimming the surface when I’d already had her depths?
I’d showed her otherwise. With my hands. My mouth. My cock. Every stroke of me saying what I couldn’t say out loud — that casual was a fucking lie, and every inch of her body and soul was mine whether she wanted to admit it or not.
I thought of the way she’d looked afterward, flushed and trembling in my sheets, and it struck me all over again: the same woman who’d let me take her like prey had stood in my kitchen just last night, wearing one of my old Stonewood University sweatshirts and feeding me soup like a whole-ass perfect wife.
It was a dream. It was everything I’d wanted, needed, and craved since the first time I laid eyes on her when we were eighteen years old.
How the fuck was I supposed to be casual about that?
I adjusted the knot on the silver tie again and lifted my gaze to the mirror.
On the surface, everything looked right. Clean lines, polished edges, not a wrinkle out of place. The kind of man who could close deals, sign contracts, and walk out untouched.
But it was a lie.
