More Than Friends (Kingsley #4) (12 page)

“Michael.”
His name was written in her scrawling hand across the top of the page, and as he glanced down the length of the letter, his heart clenched tight against the sight of her words. What was this? Would this answer his questions? Questions she had only turned away from, with lowered eyelashes and tear-filled eyes? And why – why hadn’t he found it sooner?

“If you’re reading this, I guess I had to go through with it.”
Michael felt his eyebrows furrow as he read, following the words with effort. He couldn’t seem to make his hands stop shaking – finally, he dropped the paper to the table and leaned over it, his hands braced on either side of the single page.

“I want you to know that I never meant for our marriage to be temporary. When I took vows to you at our wedding, I meant them to be forever. I meant to grow old and die holding your hand, surrounded by the family I meant to create with you. But without that … Please know that I did love you, Michael, that I do love you. I do, just as much today as I ever did.”
He clenched his eyes tight, squeezing against the sudden flood of moisture that spilled over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. Taking a breath, he forced his eyes open, found his place again, and read on.

“Maybe I love you more than even I knew, in spite of this. Or because of it? I don’t know … I don’t know how to do this. In any case, I have to do it, because I love you too much not to. And I think I might never stop loving you. I’ll miss your hands on me, and the way you always looked at me like I was the only person in the world.”
What the hell was she talking about? She was talking in circles!

The letter was scarred with wrinkled places – small dips and grooves in the paper that indicated the presence of her tears, dried into the paper.
“You’ve been a wonderful husband to me – no, not perfect, I know. But neither was I – and we can’t be perfect, either one of us, right? Just like we agreed at the wedding, to never expect too much of each other. And we did good, Michael, we did! So don’t ever think that what we have isn’t good, or isn’t real.”
A splotch of wetness appeared on the paper and Michael turned away, surprised to find that he could still cry over her after all this time. Stuffing his hands into his pockets he walked to the window and looked out on the yard their children would never play in. He watched an early owl swoop down into the field, hunting, and then fly off again into the shelter of the trees. His chest was heaving, and he had begun to feel like an invisible vise was fastened around his chest, tightening by degrees with each breath that he couldn’t take.

“Or that it wasn’t, I guess I mean. Because it isn’t anymore, it can’t be. It just can’t be. And I keep trying to tell you, but I can’t tell you, and I can’t stay here without telling you either.”
His nose was running; he swiped the back of one hand under his nose, sniffling, wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans, and turned back to the letter. “Tell me what?” he murmured, lifting the page again. His hands were still shaking, the paper shaking like a leaf in a breeze between his fingers, but this time he hardly noticed.
“I’m infertile, Michael. And the family we dreamed of together, the family you bought this house for … I can’t give you that. We’ll never hold hands over my swollen pregnant belly, we’ll never lock eyes over the beauty of our firstborn child’s face. We’ll never argue over whose turn it is to get up and change the diapers. I can’t give you that.”

Michael blinked in surprise as the paper in his hands imploded, crumpling into the depths of his palms seemingly without cause. He dashed his forearm against his face to stem the wave of tears, forced his hands to relax again, and kept reading.

“I won’t condemn you to a life without children, Michael, a life where you worked so hard to set things up for a family, only to never have one. You gave your all to creating a family before you even met me, before we were married. And now … I can’t be the reason you never make it where you’re going in this life Michael. I love you too much to be the reason you let that dream go. And I’m not willing to watch you slowly start to hate me for what I can’t give you. I’d rather end it now, when it’s good, when the memories are still good ones. You’ll be a spectacular father, Michael … just not with me as your wife.”

Michael could only imagine how hard it must have been for her to write those words, but even as his heart broke with the words, he caught onto one thought that kept repeating itself in his mind. She had not fallen out of love with him. She had left him out of her love for him, out of her own sense of disappointment and loss. “God, Nic, why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I know what you’re thinking right now,”
he read next, smiling slightly. She had always known him well, right from the beginning. They had been the sort of couple that finished each other’s sentences, the sort that answered each other’s questions without the questions having to be actually asked.
“And I didn’t tell you because I knew what you’d say. You’d say it was alright, that you didn’t mind, that we could maybe adopt. You’d tell me what you needed to tell me, and you’d mean it right then. I know you would. But then … things would change between us, Michael. Truthfully, they already have. You’re shaking your head now –“
He smiled because she was right; he had been shaking his head, denying her words even as he read them.
‘’– But I’m right, and you know I am. It happens all the time … and I couldn’t have that for us. I can’t watch what we have dissolve that way, watch us end up not even able to remember what we used to be. I can’t stay, Michael. I’ve already filed the papers, and I’m leaving, but I’m leaving this for you. I know you’ll find it when you’re ready. I hope it helps. Goodbye, Michael.”

