Page 90 of Choosing Hope
He glances down at me, his face brimming with affection.
“Spencer and I need to sort some things out today, but we’d love to see you this evening.”
“Grazie, Bella,” he whispers, and leans down to press a kiss to my cheek.
When Carlo steps back, he tries to lighten the mood.
“Spencer.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Spencer’s focus shifting from my backside to Carlo.
“Don’t spend the entire day with your dick buried in your beautiful wife. She’s probably still a little sore from mine last night.”
With that, he pulls the door open without waiting for Spencer’s predictable response.
“Fuck off!” Spencer spits, sitting up urgently.
And this time, I can’t stop myself from grinning.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Spencer
Spending the day with Sophie alone was blissful. It’s been years since she and I have just hung out, without me having to charge off to the office, or Lily having some requirement or other. Having my wife to myself feels golden.
We chatted for hours, clearing the tense air from the last few years between us and finding the remnants of our former friendship in the debris. The act of removing my previous filter and just chatting to her openly is such a positive experience.
I didn’t realize how debilitating it had been to withhold information from Sophie until the fullstory came out.
She seemed relieved that I’d started talking to Dr. Klein, hoping it might help me find some peace, the kind that would let me move forward without shame or regret.
The only elephant left in the room was the scene Sophie and Carlo performed last night.
“How are you feeling now?” she asks.
We’ve just returned home from a late lunch at Sophie’s favorite haunt in the village. Apparently, she often meets girlfriends for coffee there.
I could blame not knowing snippets of information like this about my wife on my long work hours, but the truth is, it’s probably because of what’s going on between us. Either way, it just makes the distance I’ve caused feel even bigger.
Once I’d fixed our drinks, we took them into the sitting room to continue chatting.
“In the last twenty-four hours, I think I’ve experienced the complete spectrum of emotions,” I say in a non-committal way.
She quirks her head, well-practiced in the art of giving nothing away.
“The first part of yesterday evening was both torture and one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.”
A slow, steady smirk creeps up her face.
“Do you enjoy watching your boyfriend fucking me?”
Her voice is deep and velvety, like dark chocolate melting on the tongue—intimate, lingering. When she moistens her lips with a slow flick of her tongue, it’s both effortless and electric.
Is it our conversation or the memory of last night that’s turning her on?
“The answer to that isn’t straightforward.”
Her chin slides to the right an inch, as if she’s challenging me to explain.
