by A. C. Bextor
Again and again, my body rocks into hers. She frees my hands, and when I open my eyes, her hands are all over herself. As she works her chest, her mouth is open, and her eyes are hooded.
I’m about to fucking lose it.
“Turn around. Hands and knees,” I direct.
Without hesitation, she does as I’ve asked.
Before I’ve had a chance to enter from behind, Katie turns her head, her hair cascading at the side.
“All of you,” she reminds.
Gripping her hips tightly, I slam into her again.
“Yes,” she whispers, looking between her hands that hold her steady to the bed.
When my thrusts become steady, Katie takes one further, pushing herself into me roughly.
“Fucking hell, Katie. Hold on.”
Grabbing a handful of hair, I pull gently until her back is to my chest.
“Headboard, baby. Hold tight,” I instruct.
Katie’s knuckles whiten as she grips. I drape my arm around her waist and run my fingers over her chest. Her nipple crests and she moans.
Using my other hand, I brush my finger over her clit. Her body tenses, forcing my cock between her legs.
My cock slides inside and her body again adjusts. As the momentum starts to build, her mouth opens and she gasps.
“Mason, yes,” she hisses, pushing herself back into me when I attempt to pull away.
Not wanting to miss this, not for our last time, I carefully shove her forward and hear her whimper of protest at the loss.
Reading my intention, Katie turns. Her mouth meets mine and her body crashes against my chest. She wraps her arms around my neck and takes her back to the bed until I’m over her, my hips between her thighs.
Grabbing her hands, placing them over our heads, Katie threads our fingers together.
Breathless, she invites, “Together.”
Nodding, I’m back inside. With tears falling down her temples, she wraps her legs around my waist, holding me against her. She moves her hips and that’s when she lets go.
Seconds later, I follow.
So remarkably beautiful. So unbelievably trusting.
Once we’re spent, she looks up at me with those big brown eyes, no longer swimming in tears, but drowning in them. She kisses my jaw, my neck, then stops, resting her forehead at my chest.
And that’s when Katie starts to sob.
“C’MON, KAT.” THOMAS WHINES, CRAWLING into his side of the bed and pawing at the hem of my nightshirt.
Slapping his hand away and giving him more of my back, I accuse, “You’re drunk.”
My husband reeks of stale beer. He’d gotten home from the bar an hour ago, where I’m assuming the same ‘friend’ who picked him up also dropped him off.
Thomas had called after work, claiming he had an impromptu meeting he couldn’t miss. He got home, changed clothes, and left. All without telling anyone so much as hello.
Twenty minutes ago, I heard him downstairs, fumbling with the lock. Finally, he managed to clamor his way inside. The house shook as the door slammed behind him. I didn’t get up from bed. The girls are both staying with friends so I knew he wouldn’t wake them. And I hadn’t been sleeping anyway.
If you were mine, I’d fuck all that sadness from your eyes.
My mind has been consumed by all Mason had to say.
Because of this, I hoped Thomas would fall asleep on the couch, unable to make his way upstairs. This has happened before. Many times.
But not tonight.
Instead, I listened to him tearing off his clothes, dropping them to the floor in a rush. This only happens when he’s had too much to drink. Sober, he hangs them promptly in his closet—placing them carefully on the side that I need to have cleaned.
Thomas sighs, lying down, and getting comfortable before he notes, “We haven’t had sex in a while.”
A while?
It’s been over three months since he so much as touched my face with any sort of sincerity. I’d been standing in the kitchen upset after having an argument with Amelia.
Six months since Thomas last held my hand. This wasn’t a romantic gesture. For whatever reason, I tried on one of the rings Thomas bought me when we were first starting out. The silver piece had gotten stuck and I was ashamed the fit was too tight. Thomas took my hand, caressed the swollen finger and told me he’d buy me another.
He never did.
And, lastly, nearly nine months have passed since he’s been inside me. The last time we were together, I’d been the one drinking. I wanted sex. I came on fast and strong, never being like this with him before. He gave me what I needed. The violent orgasm that tore through me was proof I was thinking of another time, another place, and another man.
I knew my adulterous thoughts weren’t fair to my husband—yet at the time—I didn’t care.
“I miss you,” Thomas utters through my thoughts on a slur.
If you were mine, not a day would go by when you didn’t feel loved.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” I accuse, grabbing his wrist as it aims to caress my thigh. “Go to sleep.”
Scooting closer, Thomas blankets my back with his chest. His cock pierces the back of my leg, and he moves my long hair from my neck. His fingers snake between my thighs. Closing my eyes, I try to remember when this was an almost welcoming touch.
“Katherine, I miss you,” he tells me quietly. “You’re always so far away.”
Now he notices?
“I’ve always been here,” I counter.
Thomas’ hand traverses up my stomach. The nightgown catches on his thumb. He continues his crusade, fumbling his way around like a drunk teenager blundering over a girl’s body for the first time. The palm of his hand connects with the soft flesh of my chest. He massages the nipple long enough for it to peak.
I’d find any reason I could to have you smile at me the way you used to.
“My Katherine,” he coos in my ear, thrusting himself against me from behind.
