Page 67 of Him Too

And it felt like I’d been fucked into a trap he orchestrated.

And the fucked-up part?

I wasn’t even mad.

I’d rather be a pawn in her world than king of one without her.

thirty Eight-Oak

The next morning.

Everything felt different in the light.

Last night, I’d told myself I was cool with what happened. While it was happening. I let myself believe I was taking back control—reclaiming something. That if I could just be part of what had developed between them, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad. But now?

Now, even with the sweet taste of her was still on my tongue. The imprint of her nails still burned down my back. I could still see her—on her knees for him, looking up at me like I should’ve understood.

What the fuck was I thinking?

I stood, legs stiff, heart even stiffer. Walked to the window because I needed something to anchor me.

It didn’t work.

I was raw. Sober in the worst way. Watching your wife suck another man’s dick will do that to you.

. I wanted to scream. Break something. Punch Ciarán in the fucking mouth. Crawl inside myself and disappear.

But I couldn’t do shit. Because I’d said yes.

I’d let it happen.

And now I had to live with it.

Hearing footsteps behind me, I didn’t need to turn around to know it was her. I could feel her presence, the way theair shifted when she was near. My grip went from my cup to the kitchen table.

“Good morning, Oak,” she said softly.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My throat felt too tight, my chest too heavy. My eyes burned, but I refused to blink.

She stepped closer, I could hear her bare feet padding against the hardwood. I could smell her—soap, and the cocoa butter on her skin, and something that was just Jordin. That scent used to calm me. Now it made my stomach turn.

“Look at me,” she said, her voice firmer this time.

I turned slowly. My eyes met hers.

She was standing there in nothing but one of my old t-shirts, her hair messy, lips a little chapped. She looked like she belonged here. In his house.

“What the hell was that, Jordin?” I asked, my voice rough, scratchy from silence and swallowing too much.

She didn’t flinch. “You know what it was.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head slowly. “I don’t. I don’t know what you want from me. From us.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her hands resting at her sides like she was trying not to reach for me. “I want you, Oak. I want our life. I want the house, the kids, the future we talked about. I want all of it.”

“Then what the hell was that?” I snapped, stepping toward her, my jaw tight. “Because it sure as hell didn’t feel like you wanted us.”

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, tugging slightly at the ends like she was trying to pull the right words loose.