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anavoliselenu · 7 years ago

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Aced chapter 2

“I’m pretty sure the lay of the land is that you need to fuck me soon.”

I love the lightning-fast grin that flashes over his features and the slight stutter in his movement from hearing me demand like this. He tsk-tsks with a shake of his head and another taunting tease of his fingertips.

“Rest assured, I intend to fuck you, sweetheart, but I’m all about equal opportunity.”

My muscles clench at the first part of his statement while I’m trying to figure out just what he means by the last part, because now is not the time to be witty. Now is the time to give the hormone-riddled woman exactly what she wants.

“Equal opportunity?” I sigh in frustration and then gasp in surprise when Justin uses his knees to press my legs a little farther apart and at the same slides his fingers between the lips of my sex. If it were physically possible, my body sags in relief and tenses at the same time because I’ve finally gotten his touch and now I just want more.

“Yep,” he says as he lowers his head, the warm heat of his mouth closing over my clit his fingers have exposed. My head lolls back against the wall as a ripple of pleasure washes over my body. My hands are in his hair, fingers gripping, and hips lifting to tell him I want more from him. Cool air hits when his mouth releases the skin he’s sucking on. My hands try to keep him in the cradle of my thighs and a chuckle falls from his mouth, the reverberation heightening the nerves he’s just brought to the surface. “Equal parts pleasure here,” he says, dipping his head down again so his tongue slides up and down the cleft of my sex . . . and here.”

An incoherent moan falls from my mouth as Justin slides his fingers inside me and curves them to hit the nerves within. And my God . . . thoughts escape me and sensation overwhelms me as the combination of his fingers and tongue begin to satisfy my insatiable need for sex.

He creates a rhythm all his own: the slide of his tongue, the skillful movement of fingers inside me, the soft sucking on my clit. My body reacts: muscles clench, back arches, hands hold tight as he causes the ebb and flow of sensations needed to climax.

“C’mon, Selena,” he murmurs. The heat of his breath against my slick skin makes me writhe and buck into his hand. “Come for me so I can fuck you when you’re still coming. Coat my cock with your cum while its sweet taste is fresh on my tongue.”

His words are like that last lick of gasoline thrown onto a smoldering fire. Incendiary. Provocative. Inevitable.

I give into the moment—the feeling, the everything with him—and crash over the edge into that free fall of white-hot heat. It sears up my spine, out to my fingers and toes to gain strength, before slamming back into my core where he’s continuing to push my climax to beyond bearable. Intense is too tame of a word for what he’s made me feel.

Every. Time. The simple thought flickers how he gives me nothing less than his best every single time.

My muscles are so damn tight—my mind so lost in that post-orgasmic wash of pleasure—and my nails are digging so hard into his shoulders that I’m not sure how he escapes the confine of my thighs. But when he does, with my arousal still glistening on his mouth and hunger burning in his eyes, I can’t help but stare at him and thank every damn lucky star in the sky that he’s mine.

Because Justin Donavan on any day is drop-dead handsome, but when his waist is framed between my thighs, his chest bared so every inch of bronzed skin is shadowed for effect, and the look in his eyes says he’s going to take me as he sees fit—no holds barred—he’s indescribable.

Rogue. Rebel. Reckless.

The words flit through my mind, memories colliding from another place, another time, but still so fitting all this time later as he undoes his shorts and pulls his dick out. It’s thick and hard, ready to claim, and hell if my mouth doesn’t water at the sight, my damn hormones kicking into overdrive again despite having just come.

“Justin.” His name on my lips is a plea and a demand all at the same time that causes his arrogant smirk to return.

The crest of his dick presses against my pleasure. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. His eyes flash to mine one last time before he looks to where he’s slowing pushing into me.

“Fuck,” he moans. “I love watching your pussy stretch around me. Love how it pulls tight when you take me in.”

His words hit my ears but my body is completely focused on him filling me, stretching me, drawing pleasure with each and every tilt of his hips. So many sensations and emotions flush through my body. All I can do is close my eyes, lay my head back, and lose myself in the onslaught of desire I know is coming.

He’s gentle yet demanding, drawing all the way out before taking his hand and guiding his cock so its head can rub right where I need it most. My nerves are so sensitized that when I shift my hips, my eyes open in shock at how damn good it feels.

And the look on his face tells me he knows my reaction well enough to know he’s hit the spot perfectly. So much so he’s determined to do it again. Pull me to the surface from my post-orgasmic state so I can momentarily catch my breath before he shifts into high gear and pulls me back under the next wave of pleasure.

He begins to do just that, picking up the pace, looking down at me with concentration in his eyes and pleasure etching the lines of his face. The muscles in his neck and shoulders are taut, and his mouth is pulled tight as he pushes us both beyond the edge of reason.

My pulse speeds up but my mind slows down. The sting of the carpet into my back. The press of his fingers into my thighs. The feeling of oblivion as he swells inside me. My name on his lips. The sight of him coming undone.

“Justin,” I cry out, my back arching as I let his action dictate my every reaction. Anything else I say is incoherent because my second orgasm is always so much stronger. This one is no exception. I fumble for something to hold onto and instantly Justin’s hands find mine, lacing our fingers as I succumb to the sensations he’s drawn from me.

Now that he knows I’ve had mine, he begins to chase his own release. And even though I’m still coming down from my high, it’s impossible to drag my eyes away from him: teeth biting into his bottom lip, hips bucking harder into me, and his head falling back, lost in his own bliss.

“Goddamn it, Selena . . .” he moans brokenly, the sexiest sound in the world to me because I put it there. When he empties himself into me, he stills—his hands, his hips, his breath—lost in the wash of pleasure. And then slowly he lifts his head up as he unlaces our fingers, and that satisfied grin turns up the corners of his mouth as his eyes meet mine. “Damn, woman.”

“Mm,” I murmur, groggy and sated and completely enamored with him.

