Page 24 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

She hadn’t thought. Therein lay most of her mistakes historically.

But this was Stevie. Goofy, bright-eyed Stevie, always ready with an immature joke to lighten the mood because the realities of existence were too much for maturity.

Stevie hadn’t been goofy just now, or bright-eyed, though ambient starlight had glittered off her pupils.

She’d been— incredible , her mind supplied unhelpfully.

We knew it , sang the part of her that had hoped she’d been reading the signs correctly.

We knew there was something there . Unless Stevie had faked—no.

Actions could be faked, as could expressions.

Angie had been with enough people to understand that acutely, usually from the other side of the equation.

She’d never counted the number of orgasms she’d faked, but it was high.

Some of those had been with people she cared about, some with people she’d just wanted to use to drive out the other thoughts in her head.

Angie did not come easily for other people, but she did not blame them for her own shortcomings.

Once an ex had told her, frustrated by Angie’s body’s lack of cooperation, to practice on her own.

She had, but what she’d practiced had been acting.

She’d always been able to get herself off easily; it was not a skill that transferred.

It had taken telling that story to Stormy for Angie to realize what a fucked-up thing that had been to say, but her ex had been fucked up, like all the people she’d been with for any length of time were in some way. How else could she relate to them?

That look of absolute starvation in Stevie’s eyes, however, and the smile, small and sharp, that had ridden her lips as Angie had ridden her—

Yes, her body was ready for another round. And yes, that had been real. Stephanie Ward had thoroughly enjoyed topping her.

She had not intended to come. She’d even warned Stevie, which in retrospect might have been instigating, rather than quelling. Her body had staged a coup either way. The horses had shifted in their stalls. What had they thought of this mess?

And Stevie had had the temerity to just leave her here. The arrogance. The sheer nerve. Angie had loved every second of it.

As residual pleasure faded, however, and before she could succumb to the memory of Stevie’s hand on her belt, tugging with just the right pressure, or the feel of Stevie’s tongue on her shoulder, a more familiar specter demanded her attention: shame.

Years, years, of denying herself, of rationalizing all the reasons why nothing could ever happen between them, and it had taken all of, what, three weeks after Morgan’s departure for her to end up bound in the barn? Did she really value Stevie so little? Possess so little self-control?

No, and yes. She allowed herself a brief litany of curses.

It didn’t matter if her body had followed Stevie’s lead like a well-heeled dog.

It didn’t matter that her heart had split right before she crested, in that moment where orgasm was inevitable but had not yet arrived, like the space at the bottom of a breath.

It didn’t matter that looking into Stevie’s eyes as she’d come had shown her unequivocally that repeating Stevie’s name silently to herself while someone else took her was not in the same hemisphere as the real thing.

It didn’t matter that she loved her.

Every good thing that had ever walked into her life ended in ruins.

Her relationship with her family, her high school friendship-turned-romance, her relationships before Lana .

. . What she’d done tonight was open the door for goodbye, not for the start of something real.

She closed her eyes. She had to slow down.

Her laugh sounded bitter in the otherwise tranquil summer night.

She lied to herself about plenty of things, but even she couldn’t convince herself she stood a chance against this.

By walking away from her and out the barn door, Stevie had ensured Angie would follow, leaving her dignity in shreds behind her.

Yet stronger than shame, though not as strong as the longing still closing up her throat, was relief.

Untying her hands was as simple as tugging the quick release knot—or it would have been if she could have found the tail.

Instead, she’d fumbled in the dark, growing increasingly frustrated until she pulled the end of the knot by accident.

She rubbed her wrists. She’d have some nice chafe marks tomorrow to press her fingers against as a reminder.

Her legs were still a little unsteady as she shut the barn doors and stared at the house across the lawn.

The light in the kitchen was on, but she did not see Stevie.

Indecision sawed at her. If she went inside, they’d either talk, fuck, or pretend nothing had happened.

Only one of those options appealed to her.

Besides, she had no idea what she’d say if Stevie wanted to talk, and the thought of going back to pretending she didn’t want Stevie was untenable. Maybe she should just sleep in her office and put it off until tomorrow.

Or she could act like an adult and go inside and try to explain to Stevie why this couldn’t work.