CHAPTER 38: IT WAS TRUE

Sylvia pulled her hands free with a swift tug and, before he could react, she leaned in and cupped him boldly, groping his cock through his jeans.

"Jesus Christ!" The curse burst from him. His body betrayed him instantly, his cock swelling hard against her palm. Joey’s head tipped back against the chair, a strangled sound slipping from his throat, halfway between a groan and a curse.

Sylvia laughed softly. "Mmm. You can lie with your mouth, Joey, but not with your cock." She squeezed him gently, her eyes never leaving his face. "It remembers me even if you pretend you don’t."

Joey’s hands hovered uselessly in the air, then landed on her shoulders, trembling, caught in the indecision that had always defined him when it came to her. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and when he finally looked down at her, his eyes burned with undeniable ache.

"Goddamn it, Syl..." he muttered.

With a flick of her wrist, she reached for his zipper, ready to undo the last of his resistance. But Joey, for once, was faster. He shot out of the chair so abruptly it nearly toppled, and in the scramble, his knees buckled as if his body had betrayed him with the same weakness his heart carried for her. He caught himself on the edge of the coffee table.

"Sylvia!" His chest heaved, and the cords in his neck strained.

Sylvia’s shoulders slumped, the smirk faltering. She stood, regaining her poise. "Admit it, Joey," she demanded. "I am the only woman—the one woman—who can make you feel alive. You know why? Because you still goddamn love me. Goddamn it, Joey, you do!" Her eyes glistened.

Joey dragged in a shaky breath. He reached down, fumbling with his pants, zipping them up with hands that trembled. His gaze locked on hers.

"It was true," he admitted. "You were the only woman I wanted. You were crazy, brilliant, sexy... God, Sylvia, you lit me on fire in ways no one else could. You made me feel like every damn day was the edge of a cliff and I was jumping just to see if I’d survive."

"But this?" He gestured between them, his hands shaking. "This isn’t my fault. You showed up to my parents’ house—ten in the morning, Sylvia—on the day I was supposed to propose to you. Drunk off your ass. You promised me. You swore to me."

"And I believed you," Joey continued. "I wanted to believe you more than I wanted my next breath. But that was then." His fists unclenched and fell helplessly to his sides. He stared at her with heavy eyes. "You are the only woman who could make me feel alive." His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then, slowly, he shook his head. "Not anymore."

He turned, and started toward the door.

"You said ’are’."

Joey stopped mid-step, his shoulders tightening. Slowly, almost against his will, he turned around. "What?"

"You said ’you are the only woman who could make me feel alive.’" Sylvia’s smile spread. She could feel the victory pulsing in her veins. Even if he didn’t lay another finger on her, even if he walked right back out the door, she had already won. She’d cracked his armor. "You didn’t say were."

"You were... were..." he spat out, over-enunciating. And then, before she could deliver another jab, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the house.

Outside, he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. Annoyance twisted in his gut—not at her, but at himself. At the weakness that still lived in his bones whenever she was near. God help him, he wanted her. He had always wanted her. And some ugly, unshakable truth whispered he would always want her.

His gaze dropped unwillingly to the bulge pressing against his pants, his erection straining uncomfortably, the fabric doing nothing to hide his betrayal. He swore under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could erase the image of Sylvia kneeling, her wicked hands on him, her laugh in his ears.

"I love my wife. I love my wife," he muttered, his breath quick and shallow. His hand gripped the edge of the car door. He yanked the door open and slid inside, determined to drive, to put distance between himself and the hurricane inside that damn house. But when his hand touched the ignition, his whole body rebelled. He sat frozen, staring at the steering wheel, waging war with himself.

His heart thundered against his ribs, sweat beading along his hairline. Sylvia’s face flashed in his mind—her sly smile, her taunts, her eyes shimmering with longing. His wife’s face followed. The battle shredded him in half.

"Fuck it!" he growled. He slammed the car door shut and strode back toward the house.

Sylvia was exactly where he’d left her, standing in the middle of the living room.

"You are a callous bitch!" Joey’s voice thundered as he marched toward her. His chest rose and fell with sharp, furious breaths, his pace never slowing, his fury tangled hopelessly with lust. His eyes blazed, and Sylvia smirked.

"I know."

In one violent motion, he seized Sylvia and crushed his mouth against hers. The kiss was punishment, a brutal collision of lips and teeth, his tongue invading her.

Sylvia melted into him. Her hands were already at his waist, fingers fumbling eagerly with his belt buckle. She didn’t dare give him time to think, to recoil, to remember his wife’s name. No—this was her moment, and she wasn’t letting him crawl back to morality. The metallic clink of the belt filled the air. She tore the zipper down, her lips curving mischievously against his mouth.

Breaking the kiss, Sylvia looked at him, her eyes glinting with victory. Then she sank to her knees in front of him.

"Christ," Joey muttered, shoving his fingers into her hair, gripping it hard. His cock sprang free, flushed at the tip. He shoved himself against her lips, and when she parted them with a soft gasp, he thrust inside, groaning as the wet heat of her mouth wrapped around him.