For Lucy

“You did it because you didn’t trust me to do the right thing!”

“I did it for Lucy,” I say again, my voice calm and even.

“You didn’t know how I would have reacted!” She’s lost all control, and her hand covers her mouth to catch a sob.

“I did it … for Lucy,” I whisper.

Her body shakes, eyes closed, sobs muffled. “I … know …” she says with a broken tone of surrender, the difficult submission shattering each word as they fight past her throat. “W-we … we d-didn’t p-protect him … w-we didn’t p-protect Austin. I s-shouldn’t have l-left. I … I did this …”

Taking a step toward her, I open my arms and she falls into my chest. After several minutes of letting go of all that’s been building up over the past month—or maybe the past six years—she sniffles and glances up at me with red, swollen eyes and a puffy face.

“Tatum—” I start to say something. I start to tell her the truth, that I wasn’t with anyone last night, but she cuts me off by lifting onto her toes and pulling my head down to hers.

I let myself get lost in the kiss for a few seconds, knowing I need to tell her the truth, knowing that kissing another man’s fiancée is wrong. It’s only for a few seconds after a very emotional moment.

No one can blame us.

Not for needing this moment.

Not for needing to let all the truths come out.

Not for needing to close our eyes and wish none of this ever had to happen.

When she doesn’t stop kissing me, I find it hard to be the strong one, the voice of reason. I’ve been playing that role for years. Now … I just want to kiss my wife and not feel guilty.

When her hands slide down my chest, lifting my shirt to tease her fingertips along my abs, I find it hard to be the strong one.

When my hands frame her face, I tell myself to push her away, to end the kiss before we cross a line that will not be forgivable. But … six years.

When she tugs at the button to my pants, making it perfectly clear where she intends on taking this, I do break the kiss. And we stare at each other, sharing labored breaths. For a second, I think something in her gaze changes, like her brain is catching up to the rest of her body. But then … her fingers slide down the zipper to my jeans. My pulse becomes a runaway train speeding through my veins.

If only …

If only I would have stopped thinking of her as my wife after the divorce, it would be easier to be the voice of reason as she lifts my shirt.

If only we didn’t have a lifetime of memories begging to be embraced and resumed, it would be easier to be the voice of reason as my shirt lands on the floor and she backs me into the bedroom—our bedroom.

If only one of us would break the silence, waking our minds from this deep trance and seemingly unstoppable course of action, we’d have less to regret.

If only …

But here’s the problem, I hate that voice of reason, and I love my wife. And I do feel sorry for Josh. He tried to steal the wrong man’s girl. He knew what had recently happened between us, yet he continued onward like he could erase me from her mind, like he could erase my touch from her body.

I pull off her shirt, and her bra quickly follows. We kiss and my hands cup her breasts like they’re mine to caress. She slides her hand down the front of my exposed briefs like that is hers to touch, to stroke, to decide where it belongs. Her hand disappears to shimmy her pants and panties down her legs, quickly toeing off her shoes and freeing her legs—those sexy dancer’s legs.

“Tatum …” my conscience completely malfunctions and makes a weak effort to do the right thing. It’s such a buzz kill. “Josh …” I say his name with the knowledge that it will bring her back to reality.

She kisses her way down my chest and slides down my jeans and briefs together. “He’s not here, Emmett. He’s not welcome in our bedroom.”

She has no fucking clue what that means to me.

I’m not just a weakness, a slip, a mistake. I’m her intention.

We kiss like we are only for each other. She pushes against my chest until I sit on the bed. Then she straddles my lap, and I find my place in her world again. I don’t kiss her right away, and she doesn’t kiss me. Our lips brush together, mixing our breaths that come harder and faster as I guide her hips down inch by inch. It feels familiar yet brand-new at the same time. We move together in this position for a while. Not kissing, just getting drunk from the feeling, the connection. I cup her breast, and she sucks in a sharp breath while curling her fingers into my back.