“I think we need to start over.”
I begin coughing, my fist in front of my mouth, the eggs stuck in my throat. Taking a necessary sip of my coffee, so I can choke them down, I can finally speak.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said. That we need to start over. You and me.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin before crumpling it up and dropping it on his empty plate. “Yesterday probably shouldn’t have happened.”
Disappointment floods me, setting in my stomach and making it churn.
“I’m not saying I regret it,” he continues. “But we do everything out of order, Syl. We always have.”
I keep my head bent, not wanting to look him in the eyes. I might start tearing up, because what he’s saying right now isn’t necessarily what I want to hear. Though it’s not bad either. Not at all. It’s just…
I don’t know how to feel, starting over. I’m finally being given a real chance with Spencer, without any outside influences for once, and this is his solution?
“I don’t want to start over,” I admit, my voice barely audible. He leans across the table with a frown, trying to hear me. “Why can’t we start from this point? There’s too much history between us, don’t you think?”
He studies me, his dark brows drawn together, lips parted. His gaze wanders over my face as if he’s trying to figure me out and I know that’s…
Impossible.
“I don’t know how to move forward with you after this point,” he admits. “I have to go back to New York, somewhere you don’t want to be. We’re living two different lives, and I don’t see how we’ll be able to make this work if you’re here and I’m not. Plus, all of the history we share is…painful.”
“It wasn’t all bad, was it? What we shared?” My voice is scratchy, my throat raw from holding back the tears that want to come.
“No.” He shakes his head, hesitating for only a moment before he says, “But a lot of it was.”
I rise to my feet as if I have no control of myself and storm out of the kitchen, irritated he would say such a thing.
Irritated more because I know, deep down, what he says is the truth. Our relationship was fraught with bullshit, most of it my fault. I kept too many things from him.
Like my feelings.
What would he say if he discovered he’s the only one I’ve ever really been with sexually? There were a few boys here and there when I was younger. Before I became completely fucked up over Spencer. Before I was forced to marry Earl. Spencer is the only boy I’ve ever loved. I still love him.
I could never admit that to him, especially now. He would laugh in my face.
I go outside because I don’t know what else to do, and he follows me. Of course, he does. I’m leaning against the railing of the wraparound deck, the chilly air sinking into my skin, settling in my bones, and then there’s nothing but heat pressing against my back. Strong arms wrapping around my middle and I lean back into him as if I can’t help myself.
Which I can’t.
“I’m an asshole,” he murmurs against my temple before kissing it.
“A truthful one,” I admit.
I relax against him, and I swear I feel his cock press against my ass. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
I don’t either, but I can’t admit that out loud. When I don’t speak, I think he understands that I feel the same way.
His hand sneaks into the front of my robe, beneath the fabric to find my bare breast. He cups it, his thumb slowly brushing against my nipple, and I close my eyes, savoring the touch. Realizing this is most likely the last time I’ll ever experience this. With Spencer.
“You frustrate me,” he admits against my cheek, his lips on my skin. “But I’ve never wanted a woman like I want you, Sylvie.”
I rub my butt against his erection, making him groan, his grip on my breast tightening. Both hands are on me now, pulling my robe apart, exposing my upper body to the cool air. I gasp at the shock of it, squeal when he turns me around in his arms, a low moan sounding deep in my throat when he bends down, his hot mouth seeking and finding my nipple.
He sucks and licks and I clutch him close, my fingers in his hair, my gaze locked on his busy mouth. My breathing is already erratic, my body tingling everywhere, and when he slips his hand into the parted fabric of my robe, his fingers tickling the inside of my thigh, I spread my legs, eager for him.
His assault on my chest continues as his fingers begin to stroke. My legs tremble when he thrusts a finger inside me. Then another. Finger-fucking me on the deck, ruining this space for me forever. I will always think of this moment, I tell myself as I tip my head back, my gaze catching on the redwoods that soar above us. I could live here for the rest of my life and the memory would still be vivid in my head. Of me and Spencer, out here on the deck, letting him take me.