She had signed her name across the bottom and as he stared down at the now crumpled sheet of paper, he realized that she had not signed her married name but had used her maiden name instead. To drive the point home? Perhaps. It had worked – he stood there, leaning slightly against the table, her letter clutched in one hand, the other hand braced on the tabletop, tears rolling unheeded down his face.

He felt strangled, and a groan ripped out of him as he wadded the wrinkled paper into a ball and threw it. Gripping the edge of the table, he attempted the throw it, too; it tipped over with a crash, crushing the flimsy chair that she had probably rested in as she wrote her letter.

Staring at the broken remains of the chair, lying shattered beneath the weight of the table, Michael sank to his knees, dropped his head into his hands, and after almost three years, he finally allowed himself to truly grieve what had been lost.

He heard the ringing long before he actually realized what the sound was. Finally, Michael heaved a sigh and slipped his hand into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone. His intention had been to turn it off, but as he pulled it from his pocket, the thought came to him that it could be Renee. What if something had gone wrong with her date and she needed him?

It wasn’t, though – the call was from Sherry. He stared at the phone as it rang in his hand, vibrating softly against his palm. The last thing he needed in his life was another woman who could hurt him, but this woman was different. She offered something other than heartache, and he could bet she was calling to offer him something simple, something he desperately needed – distraction. He answered the call.

“Hiya, Mikey,” she said when he picked up the call.

“Hey, Sherry,” he answered. “You working tonight?”

“Not tonight. I’m off, so I thought I’d get in touch with you and see if you wanted some company. You do owe me a rain check, right?”

Michael laughed, closing his eyes to shut out the destruction of Nicolette’s attic retreat. “Yeah I do. You coming to collect?” He turned away, not opening his eyes until he knew the upturned table and it’s shattered chair were firmly behind him, Nicolette’s wadded letter lying somewhere in the mess. As he listened to Sherry’s smooth voice and erotic promises for the evening, he left the room, closing the door on the mess. It had been there, waiting all this time. It could wait a little longer.

“– So I can be on my way over there in … maybe twenty minutes?” Her voice was an erotic whisper, and he felt the jolt travel through his body, shivering over his skin.

“Alright, I’ll be here. Door unlocked. I have to grab a shower though, so –“

“I’ll know where to find you,” she breathed. The line went silent as Michael stepped into the bathroom, and he dropped his cell phone on the counter. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he reached for the button on his jeans, and he watched the muscle ripple through his arms as he unfastened the button. He wasn’t a large man, but physical labor had toned his body nicely – he wasn’t thickly muscled, but what muscle he had was clear-cut and well-defined.

Experimentally, he brought his arm up and flexed his right bicep; the muscle formed a tight knot on his arm, just beside the round, muscular joint of his shoulder. He brought the arm down, curving it slightly over his stomach to make his pectoral muscle flex. His nipple twitched with the motion, and he grinned at himself in the mirror. “Might be a damn reject,” he said to his reflection. “But I still look pretty damn good.” Turning, he brought his arms up again and pressed his shoulder blades together to flex the muscles in his back; he twisted slightly to look over his own shoulder into the mirror. “Mmhmm. Pret-ty damn good.”

Still smiling, he dropped his arms and caught the waistband of his jeans, snagging his boxers too as he slid his hands over his hips. He had narrow hips, and he was thankful that his job kept his stomach naturally flat. He wasn’t the type to spend a lot of time working out, but slinging tires and working on cars all day by himself for the last several years had not allowed him much idle time – either way, he was proud of his body.