“Intense enough for you?”

Like he has to ask. “I think I’ll keep you.”

He laughs, deep and rich, as he withdraws from me and crawls over my legs so he can lean over me on his hands. He looks at me long and hard, so many things in his eyes I can’t decipher. The one I can is the one that’s most important. It’s the look that tells me I am his whole world and hell if I’m going to argue with that. What sane woman would? He’s the total package: sexy, thoughtful, generous, mischievous, and most importantly, all mine. Love isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel for him.

“I don’t think you get a choice in that matter.”

“BAXTER’S NOT GOING TO BE very happy with you.”

I look up from the dog at my feet—lying on her back spread-eagle—with a smile on my face and know my dog is definitely not going to be happy when I come home with the scent of another on me.

“Hey bud. You’re right,” I say to Zander as he leads the charge of the middle school boys through the front door. “How was school today, guys?”

My question is greeted with an array of fine, good, boring, from the four of them as their attention shifts to Racer who has scrambled up from my feet to meet her boys. I love seeing how excited they all are to lavish attention on the newest member of the house.

Rubbing a hand over my belly, I lean against the counter and watch them sitting on the floor with the ball of fur. They’ve all enjoyed taking on the responsibility of having a pet better than I thought. Thankfully. I just hope she does her job as a therapy dog and helps out the latest boy, Auggie, assimilate into our madness.

I glance over to where he’s coloring quietly at the table. His head is down, but I can see his eyes angling over to watch the boys and their camaraderie from beneath his shock of sandy-blond hair. He takes in their teasing, the elbowing of each other, their comfort, and I can see him desperate to make a connection. So many things hold him back. He wants to be a part of the crew, but the PTSD, along with a plethora of other issues living in a violent and abusive home ensued—things that skated just beneath the radar of social services for so very long—hasn’t provided him the coping skills needed to assimilate. When your parents keep you locked in a dog crate for hours, if not days on end, as a punishment without any outside social interaction for year upon year, knowing how to fit in just isn’t something you can do.

To say it breaks my heart is an understatement. The therapists suggested we bring in a therapy dog for comfort, with the hope Racer will eventually create the opening for him to have a connection with the other boys.

And of course, Auggie’s part of the reason I’m so stressed about the lack of time before the baby is due. I desperately want to see him connect with someone here as much as he has with me before I go on maternity leave. If he doesn’t, then I worry he’ll feel as confined as he was in his parents’ self-imposed prison at home.

The baby moves beneath my hand, my constant reminder of how lucky my child is going to be to never have to even remotely experience any of these horrors.

“Hey Auggie? Do you want a snack before I leave for the night?” He looks over to me, a ghost of a smile on his sweet lips as he nods ever so slightly. The sight of a smile, regardless of how faint, gives me an inch of hope in this marathon we’re running together. “Oreos and milk?”

His smile becomes more surefooted at the same time Scooter pipes up, “Dude, I’m all over that!” Perfect. Just what I wanted to happen. A table of boys eating cookies and milk together. All different walks of life, making their own path together.

“Dude,” I mimic him with a grin on my face, “put your backpacks away and it’ll be waiting for you.”

“Rad,” one of them says as my phone alerts a text. As I reach into the pantry, I glance over to my cell sitting on the counter and see it’s from Justin. I’m not sure what he needs but my shift ends in fifteen minutes and this opportunity with all the boys together is way too important to break up the moment.

“Okay,” I say, as I pull out two packages of Oreos and cups. “Snacks get doled out in the order of who tells me something good about their day.”

“Pit and the peak!” Ricky says with exasperation. He likes to pretend he’s too old for this tradition we started a few years ago, but I secretly know he enjoys it.

“Yep.” I start filling the plastic cups as Kyle passes out napkins.

“Auggie goes first,” Zander says, surprising me. I think both Auggie and I startle at the comment but for completely different reasons. Zander slides me a glance that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. It may be almost six years since he was in similar shoes, but he remembers the anxiety like it was yesterday and is trying to help Auggie in the only way he knows how.

My heart swells with pride at the kind heart he has, and I’m reminded of how very far he’s come. And the knowledge that Zander could overcome and thrive encourages my hopes that Auggie will be able to have the same success.

“Z’s right. Auggie gets to go first,” I say.

And the best part about it is that in a house constantly full of bickering, they just showed it to be one weighted more heavily with love and compassion.

“Hello?” I answer the phone as I crawl along the highway, traffic moving at a snail’s pace in the last few miles to the house. I’m so exhausted. Presuming it’s Justin calling me back, I answer on the Bluetooth’s first ring, not waiting for caller ID to pop up on the Range Rover’s GPS screen. My calls have been going straight to his voicemail since I’ve left work so when I answer, I fully expect to hear the lecture right off the bat about how I need to take my maternity leave now. And I’m lucky because as vocal as he is on it, he understands the reasons behind why I haven’t. I have a feeling the compassion is waning the more out of breath I am and the more swollen my feet become.

That’s exactly why I’ve been telling him I’m perfectly fine to go to my checkups without him so he doesn’t hear Dr. Steele tell me I need to start taking it easier. And maybe that’s why I answer right away, so he thinks everything is okay instead of the actual throbbing in my rapidly swelling toes and ankles.

“Justin Donavan?”

“Yes. Who’s this?” I try to place the female voice on the other end of the line but come up empty.

“This is Casey at TMZ and—”

“How’d you get my number?” I ask, cutting off the tabloid reporter, my guard instantly up.

“We’d like to know if the tip we received is true and how you’re dealing with it all?”

Curiosity and unease meld into a ball of discord. I stutter a response I know I shouldn’t even ask. “Wh . . . what are you talking about?”

“The video proving your husband’s infidelity.”

And it’s like my ears don’t hear what she says over the roar of disbelief and flash of hurt that burns in my chest. “Video?” And I reiterate the word more to myself, lost in my own world of upset than to her.

