The End of a Marriage (Colette and Matheo) novel Chapter 271

Chapter 43

Barefoot, shirt still hanging open at the front, Graham stalked down

the stairs like a man trying to outrun his own demons. His body was

still thrumming–wired–every nerve ending buzzing with frustration

and need.

He dragged a rough hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as he dug

into his pocket for his keys. He needed to get out. Now. A long drive,

some cold night air–anything to put distance between him and the

woman upstairs who had nearly made him lose every shred of self-

control.

But his fingers closed around nothing.

Shit.

His wallet–along with his keys–was still inside the bedroom. On the

floor. Right where he’d thrown it in his reckless haste to find a

condom. The memory sent another wave of frustration crashing

through him, tightening his muscles, making his skin feel too hot, too

tight.

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Chapter 271

Every instinct screamed at him to just take one of the guest bedrooms

and wait it out. Sleep off the tension, let the night pass, pretend none

of this had happened. But he knew himself better than that.

If he stayed, he would think of her.

Of the way she had trembled beneath his touch. The way her skin had

flushed, her breath had hitched, her lips had parted on those soft,

helpless sounds.

If he stayed, he would imagine what could have happened–what

almost did.

His jaw ticked.

No. He needed out.

The plan formed quickly in his mind–in and out. He’d slip back into

the room, grab his wallet from the floor, and leave before she even

noticed he was there. She would probably already be curled up

beneath the sheets, hiding from the wreckage of what they had nearly

done.

Graham exhaled slowly, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

It was the best option. The only option.

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And yet, as he turned back toward the stairs, the thought of stepping

into that room again, of seeing her lying there, still warm, still

untouched–still his for the taking- sent a vicious hunger tearing

through his veins.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

This was going to be hell.

Graham pushed open the door, moving with the quiet precision of a

man who knew he shouldn’t be there. The dim glow from the bedside

lamp cast a soft, golden hue over the room, stretching shadows along

the walls. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, scanning for his

wallet, telling himself he would not look at her.

In and out. Get the wallet. Get the hell out.

But then he heard it.

A small, broken sound–a muffled sob.

His head snapped up before he could stop himself.

There, curled up in the middle of his bed, Isla lay on her side,

clutching his pillow to her chest as though it were a person. Her

fingers gripped the fabric so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

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Her delicate shoulders shook with silent cries, her face buried against

the pillow, trying–failing–to smother the evidence of her

heartbreak.

Graham froze, every muscle in his body locking into place.

Fuck.

She wasn’t supposed to be crying.

She wasn’t supposed to look so small. So fragile. So completely

wrecked.

A deep ache twisted in his gut, sharper than any arousal he had felt

for her, cutting straight through the frustration and lust. This was his

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