The thought of Sherry’s tongue running over the V that defined his hip-line made his dick thicken heavily against his leg, and he shook his head wryly. “In a minute, man. In a minute.” Stepping into the shower, Michael turned the water on and moved under the spray, flinching slightly as he waited for the cool water to warm up. When it did, he leaned forward to wet his face, reaching by habit for the can of shaving cream propped on the edge of the shower wall.

He was clean shaven and almost finished showering when he heard the bathroom door open; he froze, listening.

“Michael?”

“That was fast,” he answered.

She laughed, the throaty sound echoing through the bathroom, sliding over him as smoothly as the water did. “Yeah. Well, I might have already been on my way when I called.”

“In a hurry to see me?”

“Maybe,” she said.

He saw her shadow through the shower curtain, heard the tell-tale rustling of her clothes hitting the bathroom floor. Swallowing, he stepped back into the water and watched as long, elegant fingers curled around the edge of the plastic. She slipped the curtain back and stepped into the shower with him, smiling as she watched his face. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ears, uncovering creamy white breasts topped with pebbled pink nipples. She had red fingernails; he noticed as she took his hands and urged him to palm her breasts that the polish nearly matched her hair. She shook her head to toss her hair over her back, but a long lock of flaming red remained, spilling over the fingers of her left hand as she looked up at him. His mouth went dry as she arched one dark eyebrow, ice-blue eyes twinkling with humor. “Not gonna pass out on me again, are ya?” she asked.

“Doubtful,” he answered. He swallowed again as she stepped closer, and allowed his hands to drop and settle on the roundness of her hips. He could faintly feel the subtle hardness of her hip bones beneath his thumbs, and the slightly risen texture of the cherry blossom tattoo that curled up one side of her body from thigh to underarm.

“Been drinking tonight?”

He shook his head, stepping back again. The shower was still on; as he moved back into the water, it spilled over his neck and shoulders in rivers that ran down his body and slipped over the length of his erection like gently stroking fingers. She moved with him, stepping close enough for her nipples to brush against his chest. Closing his eyes, he dragged her closer, and as her arms circled his neck, he lowered his mouth to hers.

"In the shower, Michael?” Sherry laughed softly, breaking the kiss. “Well that’s frisky. You’re always more of a –“ Her voice broke off as Michael bent forward again and covered her mouth with his own; she squeaked in surprise and stiffened slightly in his arms, but as he slid the tip of his tongue down the column of her throat, she gasped softly and melted against him.

Michael groaned as her breasts pressed flat against his chest. He slipped his palms over the now-wet curves of her hips, turning to align her back with the wall beside him. She gasped again as he gripped the backs of her thighs and lifted her, pinning her body against the wall, and he laughed against the pulse that beat in her throat. “That’s what you get for underestimating me,” he murmured, dipping his head to capture the tip of a beaded nipple.

“Aah,” she sighed, clutching his head in her hands. “I should do that more often, then.” Her thighs locked around his waist, and he bit down on the flesh of her breast as he felt the tip of his erection graze the slick moisture between her thighs. She moaned again at the contact, her fingers fisting in his hair; he moved his attention back to her throat as he gripped her hips and sheathed himself to the base inside her warmth. “Uhng!”

Ah, God, she felt good.
Frozen in place, he pressed harder against her, pinning her to the wall with the force of their joining, afraid of hurting her with the strength of his grip on her waist but unable to release his hands. “Oh, God.” Water rushed down his back, growing cold, and his testicles tightened against the cool flow of the water. “Oh, God, Sherry.” He rocked his body against hers, driving in and out of her, listening as she moaned his name – he was drowning in the sensations of her body, desperately using her to escape the pain of Renee’s image in the back of his mind, super-imposed over the memory of Nicolette’s letter. Taking what he could, to make up for what he couldn’t.

Neither of them were with him now, but Sherry was. She was there, warm and wet and willing, her thighs clenched around his hips, her breasts squeezed bruisingly between his fingers, her teeth biting at his ear lobe as she bounced in his arms, the walls of her body clutching him just as tightly from the inside as her arms were on the outside. She moaned as he buried himself again, her breath tickling his ear, and he felt her suddenly clench tighter around him. She flexed her hips against him as she gave way to her orgasm, forcing him to grip her thighs to keep her from falling. As he pumped his hips, thrusting smoothly into her one last time, Michael lost himself in the warmth and softness of her body.