Sweet Cheeks (30 page)

“C’mon,” Hayes reaches his hand out to me, “if we’re stuck at this damn party, we might as well have some fun.”

I trudge behind him at first as he leads me toward the dance floor but then realize he’s right. We are invited guests who have done nothing wrong. Why not enjoy ourselves instead of simply observing from our chairs? I gain more confidence with each step. Heads turn as we walk by. Drinks stop halfway to mouths. Elbows nudge the person beside them to take note of whatever it is we’re doing.

Watch the bride and groom, people. They are way more interesting. And the reason you’re here in the first place.

The music is slow and classical when we walk onto the sparsely occupied dance floor. I falter momentarily, unsure how to do anything other than bump and grind or the slow-dance-sway from back in high school. I mean, how many times in your adult life does one actually go dancing to learn otherwise?

“Take my lead,” Hayes murmurs when he pulls me into him and begins to move. At first I think he’s just doing his own thing, but soon realize there is a definite pattern to his steps. A defined rhythm and timing.

When I lean back to look in his eyes and question him, I catch the grin on his lips and my heart melts. Right there on the dance floor. With my ex-fiancé and his new wife off to one side of the dance area and a room full of judging eyes directed at us.

“Dylan Jax. Middleman’s Move. I had to learn it for—”

“That one scene where you seduce your enemy’s wife,” I finish for him, remembering the movie quite clearly. Besides its complex plot and shocking twist, there were some pretty steamy scenes that may have had me rewind it once—or a hundred times.

His smile beams bright and eyes light up with pride. “See? You did watch my movies. I knew it.”

I throw my head back and laugh. It’s so easy to do with him. So natural to feel at ease. “Just that one,” I lie.

“Yeah. Uh-huh.” He spins me around before I can respond in any other way but laugh. The music changes to a more current song. It’s sexy. Bluesy. Allows me to relax and not worry about messing up his carefully timed steps. Instead I just move with him. Against him.

He makes it seem effortless. All of this. How he turned on the charm in front of the jerks here. How he’s helped me feel at ease in this awkward situation. How he makes me laugh and feel sexy and appreciated simultaneously.

Old feelings die hard.

But then again, I don’t think mine for him ever really died.

Our bodies move against each other’s. “You know what I keep thinking about?”

He asks it so casually that my response falls just as nonchalant. “Hmm?”

“I think you need to relax.”

“Is that so? How do you propose I do that?” My voice is coy. My body already wanting what the suggestion in his tone implies.

Hayes leans in, mouth against my ear. “I need to get you out of this dress.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm. While you look sexy as hell in it, I think it looks a bit stiff. Formal. Uncomfortable.”

He twirls me out. Pulls me back into him. Chest to chest. Our feet move again.

“And how will being out of this dress relax me?” His thigh moves between mine and rubs against the apex of my thighs. A hint of what’s to come.

“Because then I can taste you, Saylor. Run my tongue over your clit. Get you all worked up. Make you beg.”

My chuckle? It’s strained. Desperate. Fraudulent. “I won’t beg.”

He spins me around. I catch a glimpse of his challenging grin, and then I’m back against him.

“Oh, you’ll beg.” He presses a tender kiss to my lips that has my insides screaming when he ends it.

“Sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“It’s amazing the things a woman will say when her man is working his tongue in and out of her pussy.”

My mouth goes dry. Between my thighs grows wet. The dark promise of his words seduces every part of me. He spins me out again, makes me more than aware of the audience of disapproving eyes watching us.

“Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm.” He even makes
that
sound seem seductive.

“What exactly do women say?”

“Oh, yes.
Fuck me
. You last longer than I do.
Harder
. It’s so big.
You’re. A. God
.”

I can’t help but laugh again at his breathless voice as he says the words. Know he’s making fun of himself and love that he’s confident enough in his more-than-adept sexual skills to do so. “Really?”

“Most definitely.” He laughs. “But that’s not how a man knows he’s doing it right.
Words are cheap
. Actions prove everything.”

