But it’s too late now.
And the last conscious thought I manage before passing out is an apology to my dead wife.
Because I betrayed her memory.
I’m sorry, Genevieve. When it comes to Aisling, I just can’t seem to help myself.
13
AISLING
One moment, Raf is moving inside me, lighting an inferno in my soul like he’s trying to burn through five years of anger and lust in one furious stroke.
The next, his entire body tenses—then crumples, heavy and unresponsive, on top of me.
“Raf?” My breath stutters, my pulse still frantic in the aftermath of release, my ears ringing with the intensity of it.
I was so overwhelmed by my own earth-shattering orgasm, I couldn’t say if he came or not, but I can tell something’s wrong as he instantly becomes dead weight. “Raf?—”
The weight of him crushes the air from my chest as his head drops to my shoulder, breath hot, uneven. And then he mutters something, slurred and soft, the syllables dragging against my ear like a razor.
“Genevieve…”
Every nerve in my body jolts, and I freeze—every muscle, every thought. Then ugly realization comes crashing down on me. Rafwas thinking about another woman, wanting another woman, while he was inside me.
My heart twists so violently, it feels like it might just rip from my chest.
He goes fully limp, unconscious, and something inside me cracks with a soft, silent sound, like glass under slow pressure.
For one trembling beat, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling like maybe it’ll crack open and swallow me whole. I’m still pulsing from the aftermath of what we just did, my body undone and loose, but suddenly, I feel sick, heavier than his weight on top of me.
I shove weakly at his shoulder. “Get off.”
He doesn’t move.
Of course he doesn’t. He’s drunk and probably concussed and apparently dreaming about someone else—someone whose name pours off his lips like a benediction.
I grit my teeth hard, plant my palms against the solid warmth of his chest, and twist out from under him.
The withdrawal is abrupt, cold, violent in its finality. He flops onto his back, arm sprawled across his forehead, mouth parted. Dead to the world.
I pull my knees to my chest for a second, staring at him through the haze of shock and humiliation.
“You absolute bastard,” I whisper, voice shredded.
A bitter laugh pushes up my throat, fractured and cruel, but it dies before it escapes. My eyes sting. My vision blurs. My pride is screaming at me to get it together, but I can’t. I can’t stopfeeling the way he held me, touched me, kissed me like he’d been starving for me. Like he wanted me. Like he remembered all the most intimate parts of me.
And all the while, he was thinking of her—Genevieve.
The name clings to me like tar.
God, what an idiot I am. I’m truly, sincerely, spectacularly stupid. I let him pull me into something wild and consuming, something that felt like five years collapsing into one moment—and he wasn’t even fully here. Not with me. Not really.
He didn’t even know who he was fucking. Or maybe he did and he was just pretending it was her.
A shaky breath tears out of me as I grab a throw blanket from the foot of the bed and wrap it around myself.
My legs feel weak, used, and my chest aches as I stumble toward the bathroom, needing distance from him.