His fingers and palm work my chest harder, and I sigh with realization that I have but two choices.
Accept his offer, have sex with my drunk husband—getting what every woman needs—a sexual release.
Or
Ignore his attempt, hope he gives up and starts an argument to end this.
I made you a promise, Katie.
Mason’s words taunt. The promising tone he used to say them. The way his eyes narrowed in anger. He meant what he said. I felt each word caress deep inside, as I always do with him.
My body jerks, trying to escape Mason in memory.
Thomas mistakes my reaction as intent. He moves the hair further from my neck and utters in my ear, “Fuck yeah, Kat.”
My hips shift, his cock sliding over my ass. He’s close to entering. Even drunk, all he’d have to do is…
Thomas slides inside.
“Oh, God,” I hiss, jutting my hips to feel him deep.
That’s what you’d be gasping in my ear when I fucked you in our bed.
Pulling out and thrusting in again, Thomas murmurs, “Fuck, Kat you feel so good.”
Closing my eyes, I again attempt to rid all thoughts of Mason.
With Thomas, my body merely aches in places it should burn with desire.
With my husband, my soul cries, but not from passion. Its tears are for loss.
With the man who’s supposed to love me, my lips quiver, because they too are so lonely.
Thomas’ rough hand grasps my shoulder, twisting my body until I’m flat on my back and he’s over me. When he reenters, his drives are fevered and aimless.
I can’t do this, I said to him and watched the hurt frame his face.
Thrusting again and again, Thomas’ breathing starts to labor. The exhale of alcohol fans my face. I slam my eyes closed.
I can’t be your friend.
The weight of Thomas’ body becomes heavier on top of my own. His hands brace on either side of my head, and he groans as his release gets clos
e.
If I told you to leave him, give me the Katie I once had back…what do you do?
A pain in my chest causes me to wince. When I start to pull away, pushing on Thomas’ chest, begging for borrowed breath, he slams into me one last time.
I won’t touch you again. Not until I know you’re mine in a way that’ll never fucking change.
Thomas’ body falls limp over mine. A small whimper escapes my throat as he carelessly pulls out.
You’re not ready for this.
“That could’ve been better,” he jokes, as if expecting to find this funny.
I find no humor, though. My mind is heaving with anger and frustration.
“I need to get up,” I nudge, pushing on Thomas and getting no return.
He’s out.
Gathering the physical strength I need to overthrow my emotional drain, I manage to get him off me. He rolls to his stomach, his cheek facing the opposite direction. I stare at the ceiling, contemplating what just happened.
I made you a promise once. And fuck me, I’m trying to keep it.
I feel sick.
Making my way to the bathroom, I flip the light and wince until my eyes adjust. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, I should’ve left the room dark.
My hair is a mess of tangles. Not from sex, but from running my hands through it before bed.
My face is flushed. Not from a night spent in passion with my husband, but from lingering thoughts of a man I can’t have.
My chest is red from Thomas’ fingers pulling and probing. Not the gentle nips and bites from a man ravenously starving with need.
I look old and used versus sexy and satisfied.
I just had sex with my husband, and it took me until now to realize he hadn’t even kissed me.
Don’t come back here without being clear on why you came. When the only reason you’re standing in my home is because you’re ready to make it ours.
Grabbing my phone from the bathroom basin, where I left it to charge, I start a new text, sending it to the only man I’ve ever truly loved.
11:42 p.m. I hate you.
I HATE YOU.
Katie’s frustrated. Which is good. Because so am I.
Her text didn’t come as a surprise. When I all but threw her from my cabin, the look on her face gave way to how bottled up and angry she’s been since I’ve become part of her life again.
I’m happy enough.
Happy enough doesn’t cut it.
It took all I had to not beg her to stay. Not to give her every reason to leave her husband, bring her girls to the only home they’d ever need—mine—and keep her here the way I promised.
I hate you.
Fuck.
“Jesus Christ, is this where his kid sister lives?” Rob questions, staring out the window of my cruiser.
As we pull up to the run-down brick apartment building, my gut wretches as two small kids play with a broken beer bottle. They’re kicking it back and forth, laughing as it continues to crumble into sharp, jagged pieces. Their shoes are beaten to shit.
“A single mother living out here,” Rob shames. “Any mother living out here,” he says, removing his seat belt and grabbing the handle to the door.
This side of town has always been rough, but being that it’s been awhile since I’ve been out this way, it’s also now worse than I remembered.
The railings leading up to the apartment are chipped as well as broken in several places. Windows scattered along the front have been broken, some are boarded up with wood, some not. Most front porch furniture outside is rusted and dingy as well.
Rob turns to me as we make our way down the broken sidewalk. “I’m checking out the back. If we gotta do this, I don’t want any surprises.”
Nodding, I make my way toward the front.
“Hey, so you’re a cop?” one kid with dirty blond hair suspiciously asks, looking up into the sun, using his hand to shield his eyes. His legs are dirty, and it looks as if he hasn’t had a good meal in months.
Smiling to put him at ease as I point to my badge, I tell him, “That’s what the uniform means.”
“My mom says cops get a bad rap,” he tells me.
