Slip of the Tongue (Slip of the Tongue 1)

“She’s always driven the conversation of us, and I let her. Being back in the city revitalizes me, though. You’re part of that.”

I face forward again. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m saying I finally have a reason to be firm with Kendra.” He pauses. “You.”

I tense in his grip, and I don’t try to hide it. Several questions hit me at once. He would tell her? Why now, and why me? What did the last hour mean to him, and is it the same as what it means to me? Do I even know how I feel? “Me—?” I ask hesitantly.

“I feel something for you. Something strong.” He squeezes me close. “Now more than ever, I could see us together.”

I can’t help my small scoff. Any woman would be lucky to have him, myself included. It’s been less than two weeks, though. “Together?” I ask, because I can’t seem to stop repeating him.

“I know it’s soon. And maybe it’s impractical. But it’s like I was going through the motions until I found you.”

I’m silent. It’s the same romantic, lofty bullshit Nathan loves. It’s always been hard for me to understand why he’s that way. He might’ve said something similar a couple weeks after we met. I wouldn’t have believed him, but Nathan’s been proving the truth behind his words for years. Up until recently, I’ve had no reason to doubt him. I don’t know if I buy into fate, but before Nate, I would’ve laughed in Finn’s face just for suggesting it.

“I don’t expect you to answer,” he says after a minute. “That’s just me. Your situation might be different.” He swallows. “Is it?”

“I don’t even know.” I close my eyes. My voice is robotic. “I can’t trust how I feel, because I’m lonely at the moment.”

“No,” he whispers hotly into my hair, drawing out the word. “No, no, no. I don’t want you to feel lonely, not ever. Especially not in my arms.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean this actual moment. Just in general.” I move against him to show I don’t regret being here. He kisses my cheek, caresses the skin under my breast. I’m still alone, but Finn chases that feeling away. “I had a wonderful time today,” I say.

“You mean it?”

“Yes. You pushed me outside my comfort zone.” I think of Finn looking through the photos later, after I leave. “The pictures came out beautifully.”

“A photographer is only as good as his subject.”

“I don’t believe that,” I say with a small smile. “You are really talented, Finn.”

His heart beats against my back. “Thank you, Sadie.”

“As for in the bedroom . . . well, you could use some practice there.”

He grunt-laughs, then tweaks my nipple without warning. I suck in a breath. “Careful,” he says. “I might want to practice with you again. Soon.”

I roll my lips together. I know he’s playing around, but it does bring up questions. “Is that what you want?” I ask. “To do it again?”

“Would it make me a shit person if I said fuck yeah?” He rubs his scratchy jawline against my cheek. “You’re just as beautiful as I thought you’d be when you come.”

I snort. I’m sure I look a lot of things when I come, but beautiful? The moments before climax are savage. My body will contort any ugly way to reach ecstasy. My mind will go anywhere. There’s no black too opaque, no light too blinding. Nothing is off limits. It’s raw, and raw is ugly, but it’s the truth. “Bullshit. You don’t really think that.”

“I do,” he says. “I physically can’t stay away from you now that I’ve seen it.”

“And you sound pretty worried about it,” I say wryly.

“I probably am, somewhere inside. I’ll deal with it later.”

“So, you want to do it again.” I’m still processing all of this. Once could be argued as a crime of passion. But twice? “Two times . . .”

“Three, four, a hundred. I’m not asking much.” He takes my earlobe between his teeth. “What’d you expect? Honey on my tongue. Warm around my cock. Silk in my fingers. How can I stay away?”

I lie very still, except my breasts, which heave in his embrace. I like when he talks dirty. I’m turned on again, and I’m sure he can sniff me out. “And if I say you have to?”

“Don’t.”

“Let go of me,” I say.

He hesitates and then opens his arms. I flip over so we’re chest to chest. I thread one leg through both of his and rest my head on his bicep.

He strokes my back. “I want you as my own,” he says.

I’m getting that. This isn’t a heat-of-the-moment kind of mistake for him. “Try to stay in this moment.”

“You feel guilty.”

Do I? Aroused as I was, my head was clear when I decided to go through with this. I pride myself on owning my decisions, no matter the results. “Guilt isn’t something that occurs to me the way it does others,” I explain. “I told you that.”

“I don’t believe you. You wanted me to hurt you earlier. That was your guilt.”

I study his chest like it’s a treasure map. There isn’t much hair, but it’s darker than it is on his head. I know he’s right. Nobody is devoid of guilt. I’m good at controlling it, though, and why is that so bad? It doesn’t serve me to dwell on it. “I’m not usually like that,” I say. “I don’t usually say those things.”

