Page 50 of Release Me
Everything I’ll never have.
I twist to the side, patting around until I find my phone. Squinting at the screen, I pull up a compilation of my favourite mediations and affirmations. I’m going to need something powerful to help me sleep tonight because when the euphoria finally wears off, the guilt will kick in with a vengeance.
I tap on one of Louise Hay’s nighttime affirmations, which I know will assure me I’m a good person—even if what I’ve done today with the man beside me is anything but good.
The slow, familiar music starts first. I put my phone back on the bedside locker, snuggle back in to Rian, and listen to the sounds floating through the darkness. He cradles me in his arms, like I’m the most precious thing in the world, and for a brief few moments in time, I let myself believe it and finally fall asleep in his arms.
True to his word, the next morning, I wake up to feel Rian’s tongue expertly gliding between my legs, teasing me and devastating me in the most hedonistic way. I sigh happily and part my legs wider for him.
‘Good girl,’ approval thrums in his tone.
My fingers reach for his hair again. I could get used to this.
Except I can’t.
He works me with that talented tongue until a million shooting stars shimmer behind my eyelids and my orgasm explodes like a firework, cracking and fizzing through every cell I own. He laps up every drop, like he’s enjoying this as much as I am.
Finally, when my legs cease their trembling, he slides up on top of me, resting his weight on his elbows. ‘Good morning, gorgeous.’ He presses a kiss to my lips, and I can taste myself.
For some stupid reason, tears form in my eyes and start spilling like a fucking burst dam down my cheeks.
Horror etches into his expression as he swipes them away, but the next one replaces it just as quickly. ‘I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.’ He cradles the back of my neck, hugging me tight into his chest.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ I manage to hiccup out. ‘It’s not that. It’s not you.’
‘What’s wrong? Don’t feel guilty, Bekka, don’t you dare,’ his voice turns harsher then. ‘This is why I wouldn’t let you touch me. Call it fucked up morals or whatever you like, but you have done nothing wrong. This is all on me. Let me carry the weight of it. Let me carry the guilt. I refuse to let you carry that along with everything else.’ He jerks back so we’re almost nose to nose. Huge ebony eyes bore into mine. ‘Do you think he’s feeling guilty this morning?’ He snorts.
‘It’s not that,’ I say quietly, dragging the back of my hand over my streaky cheeks.
‘What then?’ His eyes search mine.
‘I probably should feel bad about Anthony,’ I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat. ‘But the truth is, I feel bad for us. For you. For me. That this can never happen again.’
‘Never say never, sweetheart,’ his jaw tightens, a determined glint forms in his eye.
‘Between us, we’ll lose everything. You told me last night your parents would be horrified if you ran off with your best friend’s wife—and who could blame them. It would be a total scandal. Mine wouldn’t exactly be impressed with me either. Neither would the De Courcys. That’s three families ruined. I’d lose everything I’ve worked for over the last three years. All the misery Anthony put me through would be for nothing.’
He sighs. ‘Technically, it’s been three years, eleven weeks, and two days—but who’s counting.’
‘I’m so glad we had this, though…’ I trail off, blinking back a fresh river of tears.
‘Me too. Me too, sweetheart.’ He flops onto the bed beside me, and I snuggle into his chest one last time.
Chapter Twenty-One
RIAN
It’s been five days since I snuck out of Rebekka’s bed.
Five days of beating myself off senseless holding her lingerie.
Five days of replaying every fucking magical moment over and over in my head.
And five days of drinking too much in my new bar Elixir, avoiding my loved up brothers, and pretending to everyone I know that I’m busy preparing for our grand opening in a month. What I’m actually doing is convincing myself to stay away from the one woman I can’t have.
I’ve checked my phone a million times, hoping she’ll call or text, but she doesn’t. Anthony’s back from Dubai, a fact I’m only aware of because he messaged the boys’ WhatsApp group to see if anyone was around for poker night tonight.
I can’t face him—not because I’m ashamed I spent Christmas day getting to know his wife intimately, but because if he so much as mentions the word Dubai or Personal Assistant, I won’t be able to stop myself putting my fist through his face.
