Truths That Saints Believe (The Klutch Duet 2)

My story was rewritten, not easily, not without pain, and I didn’t quite know the ending yet, but it didn’t matter.

Jay took me back to where I belonged. Home. L.A.

Malibu.

The house looked exactly the same, looming on the hill, a tomb of all of our memories, ghosts of who we once were. What we once were.

There was never a question about whether or not I was going back to my apartment. Just like there wasn’t a question about Jay taking care of the flights home. First class. The kind of first class where we had our own fucking mini bedroom on the plane. Which, of course, we utilized.

There was a car waiting for us when we landed, and it wasn’t until the house came into sight that I started to feel uncomfortable. Fearful. Of what had happened in the past. What was going to happen now. If Jay sensed my nerves, he didn’t comment on them. He just kept his hand on my thigh and replied to emails on his phone.

Until we got to the front steps. He wouldn’t let me take a single bag—of which I had many—not even my purse. When Jay gathered me up into his arms, I let out a little squeal of shock.

“What are you doing?” I snickered as he walked the last few steps.

“I’m carrying you over the threshold,” he answered, as if it was the most natural and obvious thing in the world.

I stared up at him. “We’re not married yet. It’s something you’re supposed to do when you’re married.”

“Stella, when have I been known to do anything I’m supposed to?” he asked, a smile in his voice. “I plan on doing this every time we walk through the door.”

I giggled because he sounded serious and resolute. The walls moved past me in a blur. Jay wasn’t moving that fast, but it I was busy focusing on his face.

His jaw was relaxed, his eyes soft around the edges. Something about him had relaxed when we walked in here. Our home.

He threw me on the bed when we entered his room—our room. It was going to be hard to think of everything that used to be his as ours. But he didn’t let me consider that, not at all. Because he had taken off my shoes then my pants then my underwear. Then he had buried himself in my pussy, feasting, bringing me to climax in record time.

“Turn around,” he ordered, lifting himself from between my legs.

On shaking knees, I turned on the bed.

His hands swept over my bare ass, caressing, kneading. I thought he was going to take my ass then. I was nervous, unsure if I was ready, yet hungry for him to take me in every way he could.

Jay moved, his hands on my hips, tilting them upward, then spreading my legs out farther.

“I’ll be fucking your ass later,” he read my mind, slipping his fingers inside me.

I gasped, fisting the sheets that were a thousand thread count and smelled of him.

“But I need inside your pussy,” he continued, pressing against me. “I’ll fuck you pussy hard and slow.” His lips moved against my ears, sending shivers down my spine. “Then we’ll shower. Then I’ll cook you dinner. At some point, in the kitchen, you’re going to bend over and give me your ass. And I’ll take it.”

Jay, a man of his word, did all of those things. And I did not think about any of the ugly, realistic things. Not for a long time.

I felt sick.

Nervous.

Very fucking nervous.

I supposed that wasn’t a good thing, that I’d made myself sick with nerves over having to tell my very best friend I was engaged to be married.

I was surprised that Wren had kept this a secret for as long as she had; the woman was notorious for not being able to keep things to herself.

I’d already told Yasmin at lunch today, and she had been tentatively supportive, as she had been since I met Jay. I knew she didn’t completely approve, but she kept quiet about her reservations.

Zoe would not.

We were at our favorite restaurant, the one where we’d spoken about Jay many moons ago, when I’d been worrying about being able to afford another cocktail. Now I could certainly afford another cocktail, I could afford more than I ever had before. Not because I was marrying Jay who had a lot of money—the actual number I could not even dream of—and who I had not yet spoken to about finances. His money didn’t matter to me. I had enough for overpriced cocktails, the wardrobe of my dreams and being able to help my father put my mother into a care facility.

I did that all. Me. And I would have to tell my best friend I was getting married to the man who had broken my heart.