Page 17 of Release Me
Just when I think I couldn’t want her more, my eyes fall to her outfit—the t-shirt I left on the bed for her.Myt-shirt. It hangs off her frame, practically a dress, swallowing her curves but simultaneously drawing my attention to them. Her bare legs peek out beneath the hem, long and toned, pale against the dark fabric.
My mouth goes dry.
Fuck.
She looks better in my clothes than I ever could.
Is she wearing lingerie under there? Lace? Silk? Or absolutely nothing at all? The thought slams into me, uninvited and dangerous. Heat coils low in my stomach. I catch myself, dragging in a breath sharp enough to sting.
Get a fucking grip, Beckett.
I spin towards the kitchen, desperate for distraction. I yank open the fridge, grab a wheel of brie, a wedge of manchego, and some aged cheddar. Crackers. Grapes. Honey. Fig jam. I arrange them on a board as though I’m plating for a Michelin-starred guest, instead of trying not to lose my mind over my best friend’s wife in my shirt.
When I finally turn back, she’s perched on one of the barstools, damp hair tumbling around her shoulders, watching me with those steady green eyes.
I set the cheeseboard down between us, and pour two glasses of wine. She might have had enough to drink tonight, but I sure as hell haven’t had nearly enough for this.
I clear my throat. ‘So, Anthony’s in Paris, huh?’ I slide onto the stool opposite her and lift my wine glass to my lips.
If she knows he’s doing the dirty on her, why the fuck is she putting up with it?
Why doesn’t she leave him?
Find someone who actually appreciates her?
I’m aware their union was an arrangement between two wealthy, prestigious families as part of a deal brokered to invest in Remington Publishing, but Rebekka has turned the business around. Expanded it. Conquered the Irish market—and the British market too. She’s successful in her own right. Surely now the business risk is removed, she should be able to file for an amicable divorce?
Then it hits me like a punch to the gut.
Maybe she doesn’t want a divorce.
Maybe she loves the cheating prick.
He does have some redeeming qualities, or we wouldn’t have been friends all these years.
Rebekka reaches slowly for a chunk of cheese. Silence stretches between us, and for a minute, I wonder if she’s planning on answering me at all.
‘Yes, my husband is in Paris—with his new PA who just so happens to be young and beautiful.’ She arches her eyebrows, forcing a breezy, careless tone, but I don’t miss the hurt that flickers through her eyes.
‘I’ve seen her. She’s nowhere near as beautiful as you.’ I hiss out a breath. ‘I’ve known Anthony for a long time. For as long as I can remember. But I never knew he was capable of such stupidity.’
‘You’re kind,’ she says, patting the back of my hand, then jerking back like she’s been burned. My skin tingles across the spot she touched, fire dancing up my arm.
‘Trust me, I’m not,’ I growl. There is nothing kind about what I want to do to the woman in front of me. About the way I want to take her to my bed, make her scream my name as I make her come on my hands, my mouth and my cock, before holding her tightly against my body and never letting her leave.
‘You are,’ she argues. ‘You’re kind to me anyway.’ She motions to the t-shirt she’s wearing. To the food in front of us.
‘I’m selfish.’ I admit. ‘Bringing you here was selfish.’
She pauses. ‘Why was it selfish?’ she whispers.
‘You know why, Rebekka.’ I eye her pointedly. She holds my gaze. Heat vibrates between us. Lust wars with logic in my chest. ‘I like you. I’ve always liked you. Which is why it enrages me that he treats you this way.’
She rolls her lips, but she doesn’t break eye contact.
‘Why do you tolerate his behaviour? Do you think he’d tolerate it if the shoe were on the other foot?’ I know for a fact he wouldn’t. Even when we were kids, he didn’t like anyone playing with his toys. And he plays with Rebekka’s feelings like she’s exactly that–a toy.
She thinks quietly for a long beat, while I mentally will her not to say it’s because she loves him.