“The sex tape.”

I know it’s not possible but I gasp and stop breathing all at the same time. I disconnect the call instantly. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. I struggle to catch my breath. Luckily I’m turning off on Broadbeach because my thoughts are so scattered and the adrenaline is pumping so fast that my hands are shaking.

Normally I don’t let bullshit like this get to me—after all I am married to a man who was once known as one of the racing world’s top playboys.

Justin wouldn’t do that to me. He loves me. He loves us. We’re each other’s world.

And yet despite knowing this, something about the phone call unnerves me. Staggers me. Resonates in my ears when it shouldn’t.

How did they have my number? What video is she talking about?

I’m too close to the house to call and even if I wanted to, I don’t think my fingers are steady enough to push the right buttons.

Calm down, Justin. It’s all I can tell myself because this isn’t the first rumor that has been spread about Justin and whatever hot woman he’s been in the same vicinity as. But it’s the first time I’ve been sought out to give a response before I knew anything about the scandal.

When the gates on the driveway shut behind me, I sigh, equal parts relief and anxiety, and scramble out of the car as fast as my pregnant body can. When Sammy opens the front door before I even put my key in the lock, I know way more than a purported rumor from TMZ is going on.

Even worse, he just nods at me without saying a word and steps outside closing the door behind him so Justin and I are alone. Not a good sign at all.

“Justin?” I call his name as I drop my purse on the table before following the sound of his voice in the office. So many things run through my head as I cross the short distance and none of them are welcome. I’m ready to barrel into the room and demand answers regarding the rumored cheating that the rational part of my brain knows must be wrong.

“They’re fucking crazy if they think I’m going to believe them,” Justin asserts, fist pounding against the desk. My feet falter and my demands die on my lips when I see him: back to me, broad shoulders framed against the window, head hung down, body visibly tense. The scene beyond him of the ocean is serene but in just the instant I’ve been in the room, I know Justin is anything but.

The sight of him physically upset like this isn’t normal. It throws me for a second and makes me fear the phone call I received might just be real. The uncertainty I felt in the car comes back with a vengeance, vibrating through my body in a flash of heat and wave of dizziness. The words I was determined to say when I saw Justin are lost to worry as I try to wrap my head around the sudden assault to my perfectly imperfect world.

“I don’t care what you think you’re seeing, CJ, it’s not fucking possible. Zip. Zero. Zilch.” Anger vibrates off him and slams around the room’s walls as he listens to his lawyer on the other end of the line. Leaning against the doorjamb, I attempt to steady myself, my emotions caught in turmoil as I try to read into the conversation without knowing any additional information. “I don’t need a fucking road map . . . What you don’t get though is that I’ve never even put myself in the situation where someone could even imply such bullshit!”

He hangs his head and blows out a breath as CJ talks and as much as I want him to get off the phone and tell me what in the hell is going on, I also want him to carry on his conversation without him knowing I’m home. I need to hear the non-sugarcoated version I’m sure he’ll give me. Hearing Justin without a filter will allow me to believe the extensive explanations I’m going to need to hear the minute he gets off the phone.

“You’re not fucking listening to me,” he grits out exasperated. “They can Photoshop it however they want. It’s NOT true! Guys like me only get one chance at this shit. I got my chance. I got my Justin. Why in the hell would I fuck that up?” His words are barked out with spite to prove whatever point he’s making and yet they weave around my heart and squeeze tight because the way he says it—like it’s the simplest truth in the world—only helps fortify so many things: my belief in how my husband feels about me, that the rumor is pure bullshit on a slow gossip news day, I’m going to have to thicken my skin to weather whatever storm is bearing down on us.

“Fuckin’ A! Do you . . .?” Justin’s words trail off as he turns around and sees me leaning against the doorjamb, one hand on my belly, the other covering my mouth. Our eyes lock, uncertainty passing between us as my name falls from his mouth in a hushed whisper. “Selena . . .” And even if I didn’t know whatever was going on was bad, the etched lines on his face and taut carriage confirmed it. “I want to see the entire thing. Not just the ten-second snippet you have. If they want their money, CJ, they’ll show me their bargaining chip now, won’t they?” He walks toward me, gaze never wavering despite the worry it holds.

When he reaches me, he pulls me into him without saying another word and wraps his arms around my shoulders, burying his head in the curve of my neck despite the phone still at his ear.

And this show of emotion freaks me out. My heart thunders. My stomach churns. My eyes close as I absorb his familiarity and try to hold on to it as best as I can. Because if he’s worried, then I know I’m going to be freaked.

“I’m at my computer. I’ll be waiting for the email.” I hear the clatter of his iPhone as he tosses it on the table beside us moments before he gathers me tighter into him. My hands are on his back, my lips against his neck, his all-familiar scent in my nose, and yet it suddenly feels like so very much is different.

We stand like this for several moments despite the anxiety rioting through my soul as I let him breathe me in because I fear what he’s going to say when he lets go. Is he going to apologize? Confess to something I don’t want to hear that will shatter our ideal little world?

“Just tell me,” I finally breathe out, my chest aching with worry and fear. His body tenses as he grabs my shoulders and leans back to look at me, the reporter’s words repeating in my mind.

“Selena . . .” My name falls from his mouth again and as much as I want to beg him to say something besides it, I’m also almost afraid to. I welcome the silence but hope for some noise. “Someone is claiming to have a video.”

“So it’s true,” I state, trying to keep my voice void of emotion as tears immediately sting the backs of my eyes. And when I’m afraid they’re going to leak over, I close my eyes and shake my head, as if I can rid my mind of the bad dream I feel is sucking us in its clutches.

“What’s true?” he demands.

“The phone call.” It’s all I say, purposely trying to draw a reaction from him so he has to explain what’s going on.

“Phone call? What in the fucking hell are you talking about, Selena?” He takes a step back and runs a hand through his hair as he leans a hip against the desk behind him.

