Heartbreak at Roosevelt Ranch Read online

  A divorce? Really?

  He was never going to let that happen.

  Rob leaned down, intending to get in her face, to remind her that they weren’t this couple, that they made decisions together, that—

  Her lips.

  God, he’d always loved her lips.

  Berry red and plump, they’d always reminded him of raspberries. Or maybe strawberries. She’d been wearing strawberry Chapstick the first time he’d kissed her.

  Sweet. Succulent. And way too tempting.

  Back then and now.

  He closed the distance between their mouths. The kiss he gave her wasn’t like the ones he typically gave her, not pecks or quick hellos and goodbyes, goodnights, cursory touches to prove that they still loved each other.

  This kiss was heat.

  It was frustration and anger. It was passion and fury. It was desire and tongue and lips and—

  “Fuck!” he shouted, pulling back and bringing one hand up to the corner of his mouth as he sat back on the edge of the tub.

  It was teeth.

  Melissa’s teeth.

  Blood was on his fingertips when he pulled them away from his lip. “What the hell, Miss?”

  She didn’t look at him, instead staring at her toes, which were perched above the water and resting on the edge of granite. Her breathing was hitched and she reached forward to push the lever to drain the tub.

  Rob shouldn’t stare, but his wife was in front of him naked, and his eyes drifted down her body, noticing every curve, every freckle, every stretch of silky skin. He’d kissed each inch of Melissa a hundred times over.

  Just not recently.

  Which he suspected was a big part of the problem.

  The water drained slowly down her skin, pooling at her breasts then her stomach, then her thighs, then it was gone and she was fully exposed in front of him.

  Except for her face.

  That was turned away.

  He ran a finger down her arm and she jumped, turning farther away from him, her shoulders and hips twisting until she was practically a pretzel in an effort to escape his touch . . . his presence.

  “You’re—”

  “I’m not too skinny, dammit,” she screamed, scaring the shit out of him.

  He jumped, almost falling from his perch. But then he really looked at his wife, saw what she was doing.

  And it nearly broke his heart.

  Stiff shoulders. Tense muscles. This wasn’t frustration. It wasn’t a spat that he could smooth over with a few words.

  There was a fucking cavern between them.

  How the hell had that happened?

  How the hell hadn’t he realized it was happening?

  His voice was quiet. “I was going to say you’re beautiful.”

  Melissa didn’t reply, didn’t move, didn’t look at him.

  Rob felt panic crawl into his gut and twist hard. His wife was a live and let live kind of woman. Not much got to her, and even if it did, she was able to compartmentalize it away. To put on a good show and move forward.

  She didn’t shut down.

  Except, a voice niggled, with her mother.

  Her mother had hurt Melissa so many times that eventually there hadn’t been anything else.

  No feelings. No more emotions spent. No energy.

  Nothing.

  Their relationship had become such an empty shell that when Sonya Harrison had finally left for good, Melissa hadn’t cried.

  Just as she wasn’t crying now.

  His gut twisted tighter.

  “Melissa,” he said and rested his palm on her shoulder.

  She stiffened, somehow her delicate little body went even tighter until he could see the striations of her muscles through her skin, until the flesh under his palm felt like the granite around the tub.

  He pulled back. Stood.

  Would have left if he hadn’t seen the relief creep into her frame.

  She wasn’t as locked down as she would like to portray.

  Rob grabbed a towel. One that he remembered fighting with her over in the home goods store. They had been sixty-eight dollars apiece, and he’d abjectly refused to pay that much for a piece of cotton.

  Melissa had threatened to never make her chicken and dumplings again.

  He’d caved like a cheap suitcase.

  They’d bought four of the expensive towels—because she’d needed two, one for her hair and one for her body, and of course they couldn’t buy an uneven number of towels—and . . . he loved using them.

  They were like silk, cozy and cuddly, and if a man of his profession ever got caught saying, hell just thinking, those words, he’d have been razzed out of the department.

  He spread the towel over her, hating that she jumped at the contact, then reached into the tub and pulled her into his arms.

  She started to squirm, but Rob merely tightened his grip, cognizant of her feet as he maneuvered her from the bathroom, across the carpet, and into their bed.

  When he reached for the covers, Melissa tried to scramble from the mattress, but hell if he was going to let her escape now before they hashed this out. There was time, dammit. Even if it meant explaining everything.

  “Stop,” he muttered, pulling the quilt up and over them both, trapping her legs by throwing one of his over the top.

  “Let. Me. Go,” she said through gritted teeth as she bucked against him.

  Then she cried out in pain and he felt like the biggest jackass on the planet.

  “Melissa,” he said, pinning her shoulders down and sitting back on her legs to prevent her from getting free. “Stop.”

  Not that she made it easy on him. She was wilier that Old Man Jacob, and that fucking octogenarian had tried to knee Rob in the balls after getting caught red-handed stealing Betty Jenkins’ mailbox.

  The entire mailbox.

  Rob didn’t understand people.

  But he understood his wife.

  Or he thought he had.

  Because he barely recognized the woman beneath him. The coolness in her gaze, the underlying hurt, the stiff body below his.

