Page 67 of Trashy Affair Duet

I clutch his shirt, and the material is as soft as I imagined. He’s warm and hard against my knuckles as our tongues battle like this is the last taste we’ll get of each other.

And maybe it is. Maybe it’s the first and last. It’s fucking everything, but even as we’re grasping and clutching, moaning in tandem in this frantic mating of mouths, I’m sure we’re both fighting one glaring fact.

This can’t happen.

I tear my lips away with a small cry, instantly missing the warmth of his kiss. Resting his cheek on the crown of my head, he breathes as hard as me. The rapid rise and fall of his chest pushes against my aching nipples. Shit, everything is aching, from my well-kissed lips to the space between my thighs. But my heart hurts most of all.

The silence between us is heavy and heartbreaking, this forbidden sample of what we can’t have destroying him as much as it’s destroying me.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I can’t do this to you. I’ll be damned if you become a secret in my closet.”

He’s right. I’m not cut out for being a shameful secret. The two weeks I spent wanting to come clean with Chris made me sick. Beyond sick. I barely ate, couldn’t sleep. And as much as I hate Monica for the times I’ve witnessed her leveling him with her frigid gaze, she doesn’t deserve what we’re doing behind her back. No one deserves this.

And yet the idea of never touching Cash again is searing and soul-shattering. It’s downright debilitating. How can I walk away from this man and never touch him again? Never taste him? Never be allowed to love him?

“Why are you still with her?” There’s palpable fear in that question.

He doesn’t answer right away, and that only fills my gut with dread.

“It’s complicated, Jules.”

“What does that even mean?” I try to slip out from between him and the wall, but he won’t let me. “Either you love her, or you don’t. It’s simple.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

“Then what the fuck are we doing here?” I wince at the frustration in my tone.

Brushing a lock of hair from my face, he holds my gaze. “Don’t you think I’ve thought about leaving her?”

“I don’t know what to think. All I know is this hurts so fucking much.”

“I know it does,” he says with a hard swallow. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

My heart breaks at his words. I lower my gaze, unable to look at him any longer. “Do you love her?”

“Not like I should.”

“But you married her.”

“I thought I loved her, Jules. And maybe I did in the beginning, but somewhere along the way, she changed. I don’t know who the hell Monica is now, because she’s not the woman I fell in love with.”

“Then leave her.” I’ve sunk to a whole new low, devoid of pride or principles.

“I wish it were that easy.” He grasps the back of my neck again, his fingers sliding into my hair, our lips inches apart. “You have no idea how much I wish things were different. Because God, I want you, and no matter how hard I try, I just can’t quit.”

“But we have to.” Despite my words, I ache to press my mouth against his again. “As long as you’re married, we can’t do this.”

Closing his eyes, he drops his forehead against mine, and his defeated sigh billows across my lips. “Just give us five more minutes.”

“Five more minutes?” My voice has softened to a breathless rasp, and like Cash, I shutter my eyes. Because staring at each other is too painful. So is standing like this, foreheads pressed together as our bodies meld into one.

“Kiss me, Jules. I want the memory of your lips with me when I fall asleep tonight. If I could bottle up the taste of you, I would.”

I clutch him by the hair, fingers sinking into soft, thick strands, and pull his mouth down on mine. He cradles my cheeks, tender at first, then with desperation as he plunders my mouth. Nicks away at my will.

Weakens my limbs with the scrape of his teeth down my throat.

Five minutes will never be enough. A lifetime with him won’t ease the intense longing taking over my soul.

“Let me come home with you tonight.” He’s holding me so close and tight that every hard inch of him is pressed against me, including his cock. “I missed you so much this week.”

“I missed you too.” My eyes sting, threatening mutiny, but the last thing I want to do is cry in front of him. Or fall into bed with a married man.

Again.

“I can’t do this,” I say, voice breaking as I bust free of his arms. I’m practically sprinting toward escape, but as I reach the top of the stairs and risk a glance over my shoulder, I find him propping his forehead against the wall, his hands forming fists on either side of his head. I’d do anything to take away his anguish.

To see him happy.

And it cracks my heart in two because if he ever finds happiness again, it can’t be with me.

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