Tryst

“Can I help you?” he snaps without looking at me. The tone of his voice is so cold even the desert palms shiver.

“Ransom . . .”

I’m not sure what I should say. I’m sorry? Nope. What would I be sorry about? Sleeping with my husband? Trying to fix our intimacy issues in hopes that it would be enough to fix us? Yet, to shrug and tell him to get over it would seem callous. I’m a bitch when I need to be, not because I enjoy hurting people. And I’m not a liar. At least when I can help it.

“You knew we’d be there. You knew I wanted to repair my marriage. That was my intention all along.”

“Right. Your intention,” he sneers, looking over his shoulder. “Was it your intention when I was inside you? When you were damn near begging me to take you every time we were alone? Or how about the other night? What were your intentions when you had your pussy in my face, so fucking wet that there’s still a damp spot on the fucking chair? Were you thinking of Tucker then? Was that to save your marriage?”

Each accusation is like a blow to my gut, but I recover without so much as a flinch. I won’t let him rattle me. I won’t give this asshole the satisfaction of affecting me. That’s exactly what he wants. Instead, I drop the towel and the paperback I was holding, and march over to him, head held high and back straight. Although I feel about two feet tall right now.

Ransom peers up at me from his place in the pool, his expression a mixture of fury and boredom. Before he can spew one more insult, I let his ass have it.

“What’d you think, Ransom? That this was about you? It was never about you. You were fun to play with, yes, but that’s it. We had fun. But what else could you expect me to want from you? A relationship? A life? You’re a good lay, Ransom, and a great musician. But that’s it. Stick to what you know and leave the marriage shit to the grownups.”

The lie lingers on my lips, swollen with the stinging remnants of my words. I know they’re harsh, but they don’t even seem to crack his stoic exterior. Instead, he just continues to look up at me, hands on my hips, my mouth a tight slash. All of that, yet no response. It’s u

I start to turn away, when I feel his arms under my knees, squeezing. Then I’m airborne for a fleeting second before being plunged into cool waters headfirst. I thrash and fight, gulping down a gallon of water before I realize what’s happened. When I finally break through to the surface after what seems like the battle of my life, I hear him chuckling, yet I can’t see him through the wet hair and water in my eyes.

“You son of a bitch!” I sputter through violent coughs. “How dare you! How fucking dare you!”

I still hear him chuckling just inches from me, and I claw at the air in front of me, hoping to co

“Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t get to touch me. You don’t ever get to fucking touch me!”

“Relax, H. It’s water. It won’t hurt you.” He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms in front of his chest. That’s when I see angry bright red scratches lanced in his arm. I drew blood. I made him hurt for me just as he’s made me bleed for him. And now . . . I want to do it more. I want him to ache. I want him to suffer. Just make him feel an ounce of the torment I feel inside. I launch myself at him, pounding his chest, scratching at him like a wild animal. Fighting this demon inside me that makes me want him, even though I have everything.

“I don’t care! You can’t do this! You can’t just throw me around. You can’t just put your hands on me whenever you want to. You can’t have me! I am not yours! Understand? I am not yours to touch!”

I know I’m not making any sense, but it feels good to scream. The freedom of letting go, of purging myself of this affliction for him, is therapeutic.

He grips my wrists, yet I still thrash with elbows and knees and teeth. I fight him for making me feel for him. For making me feel less for my husband. For making me realize that there is something sick and twisted inside me that is wrong, and will always be wrong. And making me accept my disease because there are people like him in this world that are wrong too. Because even though Tucker has tried his damnedest to appease me, to feed my wrongness, I’ll always know that he is only pretending for me because he loves me. And Ransom . . . Ransom is wrong without even trying. And that is so right for me.

I don’t realize I have collapsed into his chest until he wraps his arms around my trembling frame. I try to pull away but I’m too exhausted to fight him anymore—to fight this. Sweat, tears, and water streak down my face, creating a salty, slippery salve between us.

“I hate myself,” I sob. “I hate myself for wanting you. And I hate him for letting me.”

Big, callused hands on my neck, my shoulders, my back. Lips in my hair, my temple. I feel him shake his head as he holds me tighter.

“Don’t hate yourself. And don’t hate him. Hate me, H. Hate me for wanting you just as badly.”

I push away from him, my palms over his nipples, but he keeps his fingers locked around my waist. Looking up at him with contempt and desire battling for my next breath, I tell him the truth. I tell him what I don’t really mean. “I already do.”

“Then show me,” he whispers, stepping in closer. “Show me how much you hate me. Loathe me. Despise me. Detest me. But don’t reject me. Don’t push me away because you think I can’t take it. Because I want it, H. I want that beautiful violence. I want you to scratch and kick and scream. Because you know what’s on the other side of that madness?”

“Don’t say it.” I shake my head frantically, refusing to hear it. “Don’t fucking say it.”

“Passion. Obsession.” He pulls me in closer so that my hands are sandwiched between our chests. “Love.”

It happens so quickly—his arms around me lifting me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, and our mouths fused together, drinking in every drop of each other’s daring desire. I’m in peril with his arms wound around me so tightly that I can only breathe through him, his lungs sustaining mine. With his rock hard length pressing into me through the thin fabric of our bathing suits, I might as well sacrifice myself to him now, lay my head down on the chopping block, and let him end me. I’m helpless to him—utterly defenseless against this chest that was cut from smooth marble and these lips that have whispered the most erotically beautiful lyrics ever conceived.

He rips my bikini top away just as he presses me up against the pool wall. We’ve somehow moved to the shallow area adorned with huge boulders that sift water through cracks and manmade spigots. Under the cool spray, deep into this cradle of limestone and granite, we’ve found our oasis. It’s not the striptease classes or the erotic yoga. It’s not even the den of iniquity. It’s just us, unabashedly honest in our skin.

My back rakes against the rough stones as Ransom grinds his pelvis into mine. My elbows are on his shoulders and my fingers are knotted in his hair. I bite his bottom lip, tasting salt and iron, and he digs his fingertips deep into my ass, breaking the skin. We groan together, sharing this pain, relishing this pleasure. He spreads my cheeks wider and slides his hands under my bathing suit bottom until his fingers meet my seam. I shudder at the feel of him there, in that place that Tucker has never touched. In the place I touch myself when I get off alone. He places the very tip of his finger against the pucker and presses gently, waiting for me to squirm and tighten in refusal. I gasp inside his mouth, telling him I won’t say no. That word doesn’t even exist in my vocabulary right now.