  “Talk, Miss.”

  She lifted her chin, turned her eyes to the side.

  “I’m serious. Either talk or we stay here all day.”

  He wasn’t bluffing.

  And she knew it.

  29

  I stared up at Rob and wanted to smack him.

  Of course, to do that I’d actually have to be able to reach him.

  Either talk or we’re staying here all day.

  Ugh. Freaking idiot men.

  Did he think he could control me? Did he think he could bend me to his will? Did—

  Hell yes, he did.

  And why wouldn’t he?

  I had bent. Too many times. Bent and bent and bent until I’d felt as though I would break.

  No more.

  I lifted my chin, made my voice fierce. “If they offer me a contract, I’m taking it.”

  Rob’s brows drew down, forming a little divot I used to love smoothing away. Then again there were a lot of things I used to love doing.

  Including my husband.

  Who was hot and hard on top of me.

  Who knew that restraining me while I was naked would turn me on? Apparently my body was seriously into kink.

  Gross.

  Except, not gross. Because Rob’s stomach was flat, his jeans were unbuttoned and—my eyes flicked down—he wasn’t wearing underwear.

  I felt like banging my head against the headboard. I probably would have if I could have reached it.

  He. Is. Screwing. Another. Woman.

  I can’t be attracted to a man who’d do that to me. I just can’t.

  But I was.

  And Rob knew it.

  His eyes darkened. His hips dropped a little heavier against mine, letting me feel the weight of his arousal.

  He liked restraining me too.

  After all these years, I never would have expected to find something new that push
ed both of our buttons.

  Rob had always been gentle with me—soft and sweet and tender. I’d liked it, been satisfied . . . when we’d been able to make time to have sex with two small kids and a husband who worked insane hours.

  But maybe I’d like something more too.

  Which was a thought that had never crossed my mind. Not until recently anyway.

  I was supposed to be grateful and thankful and whatever else that the universe decreed. My family was safe and healthy. We had food and security and—

  Sometimes I wanted more.

  Did that make me a bad person?

  Maybe. I sighed. Maybe, it did.

  “I hope you take the contract.”

  My eyes flew up, collided with Rob’s. His were molten, dark and bottomless, inviting me to swim in their depths if only I could find the courage to dive deep into the blackness.

  “W-what?”

  “If you get an opportunity to do what you love, I want you to take it.”

  My voice caught in my throat, and then I shook my head.

  He lifted one hand from my shoulder, rested it on my cheek. “I’m serious, Melissa.”

  I pulled away. “I’m serious too. I’m taking it, and it doesn’t matter if—”

  He bent, slanted his mouth across mine.

  This time I didn’t bite him. I wanted to. At least for a second. But then his hand slid from my cheek to my chin and held my head in place as he plundered my mouth.

  Literally plundered. Like a rake or rogue or pirate.

  Or at least that was how I pictured one of those types of men from the historical novels I loved. They took charge in their heroine’s bed, making the poor girl—or in this case, my poor brain cells fizzle to almost nothing.

  Rob’s tongue pushed into my mouth, sliding along mine, coaxing, no cajoling, no demanding that it tangle with his. He pressed me into the mattress, laying the full weight of his body against mine as his other hand moved from my shoulder to my hip. His fingers were there . . . almost there.

  I gasped, and he kissed me harder, pressed me firmer, tugged me closer until I didn’t know where I ended and he began, until I was kissing him back just as fiercely and wildly.

  I yanked at his pants, ripping at the waistband and shoving them down as far as I could reach.

  Then he was naked.

  “Oh God,” I said when he finally released my mouth.

  “Yes,” he quipped, running his tongue down my stomach, delving it into my belly button.

  For once, I didn’t feel an ounce self-conscious. This wasn’t about stretch marks or saggy boobs or lumps and curves where they shouldn’t be. This was about heat and feeling and passion and desire.

  This was needing my husband’s tongue on me, in me more than my next breath. This—

  “Oh fuuuck.” I bucked when Rob pressed his mouth to me and gripped his hair like it was a steering wheel as I ground against his face.

  I don’t think I’d ever been this aroused, or at least not this quickly. Of course, it had been months since I’d had a good orgasm.

  It wouldn’t take months to have this one.

  His tongue pressed, his fingers slid home, and I was gone. Flames licked up from my center to explode throughout my body. I glanced down, half expecting to find I’d turned to ash, but ash couldn’t feel.

  Not the emotions. Not the torment and need and want.

  Everything with Rob was twisted up, knotted, and so fucking sick.

  And I was worse.

  Because I wanted him still. I wanted more. I wanted him inside me.

  He lifted his head, grabbing the corner of the sheet as he sat up to wipe his face. My eyes slid away from the glistening on his chin, ashamed and turned on at the same time.

  “Miss—”

  I couldn’t.

  Not when his voice was that soft. Fuck. Tears burned. My chest rose and fell in rapid movements and not because my husband had just taken me on the fastest, strongest, biggest roller coaster of an orgasm of my life.

  I didn’t want to feel any of it.

  Not the betrayal and agony, not the hope. I wanted to forget it all.