“I think you need to be the one to start explaining, Justin, because I’m a little freaked out. Something’s going on here and I should have found out from you . . . not from TMZ calling to ask me if I’d like to make a statement about the rumored video proving my husband cheated on me!” I yell, hands flailing, voice escalating. The disbelief I want to feel doesn’t feel so certain anymore when his jaw falls lax and hands grip the edges of the desk.

He blinks his eyes a few times, hurt I don’t understand flashing in them, as he digests what I’ve said before shaking his head. “Fucking Christ, Selena. You actually believed I’d cheat on you?” The shock on his face staggers me—unfettered disbelief I’d even consider his infidelity to be true—and knocks me from my momentary lapse. I can see the man in front of me, feel his love for me, and know I’m crazy for even considering it.

“I didn’t know what to think,” I whisper, my confession hanging in the air between us. And then his words to CJ hit my ears again, and I know I was wrong to even let the idea find any kind of purchase in my conscience. I shift so I can sit down, my body as tired as my head all of the sudden.

“Someone is trying to blackmail us.”

“What?” I’d laugh at the ludicrous claim if I weren’t sitting here right now, sick to my stomach. “Who?”

Justin shakes his head. “CJ doesn’t know who for sure. He, she, they are hiding behind a lawyer right now.” So many questions race through my mind as I wait for him to continue.

“Blackmail is illegal, isn’t it?” I ask, wondering how someone could be hiding behind a lawyer and do this.

Justin emits a self-deprecating laugh that gives me no comfort and only results in making me feel stupid for asking. “Money in exchange for an item they claim is mine is considered a transaction,” he states using his fingers to make quotation marks over the last word, which leads me to believe this is something he has argued about with CJ. Just as I’m about to ask more, he says something that makes my ears buzz and changes the direction of my thoughts. “They say they have a video of me having sex with another woman.”

And even though I knew as much from my short-lived conversation with TMZ, I still suck in an audible breath when I hear him say the words and automatically start shaking my head as I try to reject them. Everything I know I should say or ask is stuck in my throat because as much as I believe him, why is dread sifting through my body weighing every part of me down?

Dread. Curiosity. Unease. All three swirl in an eddy of discord as I try to process this.

I can tell my lack of a response makes Justin worry. He steps forward and then steps back. Antsy and irritated. “Do you doubt me?” he asks, voice rising in pitch with each word. I don’t answer him. I’m too inside my own head, too overwhelmed by every single thing about this.

“No.” I mouth the word, unable to find my voice.

“Don’t you ever doubt my love for you!” I jump as his voice thunders through the room; his palm hits the desk to reinforce the words. And I can see he immediately regrets the reaction by the fisting of his hands and how his head falls back to try and rein in his anger. When he lifts his head back up, he meets my eyes with a determination I’ve never seen before. “Selena, I swear on the life of this baby that I have not so much as touched, kissed, or anythinged another woman, let alone put myself in a position to be videotaped having sex with them.”

I force a swallow down my throat. I believe him. Have no doubt. And yet . . . “I want to see it,” I say with more certainty than I feel.

“You walked in just as the full video came across to CJ. He’s emailing it to me.” He scrunches his nose momentarily and in that instant I can see how worried he is about this. And not about the existence of a tape, but more so what this is going to do to me. To us. “You don’t need to see it.”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do, Justin. If you didn’t do anything, then it shouldn’t be an issue, right?” I slowly stand and walk over to the desk so I can sit at the computer while Justin remains with his hips against the desk and head hung down, no doubt preparing himself for whatever we’re about to watch.

I click alive the computer screen, and my breath hitches immediately when I see the email sitting in the inbox from CJ. The subject line of “Video” taunts me as I wait for Justin to come over.

“Please, Selena,” he begs. “I don’t know what’s going to be on here . . . and you’re not going to be able to unsee it once you do. I know for a fact it’s not me but at the same time, whatever they have on tape, I don’t even want that image in your head so you doubt me.” He hangs his head down again before looking back up to me with determined clarity. “I would never cheat on you, Selena. Never.”

I worry my wedding ring around my finger, knowing what he’s saying to be true but at the same time, needing to see for myself. My only response is to move the cursor and open the email. The fortifying breath he draws in disrupts the silence in the room and rides shotgun to the sound of my own pulse thundering like a drum in my ears.

I double-click the file.

Snow fills the screen, gray, white, and black grain that holds my attention hostage. I will for it to clear and not want it to clear all at the same time. And when it finally does, it takes me a second to believe what I’m seeing.

“Oh fuck!” falls from Justin’s mouth the exact same time as the thought flickers through my mind.

The image is dark, grainy, but the what and the where are unmistakable. The memory zooms back in high definition color in my mind as I watch the one person that is unmistakably clear in the video, Justin, unknowingly look up toward the camera as he holds a woman’s hips and drives into her over and over.

Not just any woman though.

One in a dress, which is pulled up over her hips and bunched down around her waist, so she is completely exposed.

And even though the video is black and white, I know the dress is red. Fire-engine red to be exact.

Because the woman is me.

In the parking garage.

On the hood of Sex.

And in case I wasn’t sure, the concrete wall of the parking garage is painted with the hotel’s name. There is no mistaking the where or the what. Or the whom.

Both of us lean in closer out of reflex as we watch the video unfold, second by second, thrust after thrust, and I’m not sure if I’m more mesmerized or horrified at first before the realization sets in with what exactly this means. There is no audio on the security cam’s footage so the office weighs heavy with the silence until the clip goes dark and the video ends.

We’re both stunned, unsure what to say, not certain what to do. I feel like a thousand-pound weight has been lifted from my shoulders because Justin was right: he wasn’t cheating on me.

That weight has been replaced with an anvil teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall off and harm anyone in its path.

And we’re standing in that damn path.

Someone has footage of Justin and me having sex.