“So how does he know he’s doing it right?”

He spins me out and then back against him. In the few seconds apart, I’m already ready for the warmth of his body. His mouth is near my ear so the heat of his breath teases me. “A man knows he’s doing the job right when a woman pushes him away, tells him to stop licking her, and begs for his cock.”

That slow, sweet ache that has been simmering during this whole conversation—hell, who am I kidding, since he walked out of his room looking mouth-wateringly delicious in his suit and tie—has just been stoked brighter.

“
Oh
.”

He chuckles in my ear and I feel the rumble of it against my chest. Love the feel of his thigh rubbing between mine. “You still think you’re not going to beg, Saylor?”

“Words are cheap, Whitley. Actions prove everything.”

“
Hayes Whitley
? Seriously, Say? That’s who you left me for?” Mitch’s voice from behind me so bitter in tone, startles me, and yet I outwardly remain calm as can be.

So many responses flicker through my mind.

Married after only eight months?

Carbon-copy-of-Saylor-Sarah?

Still an asshole, huh?

I wish that were the truth.

I choose the higher road. Know even in the thirty seconds I’ve been in his presence that I made the right decision. I have absolutely zero love for him, and I can’t believe I wasted six years of my life with him.

So I don’t answer his question but rather decide to let him believe whatever he wants about Hayes being here with me and how that came to be. I’m not lying per se, rather just not giving any answers.

“You always did resent him, didn’t you?” I murmur softly, figuring it to be my best plan of approach and more than aware of the sudden shift of attention over to us despite the music playing loudly.

I think back to the few times Mitch would see Hayes on television or a magazine cover and make some snide remark. Criticize him. For no other reason than because Hayes had me first. Caveman theory at its best, and Mitch’s fragile ego at its worst.

“Seems I had every right to resent him, didn’t I? I love Sarah. I really do. And yet all of her blabbing on about the ghost of you hanging around was driving me crazy so I’m here trying to give her what she’s asked of me.”

“My ghost?”

“Yeah. She says you’re still everywhere even though you’re not.”

“That’s because you moved on before the scent of my perfume even cleared the bedroom.” There’s a bite to my voice and I don’t try to hide it.

“You’re the one who left.”

“Yes. I did.” There is not an ounce of apology in my tone.
Why should there be when he was the one who made it clear he didn’t care if I did? And is already married.

Silence smothers the space between us. I take a sip of my wine and look toward the door to see if Hayes is back from the restroom yet. Shift in my chair.

“If you wanted to get rid of my ghost, then maybe you should have had your own wedding, instead of ours.” I turn to look at him. Raise my eyebrows. “A little originality makes a girl feel a whole lot more secure.”

“It’s complicated.” He shuffles his feet, looks down at his beer, and then back up to me. “You know how my mom is.”

“Yes, I do.” He hasn’t changed. He never will. Maybe I thought my leaving might help him realize that while he can love his mother and want to appease her, having a wife means you put her first, and not your mom. “Let me give you an opinion from someone who has in fact walked in Sarah’s shoes. Your mom can’t control your marriage, Mitch. You gave her a good start thinking she will by letting her orchestrate this entire wedding. The funny thing is, you were so busy being Golf Boy with your buddies and not caring about the details I was planning, that you have zero clue about how identical your wedding today is to the one I had planned.
For us.
Surely you realize the location and the invitations were the same, but did you notice everything else? The color scheme, the linens, the flowers? All my choices. And Sarah just happily accepted all of that?”

His features shift and evolve from disbelief to anger. And I know him well enough to know that as pissed as he is, he’ll never confront his mom over it. God forbid, he ever stands up to her. Instead, he’s about to take the brunt of his anger out on me.

I guess he’s never heard the saying
, “Don’t kill the messenger.”

“You don’t get to have any opinion, Saylor. You don’t get to criticize or judge or say anything other than
thank you for inviting me, Mitch
.”

