Page 42 of Am I the Only One

My eyes widen in surprise. “And?”

“He dodged the topic. Said that things were complicated.”

Exhaling an annoyed breath, I push forward. “What happened after dinner?”

“He asked if I was tired, and I told him no. I invited him up here, and as soon as we got into the room, he kissed me,” she tells me. I know she’s nervous to see how I’ll react, so I stay as poised as I possibly can. “I think he was nervous.”

“What made you think that?”

“I don’t know. He just wasn’t as relaxed as he’d been in the restaurant. He seemed anxious when we got up here. It was different from the time before.”

“How so?”

With trepidation, she bites her lip and drops her head.

“It’s okay, Emma. I just need you to be honest with me.”

She runs her fingers along her brow, takes the last sip, and glances at me. “As soon as we got up here, he kissed me.”

I’m unmoving, unbelieving, butbelieving.

“There was a sense of urgency that he didn’t have the night before.”

My chest constricts as I flash back to memories. Memories of that very same urgency. As if he couldn’t get enough of me. Those moments feel like ages ago. “I want to knoweverything,” I stress, hoping she’ll feed my sick desire to know every detail, every touch, every word spoken.

“Like I said, as soon as the door closed, he was kissing me. We stumbled over to the bed, and I was kissing him back, pulling at his tie while he was tugging down the straps of my dress. He stopped when he saw I wasn’t wearing a bra and lowered his mouth to my chest.”

My knees weaken as a cool stream of shock swims through my veins. I wonder where the white-hot anger is because it’s absent. It should be roiling inside me, but all I can grasp on to is the curiosity to know more. She continues to talk as my vision swims out of focus, and when I glance over to the mussed-up bed, I see myself with Tripp as we play out the events Emma is describing.

“He pulled my dress down to my waist, and I started fumbling with his belt, but ...”

I shift my focus back to her. “But what?”

“He was still soft,” she admits. “He was frustrated, and that was when he told me to call down for a bottle of vodka. I pulled my dress back up, and when the bottle came, we both started drinking. He sat on the edge of the bed, and I kneeled between his legs. I opened his pants as he took another shot of vodka. He was still soft, so I went down on him.”

My heart double thumps, and I don’t know how to feel as my lids fall shut.

As she goes on, I drop my head, getting lost in her voice. “He grew hard in my mouth, and I could tell he wanted to come, so I backed off. He watched as I slipped my dress off, and when I was naked, he stood, grabbed my hips, spun me around, and bent me over the bed.”

Warmth pools low in my belly as I hang on to each of her words. I lose myself in them, painting my face over hers in an effort to feel closer to my husband. It’s like a magnet of desperation, the yearning to go back to what we once were. A beacon illuminating just how long I’ve been deprived.

I miss him.

I miss my husband.

“He kicked my legs open, knelt behind me, and jerked me back toward his face. He licked me until my knees gave way.”

There’s a faint sizzle that begins to spread through my core, and when I notice that she isn’t talking anymore, I open my eyes and clear my throat. “Was there any talking at all?”

“He said that I tasted like sin.”

“Like sin,” I repeat under my breath. “Anything else?”

“He made a few comments about my body. He said I was beautiful, and when...when he finally pushed himself inside me, he told me that ...”

She drifts off, and her face flushes as her eyes avoid me. “Go on,” I implore.

“He said my tight pussy felt amazing.”

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