I think even if I watched the video replay one hundred times I still wouldn’t believe it.

“They’re on crack if they think I’m going to pay them three million dollars for that,” Justin says, breaking the silence, voice resolute, and staggering me in more ways than just one. Dumbfounded with my hand over my mouth, I force myself to look away from the black square on the computer screen and over to him.

And if I thought he was angry before, he’s livid now.

“What did you just say?” I finally stutter, not sure if I’m more shocked at the three million dollar figure or that he doesn’t care that a video of us having sex has been made.

“You heard me,” he growls at the walls. He shoves off from where he’s sitting atop the desk and starts pacing the room. I need to understand what he means, but I’ll wait him out . . . wait for him to temper his anger. There’s no way in hell we’re not paying this. That’s me. And him. Naked. Having sex. For anyone to watch. Oh my God!

He doesn’t answer me, just keeps muttering to himself as he paces, working something out in his head. I’d much rather he shares than remain silent. After a few minutes, he waltzes back to the computer and frames his body above mine as he reaches over the back of the chair. “Watch it again.”

“Did you call the police? Did you—”

“That’s futile,” he snaps at me. “It’s not our property. Wasn’t stolen from us or our house so it’s not ours to claim.”

“But it’s us!” I reiterate my voice breaking and eyes widening.

“Play it again,” he demands, in a voice I’ve only ever heard when he’s at work. It’s the do-not-fuck-with-me tone that tells whoever he’s dealing with to do as he says without question.

I hesitate, confused as to why he wants to watch it again, prompting him to move his hand over mine on the mouse and click the play button. Our images spring to life once more and again I’m transfixed. It’s like a car accident: I know I need to look away and yet I’m mesmerized. As much as I’m appalled, there is something about watching the two of us together, stepping outside of the moment, and seeing how fluidly we move in sync. Undeniable proof we were meant to be together.

“CJ believes it,” he murmurs, more talking to himself than to me. I try to follow his train of thought, but replaying it has caused deafening panic to strike again. Every single breath—each thought—takes an enormous amount of effort. How we are going to fix this? “So will everyone else.”

Exactly, I want to scream at him. Everyone will believe it’s us. How could they not?

Justin turns my chair around so I’m facing him. “Do you trust me?” he asks, and I’m already shaking my head no because that gleam in his eye means he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear. And God yes, I trust him, but this isn’t a normal, “can you trust me?” type of question. “CJ watched this. He believed what they said.”

“Huh?” I’m not following him.

“Don’t you get it, Selena? They have no clue the woman is you. Your face . . . it’s not identifiable in one single frame.”

“But every other part of me is,” I shriek, as the sudden knowledge of where he’s going with this forms in my head. He can’t be serious. My stomach knots, forcing me to focus on breathing for a moment as my eyes look deep into his and question what I see there.

“Watch it again.”

“I don’t want to watch it again,” I shout, shrugging his hands off my shoulders and not liking what he’s suggesting one bit. “And I refuse to entertain whatever idea is in your head.” Panic returns with a vengeance.

“Hear me out, Selena,” he says, getting down to eye level with me as I avert my eyes to where my hands are resting on my belly. “Please look at me.” I take a moment before I raise my eyes and I’m glad that when I do, he seems as conflicted as I feel. “Do you really think that if we pay off whoever this person is they won’t keep an extra tape for insurance? That they won’t get their money and accidentally let the tape end up on the Internet?”

“Justin . . .”

“No, Selena. You just told me TMZ called you. They’ve already contacted media and planted a seed. Do you actually think they’d do that if they’d planned on taking the money and then disappearing with the video for good? Something is off here, and I can’t figure out what the fuck it is.”

His comments weigh down the atmosphere around us and it takes everything I have to blink, to breathe, to think, because this just can’t be happening. He’s right. The fact they’ve already contacted a tabloid tells me it’s something more . . . and hell if I know what the more is or why the video is surfacing right now.

“I’ve been wracking my brain, have some ideas, but that’s beside the point, right now. The point is they want money, want to make us panic . . . want to tear us apart right when we’re about to be happiest we’ve ever been with the baby coming.” His eyes soften momentarily as he looks down to where my hands rest before looking back up to me with more resolve than I want him to have. “Think about it, Selena,” he urges, and I hate that he makes so much sense.

He can tell my mind is spinning and my ears are tuning him out. I grit my teeth and fight a wave of nausea. “What exactly are you thinking?”

His chest rises as he takes in a deep breath, and I fear he’s preparing himself for the backlash from whatever he has to say. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“What’s not? The video? The situation? The idea in your head?” My voice rises with each word.

“All of it,” he states.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, eyes wide with disbelief. “There’s a video of you screwing me on the hood of a Ferrari!”

“No. There’s a video of me fucking somebody on the hood of the Ferrari. Your face is never shown. The only people who know that dress is red are you and me. The only people who know you hold your hands over your tits when you’re about to come, or that you reach out and scratch your nails over my hip like that when I come, are you and me. No. One. Else.”

I just keep shaking my head, eyes blinking, pulse pounding in my ears. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.” I throw my hands up, helpless and astounded. “So easy for you to suggest when the video is so dark you can barely see your dick but you sure as hell can see all of me, laid out and spread-eagle.”

“Listen to me, Selena. I couldn’t care less if my dick was on display or not.”

“Stupid me. I forgot you’re used to being seen by the masses. After all, you were the playboy once upon a time. You had your dick on display for more women than I care to count.” I take a dig at him, wanting him to be as upset as I am over this whole thing.

“That’s exactly my point. I’m the notorious playboy. The player. People expect this shit from me.”

“But they’re going to think you cheated on me,” I say, completely dumbfounded by the turn of events. And while I may have learned not to care what people think, I do care about that.

“I don’t give a fuck what people think about me . . . you know that. The only person that matters is you. You know I didn’t cheat on you—”

“This is a bad idea, Justin.”