Another boy stands at his side. This one bigger, stronger, and looking as if he has something to hide. He won’t look directly at me.
“Some get bad raps. Some don’t,” I return. “You know who Ginger Marcos is?” I ask.
Hearing the name, the dark-haired kid, who refused to look at me, finally does. He looks behind him and up to the apartments before he points to one on the second floor. I was right. That’s her place.
“You know Gigi?” he asks. “’Cause she doesn’t like men around her little girl much.”
“I know Ginger. I have a couple questions for her.”
The talkative blond stops playing with the broken glass and queries, “Is Miss Marcos in trouble?”
“Nope,” I reassure. “She’s not in trouble.”
“Good,” the dark-haired boy replies. “She’s nice to us.”
“Her little girl’s name is Aria,” the blond explains.
“She’s not in any trouble,” I reassure, turning to see Rob heading up the stairs alone.
Moving to follow, I leave the boys with, “I’ll tell Gigi you said hi.”
Once we’ve made our way to the door, Rob nods so I knock once. We can hear a television inside. There’s also a child crying. When I look inside the apartment window, the blinds move.
I knock again, this time louder.
As soon as the door opens, I fight not to take a single step back but it’s hard. The putrid smell coming from inside the house is overwhelming.
Rob smells it too, wincing as he orders, “Once clear, I’ll take the porch and watch for him.”
The woman with the long dirty hair looks to Rob, then to me. “I didn’t do it,”
“Are you Miss Marcos?” Rob questions.
“Who wants to know?”
Even while being in uniform, I show her my badge. Likely, judging by the looks of her, she’s had a run in or two with more than just the local PD.
“I’m busy. What do you want?” she asks, scanning over my uniform, then moving to Rob’s.
The baby’s cry gets louder. I look over Ginger’s head to see a little girl sitting in a high chair. There’s no food on the tray. She only screams for attention. The baby’s clothes are clean, her face as well. She’s healthy as far as I can tell.
But I’d like a closer look.
“Can we come in?”
“Nope,” Ginger refuses. Recognition finally dawns and her face goes from indifferent to hard. “You’re Mason-fucking-Cole,” she sneers accusingly. Her back straightens and before I have a chance to rebut, she adds, “You’re that son of a bitch who helped send my brother to prison.”
“We need to come in and talk.”
“Fuck you,” she spits, leaning forward and placing her hands to her hips. “He trusted you and you fucked him over.”
“He needed help,” I return.
“Fuck you,” she snaps again, this time louder. “You told him you could help him. You didn’t. Do you know what some of the other inmates are doing to him in prison right now?”
I’m hoping they’re teaching your brother what it feels like to be raped, beaten, and left for dead, I think but don’t say.
“So he hasn’t been here then?”
Her anger fades and she whispers, “Been here?”
“Marcos escaped. He’s on the run.”
A coy smile crosses her lips, revealing her unwashed teeth. “No shit?”
“You haven’t seen him,” Rob surmises, not as a question, but an answer. “Look,” he starts, but she cuts him off.
Pointing in my direction, she states, “He’s coming after you, and you’re here asking me to help you find him before he does.”
“I’m asking you to help find him before he ends up dead. Law enforcement is looking for him and it’s a no prejudice hunt.”
; Confusion flickers but she rallies, “A what?”
“If we find him, and he resists, we subdue him any way we have to.”
“We’re done,” she clips. “Get out of here. I have nothing for you.”
Using my hand to hold the door open, I insist, “If you do hear from him, call the cops. Don’t let him in your home. Don’t let him near that little girl.”
“Fuck you,” she says again. “Now get the fuck out of here before I call the neighborhood cops.”
Her threat is heard. Rob and I aren’t armed to defend ourselves against an army of thugs thirsting for cops’ blood.
“If I find out you know something and you’re not telling me, you’ll never see your daughter again.”
With my last statement, Ginger Marcos, kid sister to this state’s well-known pedophile, slams the door in my face.
Past…
“I’M PREGNANT.” THE NEWS FALLS from my mouth, dripping like hot acid from my tongue.
I’d been sitting on my living room couch, patiently waiting for Thomas to arrive. I knew he was on his way to pick me up. He’d called twenty minutes ago, advising he was going to be late. We were planning on going to dinner tonight, then stopping over at a mutual friend’s for her twentieth birthday party.
Instead, I’ve derailed our plans—for the rest of our lives. I spilled life-changing news, not because I wanted to tell him, but because I didn’t want to be alone with the fear of it any longer.
No matter how hard I try to push the words away, the results the doctor brought in this morning won’t change.
One night.
A single, drunken night spent without protection in the bed of a man I know, but hardly know at all, and I’m pregnant. My unborn baby will start its life with two people still trying to find the path to their own.
“You’re what?” Thomas responds, desperate for clarification.
“I took a home test a few days ago. I went to the doctor today. He confirmed what I knew. Thomas, I’m pregnant.”
His head rears back and panic blankets his every feature. “We were careful, right? I mean, Kat, are you positive?”
Am I positive I’m pregnant? Yes.
Am I positive I want out of this? Yes.