“You asked me to call you a slut.”

I exhale through my nose. When Nathan called me that, my orgasm ripped through me with unforgiving intensity. Maybe it was guilt that drove me to try and recapture that sense of worthlessness. After being revered in the bedroom for years, it was shocking and explosively hot to be someone else for once. “Yeah . . .”

“How come?” He tugs on a strand of my hair to get me to look up. “Hey. I’m not judging. I thought it was hot. But I won’t call you that without knowing why you need it.”

“If I’m a slut for being here,” I say, “it’s not the right kind.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Nathan obviously craves something I’m not. Who knows why? He’s held me in his palm so long, maybe he’s tired of trying not to crush me. I wanted to show him the other night that I can be what he wants, whatever that is. He doesn’t need to find red-lipstick girls. “I think Nathan wants someone he can treat like shit,” I say, sounding as confused as I am. “I don’t know why. Some men just want that, I guess. But why all of a sudden?”

“If he treats you like that—”

“He doesn’t. That’s what I’m saying. He’s incredibly good to me—and maybe he’s sick of it.” I start to look away but stop. Finn’s watching me closely. Listening. I owe him my attention. “So, here I am being what Nathan wants, just not with him. Something forbidden and bad. Wrong.” I blink. “Call me a slut because it’s what I deserve. And,” I admit, “because it turns me on.”

Finn sighs deeply, heavily, as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. He kisses my nose, my eyelids. “I wish—so many things, Sadie. I’d erase all this for you.”

I don’t want it erased, though. Is a scar bad if everything that led to it was good?

It doesn’t matter. This is real life. Things can’t be erased. Mistakes can’t be undone. I’ve made a choice that has found me in another man’s apartment, another man’s arms. And I feel something here, something surprisingly solid. The timing, our connection and proximity—Finn has a point. It is as if something greater is bringing us together. Could it really be fate? He wants me—he told me as much to my face. Nathan has said he doesn’t. How far are they each willing to go? How far am I?

EIGHTEEN

Ginger isn’t at the foot of the bed when I wake up the next morning. I wonder how Nathan would feel to know she waited for him all night on the tiled entryway instead of her normal spot on the bedroom carpet.

But when I get out of bed and head into the living room, I stop. Ginger’s tail is sticking out from behind the couch. Nathan is sprawled out underneath a blanket, his feet sticking out the bottom. I grip one foot like it’s a raft and I’m stranded in the middle of the ocean. His skin is ice. Our no-heat tradition seems more stupid than adorable.

“Nathan, honey.” I shake him. “Honey.”

He squints and groans, “Sa-die.”

“Go get in bed. It’s freezing out here.”

He shuts his eyes again, stretches one arm to Ginger’s head, and ruffles her fur. “Extreme Hangover,” he mumbles. “Home Edition.”

I smile. His hair is pointing in every direction. I can smell alcohol from where I stand. “The hard stuff?” I guess.

He nods.

“When’d you get home?”

“Said I’d be here when you woke up.”

It would’ve taken no small effort to get here by this time while wrecked. I’m still mad he spent the night out, but that gesture helps his case. “Come to bed.”

“Can’t move.”

“Then I’ll bring the bed to you.” I get our huge, fluffy comforter from the bedroom and cover him with it. I tuck in all the corners. Not a single appendage on his body should be cold.

His eyes are shut. He’s still petting Ginger, his long fingers sifting through her fur.

“Need anything?” I ask.

He swallows audibly, smacking his tongue in a battle with dry mouth. He feels for my hand. I stare in disbelief for only a second before I give it to him. My heart rate kicks up a notch. He pulls gently. Before he can change his mind, I untuck and burrow underneath the covers. He brings me close to his body. For all his muscle, Nathan has the most comforting arms in the world. I hope he can’t feel my racing heart.

I rest my cheek on his pec. His feet may be cold, but his chest is hot. It’s my home. He cocoons me with the comforter from head to toe under a white cloud. I can’t see his face, but he’s here. I feel him. Safe in his arms, I wonder if I could say anything to him right now. I wonder if I should.

His breathing evens out. I think he’s fallen asleep, but he slips his hand into my sweatshirt. He rubs my back. I’ve needed this simple touch, and I want to be content with it. But my imagination has other ideas. The thought of him and Joan in this same position hits me hard. I don’t even know if it’s Joan I’m picturing—it could be any woman. Donna. Kendra. Cindy Crawford, who Nathan has a thing for. Last night, I lost my right to care about that, but I do. Intensely. Even though I was the bad wife, even though I let another man inside me and I haven’t even showered yet, I’m terrified that Nathan has even so much as looked in another woman’s direction.