“I’m not paying some bastard three mil so he or she can turn around and release the tape anyway. I don’t bow down to threats, Selena. Never have. Never will.” We stare at each other in silence and his words sink in, take hold, and as much as I want to reject the idea immediately, I fear that what he says is true.

“But what about your parents? My parents? The baby?” I say, each passing moment adding more panicked dread to my voice. “There’s going to be a video out there, documented for them to google and know about.” I have to stop. A gasp falls from my lips because as the baby moves into my ribs my breath doesn’t come fast enough.

“Calm down, Selena. Please.” He sits on his knees again and pulls me against him. I close my eyes, attempt to wish this all away, yet know there is no way that’s possible. “We’ll tell our family it’s not what they think. That it’s Photoshopped. We’ll have Chase issue a press release to the media. It’ll say something like we were sent this tape that’s been tampered with. That we were being blackmailed for a ridiculous amount of money and we won’t entertain paying for it because my image has been cut and pasted into it somehow, and it’s not true.”

I push him away and just stare at him, seeing the logic but at the same time, that’s us on there. Him and me. “No one’s going to believe it, Justin. You know better than anyone the press is going to run with the story and report it in the worst light possible. Sensationalize it. Try to document how distraught I am. Dig up old photos of you with other women, plaster them all over the pages to show that’s how you are.”

“Who cares?”

“I do,” I scream, causing his head to startle while I stare at him with blank, disbelieving eyes. Surely it’s not possible that what I’m thinking and what he’s saying is the same thing. “I’d care that people think you are fucking around behind my back. I’d hate that people would think I’m this meek woman holding on to her famous husband because she has this new baby and can’t get any better so she stays.” The first tear falls over my cheek and I shove it away, hating that it fell and despising I just admitted that.

“No! All that matters is what you and I know,” he emphasizes but it falls on deaf ears. “The press isn’t going to—”

“That’s what they do.”

“Justin—”

“Don’t Justin me! Do you want some sick fuck somewhere jacking off to images of you and me having sex? I mean, seriously? Doesn’t that make your stomach turn, Justin? I’m your wife. Not some whore you slept with and discarded for God’s sake.” I push myself out of the chair needing to get away from him and get some perspective. He’s talking crazy, and right now, I have enough crazy in my life.

I move through the house, his frustrated sigh behind me, and walk onto the patio overlooking the beach below. Alone, I can think without him clouding my thoughts. I can breathe without him and his logic that I fear is one hundred percent correct in how things will go if we do pay whomever it is off.

We’re in a no-win situation. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.

I sink down into a chair on the edge of the patio and pet Baxter’s head when he sidles up next to me. My mind flashes back to those images that are etched in my mind with crystal-clear precision. Good images. Personal images. Intimate images. The fight in the garden after hearing Tawny’s comments in the bathroom. How I’d gone from thinking I was losing Justin to finding out he was willing to try and have a relationship with me. The exhilaration that had ruled my thoughts as we’d entered the elevator. The disbelief as we’d walked toward the red Ferrari and the knowledge of what Justin had wanted to do with me on it. My desire overwhelming my senses, giving into the emotion and having sex with Justin on the hood, cementing that bond we shared and feeling on top of the world.

All the while, a camera had been capturing our moment. And someone behind that camera had been watching.

My skin crawls. The ball of acid sits in my stomach, the acrid taste of incredulity on my tongue.

This is so screwed up I don’t even know what to think, where to go, what to do. Of course, the one time I stepped out of my perfectly modest box look what happened. And as much as I want to be pissed at Justin because the whole sex on the hood of the car thing was his idea, I can’t. I didn’t say no. I went along with the idea, was persuaded by passion, got lost in the moment, and had loved every minute of it, simply because it was with Justin.

Who would have thought almost six years later, this would come back to haunt us?

“Hey,” Justin says from behind me and I don’t respond because I don’t even know what to say or think anymore. “I’m sorry.”

“Who would do this to us, Justin? Why all this time later? It doesn’t make sense.” And even after I say the words, the justified spite that’s still within me after all of these years comes back with a vengeance when I think of the one person who would want to ruin our happiness. “Tawny.”

Justin blinks his eyes slowly, telling me he already has considered this. “I don’t think so.”

“What?” My back’s up, ire already boiling in my blood as he bites the inside of his cheek and holds my stare. “How dare you defend her,” I accuse, even when I know he hasn’t and that I’m being completely irrational.

“I’m not defending her,” he says in that placating tone of his that is like oil to my water. “Tawny isn’t stupid enough to cross that line. She may be a vindictive cunt, but she wouldn’t cross me. Not after the paperwork I made her sign when I fired her. The consequences of fucking with us again were laid out quite candidly, and I assure you she’s not that stupid . . .”

“Oh.” It’s all I can say. His eyes hold mine. I had no clue that he’d done that. “But she knew we were there that night, knew what we were doing. When we came back up I told her about . . .” My voice trails off as the memory flashes through my mind. My immediate thought when I saw her of here comes the rain to fuck with my parade, and how victorious I felt telling her that Justin and I had just fucked on the hood of Sex. How for the first time, I was confident in where we stood in our relationship.

Oh my God. Did I bring this upon us?

“No, Selena. This isn’t on you. Please,” he begs, because he knows me well enough to know what I’m thinking. “I’ve crossed a lot of people in my life. In racing. In dating. In business. By surviving. It could be any one of the many.”

“Who else knew about that night then? Parking garage staff? Sammy?” I go through the names out loud and see the anger flicker in his eyes when I mention his most-trusted person.

“Sammy had to sign the same agreement Tawny did plus about twenty more. It wasn’t him.” And I know he hates the narrowing of my eyes because he explains, “Not him, Selena. If he wanted to blackmail me, he has much better dirt on me than that.”

