The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,252

my body is covered in goose bumps. His fingers press inside me harder, faster, until I’m writhing with a mix of pleasure and agony.

A second later, he’s flipping me to my stomach, and the clink of his belt fills the space we share follow by the metallic tug of his zipper. He produces a condom, sheaths himself, and a single thrust later, he’s filling every inch of me.

On my knees, I grip the sheets, letting him fuck me just like the last time. He grunts and groans, his hands digging into my hips as he controls my hips to meet his every thrust. My skin feels red and raw, and I’m oddly more aroused than I’ve ever been.

But I don’t want this—not anymore.

I pull my body away from him and roll to my side, climbing off the bed and gathering my clothes. He watches, face twisted in frustration.

“Ayla,” he says.

“I don’t want to do that with you,” I say, throwing on my t-shirt and slipping my leggings back on. My bra and panties are lying somewhere around here, but the room is dark, and I don’t feel like searching.

I’m hot. The room spins. Making a beeline toward the balcony, I fling the sliding doors open, greeted with a burst of fresh, rain-scented air.

Rhett steps outside a moment later, sweats over his semi-hard cock.

“I miss the old you,” I say, arms wrapped around my side and legs crossed as I sit at one of the chairs. “In a way, it feels like I’m cheating on him ... with you.”

He takes the chair across from me, resting his elbows on his knees and breathing into his hands. Rhett pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes concentrated at his feet.

“I love you, Rhett,” I glance at him, and our eyes hold. “I want to be with you. Still. But not if you’re going to hate-fuck me every time you see me.” I stand up. “I can’t.”

All I wanted to do tonight was talk. I thought maybe we could sit down, put the ego and bullshit aside, and figure this out. I was prepared for it to go either way. I wasn’t prepared for him to all but throw me against the wall and take ownership of my mind, body, and soul all over again.

I hate myself for giving in.

I stand, drawing in a deep breath and mustering the strength to do what I have to do. “Goodbye, Rhett.”

He stays, unmoving, planted in the chair and watching me leave. Before I step inside, I decide to tell him one last thing.

“And yes,” I say. “I do think you should forgive me. But if you don’t want to ... if you can’t ... that’s on you.”

Forty-Three

Rhett

* * *

“Hey, hey.” Locke shows up at my place looking every bit the part of a single father who has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s giving it his best anyway. He balances his daughter, Joa, on one hip, a black leather diaper bag hanging off his opposite arm.

I try to grab the bag, but he hands me my niece instead.

“She doesn’t bite,” he says. “Not often anyway.”

Joa smiles at me, her big brown eyes lighting like they always do when she sees me. I’ve never been great with kids, and I always feel awkward around babies, but Joa adores the hell out of me for some reason.

“I think she pooped,” I tell Locke, holding my breath. “Yeah. She pooped.”

Joa laughs, and I hand her off.

Watching Locke as a father is comical, but he’s doing a good job so far. We were all shocked when he told us he knocked up this up-and-coming pop star he met on his own dating app, and we were even more shocked when she said she wanted to give the baby up for adoption so she could focus on her budding stardom but Locke wouldn’t allow it.

Now Joa’s all his. And she’s his whole world.

He changes her on my kitchen island. Whatever works. And places her on the ground when he’s done. She makes a beeline toward my living room where I keep a small basket of baby toys, mostly ones Locke’s left behind during previous visits.

“I didn’t know she was walking,” I say.

He rests his hands on his hips, watching her proudly. “Yeah, just started last week.”

“Man, you need to get some color in here. This place is depressing,” he says like he always does every time he comes here. “Gray couch. Gray walls. Gray floors. Live a little, Rhett.”

“Yeah,