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Ransom’s hands slide up to my breasts where he rolls my nipples between his callused fingers. I cry out at the sensation, but I need . . . more. I need to be stimulated everywhere. I need him to fill me too.
I pull his lips to mine as I reach between us to stroke his length. Ransom moans into my mouth, only encouraging me further. I guide him to my slickness and rub the tip of him against my swollen mound. It feels indescribable, and soon I’m panting with the mounting need to come.
“I need you,” I nearly beg. “I need you right now.”
Ransom wastes no time hoisting my leg up to his waist and angling his body to meet mine. Tucker keeps a steady rhythm, restraining himself, and Ransom is able to slip in easily.
We all pause to take a breath and contemplate the severity of this crucial moment. Both men are inside me, making love to each other through me. While their hands and mouths and cocks may only be reserved for me, they can’t deny the intimacy of this act. We’ll forever be co
The guys move slowly at first, testing to see how much my body can take. Tucker pushes in, Ransom pulls out. They alternate like this with shallow, languid strokes. I’m so unbelievably full that I feel like I’m to the point of bursting. Still, when Tucker increases his tempo and presses in deeper, prompting Ransom to do the same, I can’t imagine euphoria feeling much better than this. I’m floating, so high that I may kiss the sky. I never knew that it could be like this, and now that I’ve felt bliss and tasted heaven, I don’t know how I could ever go back to how things were before.
I want both men. I need them. And if that makes me immoral or selfish or whorish, then so be it. But I won’t deny what I am. I won’t pretend any longer.
It doesn’t take long before we’re all shaking with the need for climax. Ransom is panting in front of me, eyes shut tight, lower lip sucked between his teeth. I nuzzle into the space under his chin and kiss his neck. With trembling fingers, he cups my cheek, turning my face up to meet his. The very second I see those heavy-lidded eyes, rimmed in anguish, I gasp aloud. I want to say something—do something—but it’s too late. My body wins out over my emotions, and sends me into a climax that shakes heaven and earth. I pulse wildly around them both, and I start to feel Tucker quivering behind me, his own orgasm coursing through him. But Ransom . . . Ransom continues to watch me as he thrusts into me, the fear and pain in his stare so jarring that I’m afraid to look away.
I’d have shot down the moon for you
So you could lay with the stars
But we’re out of time, little bu
I’ve fallen too far . . . too far
When he comes, he grips my thigh so hard and thrusts so deep that I feel like he may break my body in two. It’d be fitting. Those desolate words, the pained look on his face as he rides out his orgasm, the small, single tear that rolls down his cheek . . . he’s already demolished my heart.
I came here tonight to say goodbye. To get Ransom Reed out of my system for good. And now that it’s done, and I feel more co
Chapter Twenty-nine
I wake up the next morning alone with an unfathomable sense of urgency that I can’t shake. Something isn’t right. I can feel it inside me, churning like hot lava in my gut. I text Tamara to see if everything’s ok. I shoot Caleb a message to inform him of my plans to send Ransom back to the city. Then I hit up a travel agent to arrange the next step.
As much as it pains me, I have to get Ransom out of my life. Permanently. I fell for him . . . fell for him hard and quick and so completely. And if I’m going to stick to my word and try to make things right with Tucker, I have to let him go. It’s not right of me to hold on to him just so I can play with him like a toy. I saw it on his face last night, even in the haze of orgasm. I’m hurting him. I’m hurting my husband. And when it’s all said and done, I’m hurting myself. And while the immediate sting of letting go has me texting through tears, I know that this is the only chance of recovery.
Tucker still isn’t back by the time I’ve dried my tears and finished my calls, so I decide to click on the TV to busy my mind. I flip through the cha
But as the movie came to its climax, we saw that trying to conform—trying to steal that slice of happiness when it wasn’t meant for you—only got you hurt. So why was it even worth trying at all? When all people would ever see was the defect in you?
I look at my cell phone and instantly think of Ransom, wondering if he’s watching the same movie. If he can identify with Sebastian the playboy, or maybe he even feels like Selma Blair’s character, Cecile. He didn’t know what he was getting into. He didn’t realize what he had signed up for when he invited us back to his suite. It was just to be one night of fun. One naughty tryst between consenting adults. And now look at us.
I don’t know how we got here. But I know we can’t continue any further.
I snatch up my phone and text him, asking him if he received the flight info the travel agent should have forwarded to him more than hour ago. No response. I text him again, asking him if he’s ok. Again, nothing.
That same feeling of dread sets in and grows until I’m almost choking on it. I knew it when I saw him in the music room. I felt it last night in Justice’s playground. I had seen that same hopelessness reflected in those dark eyes before. Yet, once again, I didn’t ease his discord. I didn’t give him what he needed.
I get to the door of the Temptation room to find that it’s ajar. I can hear The Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony” blaring from the TV, the same song that I was just listening to as Kathryn was publically exposed and ostracized at her stepbrother’s funeral by none other than sweet, non-suspecting A
“Ransom?” I call out, pushing open the door. “Hey, it’s Heidi. Did you get my text?”
I don’t see him anywhere and the bathroom door is wide open and empty. The room is a mess, pillows and blankets strewn across the floor, cushions turned over, as if someone was frantically looking for something. At first glance, nothing looks out of place, aside from the disheveled linens. But when I walk over to the other side of the bed, my heart stops. Completely flatlines with shock and horror.
Several opened prescription pill bottles, most of them empty. A half-drunk bottle of Jack. Ransom had been popping pills—a lot of them. And considering how much he took, I’m positive it’s more than any person should be able to survive. I pick up a bottle to get a better look, recognizing some of them as antidepressants, antianxiety meds, even a mood stabilizer.
I’m Googling the uses for Androcur, when an even more shocking realization causes me to drop the bottle, scattering pills across the floor. Right there, next to the field reserved for the prescribing doctor, it states DuCane, Tucker J.