A flash of anger fires through me. It must be the volatile emotions and uncertainty weaving around us because I can’t remember the last time Justin’s past playboy status bugged me. Yet that simple comment causes me to more than bristle at the thought. “Charming,” I say, sarcasm rich in my voice.

“It’s no secret. I used to live a little, Justin. I won’t apologize for who I was but rather be thankful for the man you helped make me. Understood?” The bite in his tone hits me where intended, and I feel guilt for my snarky comment. Our gazes connect. So many emotions swim in his eyes and it hits me just how upset he is. He probably feels he brought all of this upon us somehow and yet his first thought was to protect me. How could I have doubted him? I worry my bottom lip through my teeth and answer him with a nod of my head.

“Who else then? The valet or parking staff? Security?”

“Mm. Not likely. Not after all this time. It feels too timed, you know?” I murmur in agreement. “My gut instinct says it’s Eddie or someone connected to him. It’s a long shot but there could be a possibility there . . . I just don’t know.” He blows out a breath and scrubs a hand over his face, and the sound of the chafe against his stubble fills the silence. “I’ve already called Kelly to try and sniff him out but I doubt we’ll find anything.”

His eyes will me to believe him but my heart says this is on me. Somehow, someway, Tawny told someone along the way and now, whether she knows it or not, she’s going to get her one last dig. I can’t look at him, can’t face him, knowing that our one night of pleasure—the catalyst of so very much for us—is now going to come back and haunt us.

“Fuck me!” he says, eyes widening as he holds his finger up in the just-one-minute motion before jogging into the house. By the time I’ve followed him into the office, he already has the video replaying and is pointing at the screen. “Right there,” he shouts, a strained smile spreading on his lips. “Give me my phone,” he demands, his face lighting up while I’m left in the dark, handing him his cell.

I watch him as he flips through his phone for something, my eyes drawn to the screen to the frozen image of his hands gripping my hips in all their naked glory.

“Look at the date,” he says, excitement woven in his tone as he looks down at the calendar app on his phone. I look at the timestamp on the video and realize it has been tampered with because the date is wrong. It says last year, not six years ago. I was so busy getting lost in the frantic feeling of watching our images on the screen that I never thought to look at the timestamp. “That’s the date of the Iowa race last year.”

“Okay.” I draw the word out, ideas forming of where he’s going with this line of thought.

“The exact date, Selena. If we don’t pay him and the jackass releases the tape, we have proof the video was tampered with. There is no way I can be in that parking garage in Los Angeles on that date because I was in the goddamn race. And we will have proof at the office that we flew home the next day.”

I put my hands on both sides of my head as I try to take this in. “But Justin . . . that is US,” I say, incredulity in my voice.

“I know,” he says, not realizing how much the thought bugs me. “But whoever has this tape, either tampered with it to make the dates more recent to try to cause problems, or this is the one they found . . . I don’t know, but I know we have everything we need to prove that’s not me if they were to release it to the press.”

I drop down into a seat opposite him, my head spinning, my chest hurting, as I try to figure out the best plan of attack. It seems to me like this is an ambush with no way to escape. “There is no way out of this,” I murmur.

“I’m trying to find one that doesn’t affect you,” he says, and I can hear the self-deprecation in his voice.

“I know . . . I’m just having a hard time wrapping my head around it all. I just need time to think this through without the shock warping my reason, you know?”

“I do,” he says, walking over to stand in front of me, and leaning down so we’re eye to eye.

“Did they give you a time frame in which to respond?” I ask, not even believing that question has to leave my mouth.

“Seventy-two hours.”

Reaching up, I run my hands over the stubble of his jaw to weave in the hair at the base of his neck. I can’t believe how much he has grown as a person over our time together. He’s learned to make good choices, has great instincts, and has always kept my best interests in mind. Why should I doubt he’s trying to do that right now as well?

Trust me, his eyes beg.

Trust him, my reason tells me.

“Let’s see what Kelly finds out . . . then I’ll trust your judgment on what you think we should do from there, but I’ve got to tell you that doing nothing doesn’t sit well with me.”

He nods his head and leans in, brushing a soft kiss to my lips. When he steps back, his eyes are serious and intense. “I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

I close my eyes and lean my forehead against his.

Every knight has a weak link in their armor.

I fear I just might be his.

“THE BABY’S GROWTH IS ON par. The heartbeat is strong and within normal range . . . but I’m a little concerned about your blood pressure, Justin,” Dr. Steele says, as she looks back down at the chart in her hand.

“I know. It’s just . . . we had something unexpected happen last night and it’s still kind of crazy and . . .” I stop and blow a breath out, trying to calm myself yet again and not worry about what Justin says he’ll take care of, but know is futile. I can’t rid my mind of the grainy images or the fear that this is all going to spiral out of control. “Sorry.” I shake my head to blink away the threatening tears.

“It’s okay. Sometimes things can be a bit overwhelming with your first baby coming. A lot of women get stressed over feeling their life is going to change so drastically and they can no longer do it all.” She reaches out and squeezes my forearm. “I’m inclined to put you on modified bed rest at this point.”

“No!” The word falls out in a shocked gasp, my eyes flying up to meet the concern in hers as my blood pressure starts to elevate again.

“Don’t think I don’t know that’s why Justin hasn’t been coming in. We both know he wants you off your feet, and you fear if he hears me suggest it, he’ll pressure you.” The stern warning in her voice is unmistakable. And there’s no use denying it, so I just nod my head and worry my hands together. “I’ll trust you’ll use good judgment or I’ll be forced to put you on bed rest for the remainder of your pregnancy. The longer the baby is in utero, the better all around for him or her. Delivering early because of preeclampsia isn’t an option I want. Try to make Justin deal with whatever situation came up last night so you’re not involved and your blood pressure can stay on an even keel.”

“I will,” I say, knowing I can’t. Her intelligent eyes assess the truthfulness of my statement. She nods her head. I guess I was believable.

“Okay. We’ll see you in two weeks then. Take care,” she says as she pats me on the shoulder before walking out of the examination room.

