And right then, Mia Merrick was in the mood to play games.
“Go home, Mia,” he ordered.
She looked up at him, eyes hooded, but he could read them. He’d had years of that. The woman couldn’t hide anything from him.
She was angry.
And she was something else too.
“Haven’t heard from you in a while, Merry,” she said softly.
“Sorry. My bad,” he replied. “Congratulations, babe. Wish you all the best,” he told her with far less emotion than he’d spoken to Cher that morning, which meant his voice was a black void it was a wonder the bitch didn’t disappear into.
Unfortunately, she didn’t.
He watched a slow grin lift her lips.
She thought she’d read him.
She might have heard about him and Cher, it was doubtful she hadn’t, but even if she did, she didn’t know she’d lost the ability to read him six days ago.
She thought his words hid jealousy.
She leaned closer to him.
He swung back but did it studying her.
Pretty. So fucking pretty. A little minx. He’d thought she was his little minx. Got off on that. Bitch was wicked.
And he’d been wrong.
He couldn’t totally read her because he was the asshole who didn’t read for the five years they were apart that her wicked games were poisonous.
“Mia, go home,” he repeated.
“You want me to go?” she asked, leaning further into him, pressing her tits into his chest.
He instantly pulled back.
Her eyes narrowed and she shot out a hand to cup his crotch.
She barely got her hand on him before he moved his between them. Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he yanked it away, listening to her surprised cry when he used precisely the strength he intended, making the hold he had on her bite just enough to make a point.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“Merry,” she whispered, twisting her hand in his hold to try to get away, uncertainty in her features now.
He jerked her forward and she gave another surprised cry as he bent to get in her face.
“Listen to me,” he growled. “You do not ever come here again. You sell that house. You pack your bags. You get your ass to Bloomington. And you forget I exist.”
She looked into his eyes, the uncertainty gone, the training he’d given her that she owned his dick and could lead him around by it shining from them now. “You don’t mean that.”
“You have another man’s ring on your finger,” he reminded her.
“Like that means anything to you,” she retorted.
“Fuck,” he whispered, staring into her eyes. “Do you not know me at all?”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “I know you better than you know you, baby.”
He used her wrist to give her a slight shake, and her eyes shot back up to his. “No, bitch,” he bit out. “You don’t. You wanna come and play and you made no promises that a man’s countin’ on to live the future he’s got mapped out with you, that’s one thing. This shit…it’s another. You wanna be that cunt who fucks over her guy, have at it. But you’re not usin’ me to get you off playin’ your games.”
“If it’s that big a deal to you, Merry, while you fuck me, I’ll take his ring off,” she offered.
Fucking bitch.
How the fuck had he not seen this before?
She came to him. It wasn’t rare; it wasn’t frequent.
But she came to him when she’d had a bad day…“and I just want to be with you, Merry.” Or when she’d had a go ’round with her mom…“and no one will get it like you, Merry.” Or when she felt…“we need to talk, Merry.”
What she needed was to fuck, for someone to get her off like, apparently, no one else could, and it took her little time to talk him around to that mostly because she’d put her hands or mouth on him and they wouldn’t talk at all.
He didn’t comfort her. He didn’t listen to her.
And most of the time, she’d be gone before he woke, or he’d lie in bed, watching her dress and listening to her say, “Gotta go, baby. I’ll call you.”
She wouldn’t call.
But she also wouldn’t hesitate to come back when she needed another dose of his dick.
He’d thought, one day, she wouldn’t get up early and sneak out. One of those times, she wouldn’t dress while he watched then leave, but instead come back to him and say shit like, “Dinner tonight. It’s clear neither of us can let this go. Let’s work it out.”
He’d thought her coming at all said they weren’t done. The door was open. He just had to walk through.
When that didn’t happen, he felt like the asshole because he didn’t ask for it, didn’t push it, didn’t point out that the finality of signing divorce papers was bullshit for the both of them.
She hadn’t led him on. He’d fully participated and he was not a dumb fuck. He knew early what was going on.
That didn’t mean he didn’t feel she was leaving that door open.
Friday night, he thought she’d gotten fed up and closed the door.
It pissed him off more than Cher’s rant that morning, not only that he’d been wrong but, with Mia’s most recent visit, how he had.
The past few days, he’d been recognizing Mia’s games for what they were, and it sat like a weight in his gut that information was confirmed.