Unspoken by Kelly Rimmer

Author:Kelly Rimmer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HQN Books
Published: 2019-09-13T15:22:59+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Isabel

AT FIRST, BIKE RIDING seems like a genius idea on my behalf. We can do it together, which for some bizarre reason, we both seem to want. But I know we won’t talk while we ride, because we never did, and today that’s probably for the best. This morning has been relatively civil, in the scheme of things, but I think we’re both wary about how long that will last.

We head north, navigating the curves of Route 25 through East Marion. I’m in front for the first few miles, but then, as we pass the village of Orient, Paul silently switches to take the lead. We turn south toward Orient Beach State Park and travel along the narrow peninsula.

I try to force myself to pay attention to the pine-tinged breeze that filters through the nearby maritime forest, and the glistening waters of the Peconic River and Little Bay beside us...and not on Paul’s muscular arms and shoulders and ass, which are now right in front of my face and putting up a pretty fierce fight in the battle for my attention.

And suddenly, I can’t help but wonder if he was equally tortured as we made the first leg of this journey. Is that why he moved? Was this position as distracting to him as it is to me?

Not for the first time, I wish that physical attraction was enough, because ours is every bit as potent as it was that very first night all of those years ago. Sure, our sex life went through seasons—patches where we couldn’t keep our hands off one another, periods where things were calmer...but right to the very end, I wanted him desperately, and I knew he wanted me.

Maybe that’s why, even now and as we ride, I find myself wanting him all over again.

And that’s when this bike ride idea of mine stops feeling genius and starts to feel torturous. Because we aren’t talking about the past, but I’m sure as fuck thinking about it. I’m thinking about the other times we rented bicycles to take this very route, and how we’d get back to the house, sweaty and exhausted, and we’d strip each other as we tumbled into the shower. Sometimes we’d wash each other off and rush back to the bed, our skin still hot from the exercise and damp from the shower. Other times we wouldn’t even make it that far—he’d take me up against the wall of the shower. I also remember us going at it on a hastily assembled carpet of towels on the floor of the en suite more than once.

The tiredness and our familiarity with each other would make things more real somehow—stripping away any pretense that it was just sex—we were giving and receiving love from each other. Our lovemaking was raw and simple in those moments. Perhaps that’s what made it so beautiful.

“Ice cream,” Paul says suddenly, his voice husky. He pulls to the side of the road and brakes so fast and hard the tires on his bike squeal, but he comes to a stop just beside me.

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