My drive home is consumed by unwanted thoughts of last night, when I shouldn’t be thinking about it. Doctor’s orders. But the images of Justin and me in the garage keep coming back to mind. The real ones. The ones I remember. Not the cheapened black and white version, which seems so classless, but the ones that will forever be etched in my subconscious because they meant so very much to me. I blow out a breath, still not believing how a night that was the spark of so many good things for us has now come back in such a malevolent way.

Driving onto Broadbeach Road, I’m so preoccupied with what I’m going to tell Justin about the doctor’s visit that when I turn the bend in the street leading to our driveway, I’m shocked to see the melee; the road clogged with paparazzi. As I pull closer I notice two of the big dogs—Laine Cartwright, Denton Massey—and I immediately know something is going on. Through closed windows I hear words like “video” and statements of “how does it feel?” The baseless hope I had that it was something completely different than the video vanishes instantly.

The assholes released the tape.

My first thought is that Justin told them to fuck off and die without telling me. My next thought is he wouldn’t do that without telling me. He promised he’d see what Kelly learned before making any decisions.

My heart drops as I do my best to keep my head down while I drive through the gates. Memories flood back to the last time the entrance to our house looked like this. Tawny had been involved that time so doesn’t it fit that she’d be involved this time too? But at the same time, it’s been six years. Why now? Why this? What’s the damn purpose behind it?

Nothing makes sense and the simple fact is driving me crazy.

My hands are shaking by the time I put the Range Rover in park. And as much as I want to bolt out of the car and find out what the hell is going on, I’ve learned to wait until the gates close at my back before I open the door so the vultures can’t get a shot they can sell. Once they do and I’m protected from sight, Sammy is already at my door opening it.

“Sammy?”

“Justin,” he says with a nod of his head and an aversion of his eyes, ignoring my questioning look. My feet falter on the short distance to the front door when it hits me. If the video has been released, Sammy knows who is on that tape. He arranged the car to be where it was that night. He’s seen me naked. And having sex.

Oh fuck.

And when I stop, he stops, only ratcheting up my embarrassment. When he places his hand softly on my lower back to help usher me to the door, I realize just how bad the situation is. He’s shielding my body just in case someone has managed to get me in their long-range lens.

This time I’m glad when he opens the front door for me and then steps outside because I can’t look him in the eyes. I’m mortified with embarrassment but at least he’ll be the only person who will know. I drop my purse on the table and go in search of Justin.

He’s not in the office or kitchen, and I’m surprised when I find him upstairs on the upper patio, elbows resting on his knees, glass of amber liquid in one hand, phone to his ear with the other, and his head hung down in concentration.

“We were obviously played, CJ. Fucking full-court press without a goddamn ball.” The resignation in his voice causes the hair on my arms to stand on end because why does he sound so defeated when he figured this was going to happen in the first place? That the asshole was going to release the tape anyway? “I know, but . . . fuck this is a clusterfuck. I didn’t see this coming. Not from a million miles away.” He pauses as CJ says whatever he’s saying. “There is no controlling it. Don’t you get that?” he shouts. By the shake of his head, he obviously disagrees with what is being said. “This conversation is done before I say something I’m going to regret and that you don’t deserve.”

He drops the phone on the chair next to him and without even looking up, downs the rest of the alcohol, meeting my eyes in a fleeting glance before concentrating back on the glass he’s just emptied. “I’m assuming you didn’t get my zillion texts?” he asks, irritated and agitated.

“I was at the doctor.” Oh shit. I was so stressed about how I was going to relay Dr. Steele’s warning to Justin, I completely forgot to turn my ringer back on. “Sorry,” I say, cautiously stepping onto the patio. “What’s going on, Justin?” I ask, although by his conversation with CJ, I already know.

He scrubs a hand over his face and when I get a little closer to him. Something about his movements tells me he’s a little buzzed. And I hate that he can’t look me in the eye.

“The fuckers released the video,” he says, words mirroring the thoughts I had when I saw paparazzi outside. The grimace on his face only serves to heighten my sense of dread.

“Okay,” I say with a slow nod. “Well, you were right then.” What else can I say?

The low chuckle he emits is anything but amused, and I will him to look at me so I can see what he’s thinking. But he won’t. Instead he just purses his lips, eyes focused on the bottle of Jack next to him, and pours himself another drink.

“But I was so very wrong.” The words hang between us as he slowly raises his eyes to meet mine. And the look in them—absolute and utter apology mixed with regret and concern—causes more than just feelings of dread. Something is so very wrong.

“What do you mean?”

“They never wanted the money.” Another long pull on the whiskey and the fact he never even winces tells me he’s had more than a few already. “Nope. Not even close.” He shakes his head when all I want to do is shake the answer out of him as the silence stretches. “In fact,” he says as he raises his glass toward me, “they one-upped us.”

“What do you mean they one-upped us?” The teeter-totter of uncertainty we are standing on starts to crash without a stopping point.

“They reeled me in, Selena, like a fucking fish on a hook. Doctored the time stamp like they knew I’d notice it. Made me think that was the only video of that night . . .” His voice draws off as he finally meets my eyes. “But there was one more. Another angle.”

And that simple statement hijacks my breath and makes my heart thunder. “Another angle?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Fuckin’ A straight,” he barks out, his self-deprecating laugh back that sounds equal parts sinister and lost hope.

“What the fuck do you mean, Justin?” I ask, my own mind running a million miles per hour now. I’m scared, worried, uncertain, and it all comes through in the words. Another angle? What do paparazzi know out front that I don’t?

“Sit down,” he orders, as he reaches out to grab my hand and tries to make me.

“Don’t!” I warn him as I shrug out of his grip, letting the single word mean so many things. Don’t coddle me. Don’t bullshit me. Don’t tell me to calm down because I’m not an idiot. I know something is very wrong here.

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