Asshole
. I bite my tongue. Make the conscious decision not to engage when I’d prefer to stand and shout and accuse and purge the lingering bitterness I feel toward him. Let everyone know the real reasons we’re not together.

“Why’d you come anyway, Saylor? Why’d you show up? To rub my face in the fact that you’re dating the big Hollywood star?”

And if I didn’t know that bugged him, the disdain in his voice says it all. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that, Mitch? Why’d you invite me? Because I know you say it was Sarah who did, but a little part deep down within you wanted me to show up here to see exactly what I could have had. So you could rub
my
nose in it?”

I don’t answer his question at all, but I don’t care because it feels good to say some of what I think out loud. Words I’ve wanted to ask since I opened the envelope with the invitation.

He doesn’t answer my question, either. And I’m okay with that and with the awkward silence that settles around us as we both figure our next step in dismantling a fence that will never stand again.

“It’s always been him, hasn’t it?”
Yes. It has
. I don’t utter the words, just keep my eyes fixated on my fingers running up and down the stem of my wine glass when he continues speaking. “He’s been the one you wanted even after he hurt you and walked away. I was the one who picked up the pieces after your parents died. Not him. But what? The whole time we were together, you were waiting for him, weren’t you? Wanting him. Thinking I could take his place. And then obviously by the looks of the two of you, he came back and the wait was over. Dump me. Pick him. He wins . . .”

I don’t think I ever looked at our relationship that way, or thought of Hayes in that regard. My subconscious was more consumed by the sting of hurt and weight of resentment Hayes left behind. And besides, by the time Mitch came into the picture it had been almost four years since he’d left. And yet hearing Mitch’s words makes me realize that he just might be right when I never thought in a million years I was doing any of those things.

“It was the ghost of Hayes that ruined our relationship, Saylor. Just like Sarah wants me to confront you so that your ghost doesn’t ruin my marriage. I thought what she was saying was just bullshit. Nervous bride crap. And yet, seeing you here with him . . . I know she’s right.”

Did he just admit that he still loves me?

Shit. Shit. Double shit.

I blow out an audible breath. His disdainful but honest words hit a little too close to home. I nod softly. Let him know I’ve heard him. I refuse to agree with him audibly because then I feel like he’ll have control of this situation between us that feels so out of control as it is.

“What do you need from me to clear the ghosts, Mitch?” I try to sound reasonable. Attempt to give him what he needs so he can live happily ever after with Sarah and stay one hundred percent out of my life from here on out.

He clears his throat then looks me directly in the eyes. “I need to know if we ever had a chance or if we were doomed from the start because you were just waiting for Hayes to come back.”

“Does it matter?” I shrug, hating the look in his eyes. The one that makes me wonder how deep his feelings still run for me when they should be one hundred percent consumed by the woman he just gave more than his last name to. And knowing that even when I tell him the truth, he’s not going to believe it.

“Yes.”

“It was never about Hayes, Mitch. I left because while I loved you, I don’t think I could have continued loving you with the bitter resentment I continually felt toward you. You loved me but only the
me
you wanted me to be: sophisticated, non-working, non-baking, non-driven unless it was only to make you happy. You can’t start a marriage loving only the end result of who you hope to turn your spouse into. You start a marriage by loving that person completely for who they are and with the knowledge you’re going to grow and shift and change with each other. You never thought of me that way. You and your mom wanted me to be someone other than who I am to fit you and your circle’s standards. It became more and more clear the closer we came to getting married. The subtle comments about how my job wasn’t suitable for the Layton name. The hints left on hangers in my closet in the tune of thousands of dollars worth of clothes to show me how
you
wanted me to dress and look. The plans you fabricated, and the subsequent tantrums you pitched when you knew I had a big order to fill, so I’d feel like I was letting you down. So no, Mitch, my leaving you had nothing to do with Hayes and rather everything to do with me. My wants out of life, and everything that I am. Yes, I loved you, Mitch,
at one time
. But I think that love turned into bitterness and resentment.”