“Put your mouth back . . . there.”

I fought my smile. “Where, exactly?”

Her eyes met mine, softening. “You know where.”

“Your cunt, darling?” I whispered.

She squirmed under me. “I need it.”

“You still only want it,” I told her, relishing this return to our game when I could actually touch her, taste her, and make good on my promise to let her come against my kiss.

I saw her lip shake before she trapped it between her teeth, her eyes pleading with me.

It was so easy to bring her here, to this point. Nothing made it sink in more fully that she’d fantasized about this hundreds of times than the way her body fell so easily into pleasure under my touch.

“Tell me,” I whispered, bending to exhale over her clit.

She squeezed her eyes shut, reached out to wrap her fingers around my wrist, urging and needful. She was so wet; she shook against my hand, her body clenched so tight, breath trapped in her throat.

I was delirious for her pleasure, lost in the sight of her mouth parted, her pulse ticking wildly in her throat, the taste of her still on my lips. “Tell me, dove.”

Bending, I slid my tongue over her, again and again, and again.

Her thighs shook beside my head. “I’m so close.”

“No, tell me,” I repeated into her skin, pulling away again.

She seemed to have to force her eyes to open, and they looked down at me, confused. “Please, I—”

“I have all of these idle fingers,” I observed, giving her a tiny smile. “That seems incredibly wasteful. Tell me . . . is there something I should do with them?”

She groaned when I bent and licked her in earnest, her entire body shaking, and I could feel the way my question sent her tumbling over the edge.

I’d simply wanted her to know what was coming, and without hesitation, I pressed my fingers together and into her, deep—hard—as I sucked her into my mouth and nearly lost my mind when she screamed, back arching sharply from the bed and she came violently, legs closing against my shoulders, thighs trembling beside me.

* * *

I carried her into the bathroom, her legs wrapped around my waist and lips on my neck, kissing, scratchy voice quietly confessing she’d never felt anything like what I’d given her just now.

I hadn’t, either.

Ruby shook in my arms, weak and overwhelmed, and I carefully lowered her into the shower, shielding her body from the pounding spray as I followed after her and lathered every inch of her skin. She braced her hands on my waist, watching me silently, with eyes full of an emotion I was suddenly terrified she would name aloud. Ruby’s eyes hid nothing: I knew, without a doubt, that she was in love with me, and that it wasn’t just the pleasure of my mouth just now, or the idea of my stoic reserve melting under her charm, but honestly in love. With me.

And if it were that simple, I would be making love to her right now, for I knew my feelings had quickly crossed over from initial attraction to a far deeper emotion. Love, maybe. But having stayed with Portia for so long under the pretense of what I sincerely believed was love, how could I trust my own definition? I was dedicated to her, yes. Loyal to a fault. But love? I wasn’t so sure anymore.

A memory burst through me, from the evening of my wedding, while we danced in front of every guest, and when I felt oddly effervescent, brightly hopeful.

“Why is it so alluring you’re wearing white? It’s like a secret.” I’d bent, kissed Portia’s neck. “Our secret.”

“What do you mean?” she’d asked, and if I were a smarter man then, I might have caught the edge in her voice, the look I would come to know so well that suggested I tread carefully.

But I was not a smarter man. “I’ve already had you, love,” I said. “I’ll have you again and again tonight.”

Portia fell still in my arms, letting me sweep her ’round the floor. The song ended, and guests broke out into applause.

I looked down at her face, steely and cold in the warm glow cast from the overhead tent lighting. “What is it?”

She smiled stiffly at me, stretched to kiss my cheek and said, “You just called me a trollop at our wedding.”

The beginning. Though it hadn’t always been like that, just mostly. I had proposed to Portia with a ring I’d bought in a sweet shop and she’d laughed so hard she’d cried and then kissed me properly in front of whoever may have walked by at that moment in Piccadilly Circus.

Our engagement was a memory that often got lost in the shuffle of all of the flat, emotionless ones that followed. I struggled to remember the brighter times whenever I spoke with Portia lately, held on to them with an admittedly strange fever for a man who had no desire to reconcile with his ex-wife. I replayed them because I needed to remember there had been a time when marrying her wasn’t only a clear expectation, but a rather lovely idea.