  “Sweetheart.” A swipe of Rob’s thumb along my cheek. “Don’t cry—”

  I shook off the tendrils of emotion creeping in, the forgiveness for my husband, the urge to forget all and carry on like nothing was wrong.

  I would probably hate myself for this, but I didn’t want tender. I didn’t want my heart involved.

  I wanted a rough, raw fuck. I wanted to get lost in sensation and feel nothing but pleasure.

  So I brushed his hand from my cheek and reached down between us. He was hot, hard as steel.

  His breath hissed between his teeth and he went to pull my fingers away.

  I stroked faster, held on tighter.

  “Babe—”

  “Mmm,” I said, need coiling between my legs. I accepted the flames of desire because it cauterized the painful edges of my emotions.

  It was all reduced down to rough. To smooth, warm. Wet.

  I tugged Rob closer, biting at his neck, scratching his back with my free hand, pulling him tight, accepting him inside.

  “Melissa,” he groaned.

  “Harder,” I panted, arching up. Pain bit through my consciousness, my feet not quite ready for the exertion, but my body was. And that slice of hurt put me on the razor’s edge. “Rob. Rob. Rob.”

  “Fuck,” he said, pounding into me. “Melissa, please say that you’re with me. Please—”

  The sheets abraded my back, the pillow bunched under my neck, the blankets tangled at my feet, and I didn’t care one bit. Not when the pleasure was twisting, spinning tighter and tighter. “P-lea-se d-don’t s-stop.” I gasped out, his strokes breaking the words into multiple syllables.

  He gripped my hips and stroked harder, deeper than before. His eyes were on mine, burning, excruciating as he took in every detail of my response. I ignored the plea, his need for connection, and focused on his body instead.

  The way the cords of his neck strained, his skin shiny with perspiration, the ripple of his abs as he moved in and out, in and out.

  And then I didn’t have to worry about avoidance.

  My eyes slid closed as my orgasm bubbled over and swept through me.

  I was barely aware of Rob pounding into me one more time before he cursed and exploded.

  I held onto that shield of pleasure as long as possible, gripping tight to the sensation, never wanting to come down.

  But I did.

  I eventually became aware of Rob on top of me, of my husband stroking my hair and holding me close.

  His smell, his body, his touch. Initially, it was only that. Physical. But then my mind cleared, and it all came pouring back in.

  Anger. Hurt. Betrayal.

  And the worst . . . disgust.

  With myself.

  30

  I shoved at Rob’s shoulders, wanting him off me, out of me, away. Far, far away.

  “Miss—” he began.

  I shook my head, squirming harder, shoving more fiercely. “Off,” I gasped. “Off now.”

  “Am I hurting—?”

  “Get off me!” I screamed.

  Rob’s face hardened, but he sat back. I scrambled up, sliding to the side of the bed and swinging my legs to hang off the mattress.

  It was only the pull of my stitches that stopped me from standing and running away.

  I dropped my head into my hands, hot tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. What had I just done?

  A warm palm landed on my shoulder, making me tense up.

  “Why are you running?” he asked, as though genuinely perplexed why I might be pulling back from my cheating husband. One whom I’d known was cheating and still slept with.

  Real freaking smart, Melissa.

  “You’re kidding right?” I snapped and yanked at the comforter, wrapping it tightly around my body. “Why would I be disgusted for fucking you? Why?”

  “Disgust—”
He snorted in disbelief, shoved to his feet. “That’s a really shitty thing to say.”

  I laughed coldly. “No. A really shitty thing to do was to fuck your coworker and then disappear from our lives. To throw me and our kids away like we didn’t fucking matter. That was the shitty thing to do.”

  Rob began pacing, his footsteps pounding even through the thick carpeting. “I’ve been on a case and couldn’t contact you much, but I sent texts for you and the kids every morning and night. You were the one who never responded back.”

  I wasn’t proud of what I did next, but I was a woman at her wit’s end.

  My fingers wrapped around the heavy protective case surrounding my phone, and I chucked it at my husband’s head.

  “Then where—” I watched the phone fly and collide with Rob’s chest after which it plunked to the carpet. I know, I know, my aim sucked. “Where the fuck are they? Because I never saw a single one.”

  He bent and scooped the phone up, unlocking the screen before presumably scrolling through my texts.

  Then he crossed to his nightstand where there were two phones. He snatched the non-cheater one that we’d picked out at the store together, leaving the other on the polished wood.

  He pulled something up on the screen and shoved the phone in my face. “Look.”

  My eyes flicked down.

  I read.

  And my stomach twisted into knots.

  I still don’t know why you’re not responding to these, but the case is almost closed. I’ll be home soon, and we can talk. I love you and the kids.

  I scrolled up, read another text.

  I’m sorry about being away so much. I miss you. Tell Max good luck at his game.

  I miss you and the kids so much. Being away for work sucks, and I would give anything for some of that blueberry cobbler you were perfecting a few weeks ago.

  “It was pie,” I murmured before shaking my head at myself.

  Not the point.

  My finger swiped as my eyes rapidly devoured the texts, seeing the words and not understanding. He’d sent them every day, every single day and night. But I’d never received them. Not one.