Page 17 of Trashy Foreplay

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

She laughs. “Yeah, right. You think Leo would let me date a musician? Be glad you don’t have an older brother.” She spreads a sheet over a twin air mattress. “This is the best I can do. Hope you don’t mind sharing a room.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” And I don’t, despite an overwhelming flood of homesickness hitting me all at once. “It’ll be fun. We’ll talk shit like old times.”

She must have heard the sad note in my voice. “C’mere,” she says, opening her arms. I go willingly, needing comfort from my best friend more than I realized. This is why I flew out here. Les is the sister I wish I had, because Brit and I have never been close—not like we should be.

“We’ll talk shit as much as you want.” She tightens her arms around me for a few more seconds before I pull away. I blink rapidly, willing my eyes to stay dry.

“I just…I had to get out of there, you know? I felt like I was suffocating.”

“Everything’s gonna be okay. Have a little faith, because I’m telling you, Jules. You’re gonna love Seattle.”

The corners of my mouth tilt up in a weak smile. “I need to find a job first.”

“I’m likethis”—she crosses her fingers—“with the manager at Java Juice. The tips aren’t bad either.”

I laugh, because sheisthe manager.

“Thanks for the offer, but you’ve already done enough. I need to learn how to stand on my own two feet for a change.”

I never want to feel so devastated again, and ensuring that doesn’t happen means focusing on me—on ‘Jules’ instead of ‘Jules and Chris’. I’ve been part of a duo for so long that I’ve forgotten how to be my own person. I need to find myself, because I never really did when I was with Chris.

Hopefully, I can find the version of myself that doesn’t blindly walk into trouble; the kind of girl that can follow three simple rules:

Never flirt with temptation.

Never lust after what I can’t have.

And never, under any circumstances, screw a married man again.

This should be easy enough, right?

6. Dangle - Cash

The sky is spewing buckets by the time the cab pulls up to Mont Tower. The skyscraper stands forty-seven floors high, a glass high-rise sparkling like a beacon in the downpour. The rain doesn’t bother me, but it does make me think of tea and silky blond hair.

I pay the driver, grab my carry-on, and enter the lobby through the revolving glass doors. The night concierge greets me by name, and I give him a quick nod as I make my way across the marble tile to a bank of elevators. A swipe of my keycard gains me access to a private lift, and the ride to the top ratchets up my anxiety. The closer I reach the penthouse I share with my wife, the closer I am to confronting her.

Will she deny it? Burst into tears and beg for forgiveness? There’s no telling with Monica. Her moods swing back and forth as much as the weather does; one minute warm and breezy, and then chilly with the shadow of cloud cover.

The elevator comes to a smooth stop, and the doors slide open with a nearly soundless swoosh. I’m thankful for the quiet arrival as I step into the foyer of our overpriced home. I should know, since MontBlake owns the building. She wanted the exclusive luxury at the top, and I would have hung the moon to give it to her.

Making as little noise as possible, I leave my luggage in the foyer, slip off my shoes, and pad toward the grand living room, but my gut roils at the thought of catching her with him. Rain beats in a muted onslaught against the windows. That wall of glass takes up one side of the condo and rises two stories high. I’m about to climb the spiral staircase that leads to the second floor when I spot her sitting alone in the dark at the far end of the room.

She’s lounging on the divan, one elbow propping her up as she stretches her long legs across the velvet cushions, her robe parting to reveal a creamy thigh. As she sips on a glass of red wine, the city lights provide the only illumination. She doesn’t see me at first, and I’m taken aback by the worry pinching her features.

“Monica?”

She turns her gaze on me. “I called the hotel when you didn’t answer my texts. They said you checked out.” With an arch of her accusing brow, she stands in a fluid motion, silk robe billowing around her smooth legs. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home early?”

Gauging her expression is like decoding a puzzle. I tilt my head for a better angle, but her face is a porcelain mask. A dark curl escapes her up-do, and the longer I stare at her, refusing to answer her question, the more she purses her full, luscious lips. She’s refined grace, sex, and class rolled into a delicious, curvy body she hasn’t let me touch in months.

And for the first time since she froze me out, I’m in no hurry to.

She lowers her gaze to my fly then immediately looks away. No doubt she thinks the heavy bulge behind my zipper is her doing. She has no reason to believe otherwise—has no clue that a pair of brown eyes are haunting me. I’ve had a perpetual hard-on for the last four hours. I can still smell Jules, still feel the warmth of her breath on my lips and the softness of her skin under my fingertips. The memory of her is imprinted on my being, shadowing me home in disgrace to confront my cheating wife.

In that moment, I feel as guilty as Monicashouldfeel. I might have held back from kissing Jules, but my mind has fired on all cylinders since I left the airport. I’ve mentally undressed her at least a dozen times.

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