by Amy Faye
The T.V. yammers on in the background, the remote too well-hidden to bother turning it off.
"One second," he calls out. It takes longer than it should have to pick his way through the room and get to the door. He's made a mess of the room for one thing, and for another, he's not navigating at his best.
The door opens, and on the other side is a pretty woman in a snug-fitting jacket. It's started raining some time in the last couple minutes, and yet it took no time at all to start pouring, and now Morgan Lowe is standing in his doorway dripping wet.
"Can I come in?"
"Uh, sure." Philip steps back and lets her pass. She drops a sack of food on the table. It's about the only thing she's got that isn't soaked through. Aside from a few little water-splash marks, it's actually in surprisingly good condition, all told.
"You alright?"
"I got you some food. Us some food."
"I thought you were going out with the boys?"
"I couldn't stand the thought of you out here alone, so I got you some food. And if you're gonna be eating, and I'm going to be right there, in case you change your mind about talking to me…"
"You thought you'd just bring a little more, just in case?"
Philip presses the clicker and the T.V. shuts off.
"That's about right," she says. It's not until he steps into the doorway to the kitchen to continue the conversation that he sees that she's stripped to the waist, her back to the door.
Part of him wants to stay and watch. She's got soft, clear skin, and her dark hair falls against it strikingly. Even from behind, with not a whole lot to see, she's a very attractive woman.
He turns away down a hallway, presses his back against the shared wall. "You need anything? I could, I dunno, probably get you a change of clothes. No guarantees how it'd fit."
She doesn't respond right away. The sound of water hitting steel as she wrings her shirt out.
"I couldn't. That would be totally inappropriate."
"I'm just offering you a shirt and a pair of jeans, Miss Lowe, not askin' your hand in marriage."
Another pause. Another squeeze-out into the sink.
"I don't want to put you out."
"You wouldn't be putting me out." The thought runs through his head and out his mouth, while the alcohol runs interference on his better senses. "Easier for me than having to look at a pretty woman in a wet shirt like that."
Another squeeze, this one quieter. Smaller.
"If it wouldn't be any trouble, then—"
Philip doesn't answer. He's already going to grab something from his dresser. The place isn't fit for guests, but now that she's here… well, it could be worse.
It got a lot worse, the first year. It wasn't until a year ago now that he had figured out that he can't just keep wallowing. It had been a big project getting this far. It would be a big project getting any further.
But you either do it, or you quit. What's the point of going halfway?
"Got your shirt," he says, finally. He's standing in the doorway. The second she starts moving, he's already wondering whether or not she's thought it through, but she turns anyways.
Her bra is hanging over a chair. She must have been thinking about what she was doing, right? And yet… she keeps turning. Her breasts are the first thing that strike him, and with the buzz from the alcohol, the voices telling him to stay are a hell of a lot louder than the voices telling him to walk away.
She walks up. If she hadn't realized her state of dress when she turned at his voice—well, that might have been instinct. A reflexive action. But the look on her face now shows that she knows exactly what she's wearing, and she's not happy about having just made an idiot out of herself.
She should be giving herself more credit. She might have made an idiot out of herself, but she made for a very attractive idiot.
"Thanks," she says. She takes the shirt and swings it around her shoulders. It sticks a little where her skin is still damp.
"Not a problem."
This close up, he can practically smell her. Can practically smell everything about her. The shampoo she uses, the smell of the damp air outside, mixed in.
She smells like a pretty woman. Like everything he'd imagine a pretty woman to smell like. And she's standing in front of him. She's closer to him than he'd realized. Her breasts are almost touching his chest. Her face is filling his vision.
And then, before he even realizes that he's the one moving, her lips are pressed against his, and he's pulling his arms around her, and it may be a moment of weakness but it's a moment of weakness that he's not looking to end.
She's kissing him back, and now her hands are on his hips, pulling him in closer, too. It doesn't take long for buttons to start being undone. For skin to press against skin as they hold each other.
Her body is cold from the wet and the rain, little goose-bumps raised all across her body. She shivers, though Philip can't say whether it's from the cold or from something else entirely.
His hands dance across her skin, now, pushing the boundaries that they've set for themselves once again.
He should've stayed outside the kitchen. He should never have seen what he saw. Then he shouldn't have kissed her. But he did.
And now, he shouldn't be letting his hands dance underneath that unbuttoned shirt, testing the soft skin of her sides, finding the feel of the curve by her ribs. Feeling the way that her back arches under his dancing fingers.
But he is, and he's not going to stop. His breath catches in his throat. He's not going to stop for anything or anyone, not unless she makes him. And from the way her teeth bite into his lip, pulling on it softly…
He doesn't think she's going to be stopping anything.
Chapter Twelve
Morgan Lowe knows exactly how much of a mistake she's making. Some small voice in the back of her head is telling her how it's all going to be fine. How this is building up a relationship with him.
Not a business relationship, of course. That part of her is lying its ass off. This isn't going to turn into anything. If it does, then whatever it turns into isn't going to be what she came here for.
She'd been wanting a sense of camaraderie. A sense that she was friendly, that she wasn't just a blood-sucking harpy who was out to steal his land. After all, that was what men thought of her, right? Just some kind of bitch.
Instead, she's building up a very different sense. His hands run across her skin, sensitive from the cold. Like little spots of warmth, wherever he touches. This is a mistake, and it's a mistake she's decided to make anyways.
Her lips press against his neck and then her teeth bite down. Philip lets out a little gasp and lowers his weight a little, turning and pressing her back into the wall. She lets go of his neck and takes a deep breath.
She can see the way that his eyes drop to watch her breasts heaving as she breathes. He pulls the thin cotton fabric away from them and looks. She resists the urge to cover them up. She's already resisted it long enough as it is.
She'd never been happy with her body in the past. Why should that be any different now? But something about the way that he looks at her, hungry, needing something that neither of them are entirely prepared to explain to the other—
It makes her feel like a woman, in a way she's never felt before. In a way that makes it feel less like she's at a disadvantage to every man she's ever met.
His head dips and his hot mouth engulfs a dusky nipple. The heat, surrounding her most sensitive parts, makes her head feel fuzzy. She only knows what she feels, and she knows that her hips are pressed against something very hard.
Her hands decide to go on their own little exploratory mission to find out exactly what it is that he's hiding down there. Morgan has a good idea of what she'll find when her fingers undo the button fly.
She wraps those fingers around his hardness, through the paper-thin fabric of his boxers, and it reacts to the touch, jumping and twitching in her hand. She gives it an experimental tug and even thr
ough the boxers she can tell that the experiment is a complete success.
When she starts to pull the boxers down, sinking to her knees, it reacts again, twitching almost in a gleeful response to its new-found freedom. The shaft is almost too thick to wrap her hand around.
She might be making another mistake thinking that she could take it all in her mouth, never mind inside her. But she's not going to stop herself now. Not going to be stopped by anything.
She presses her lips against the head, a gentle kiss that almost certainly isn't exactly what he's looking for. The sigh that he lets out tells her that she's on the right track, though. Her mouth opens wide, and she takes him inside.
His hardness fills her mouth, and she's forced to use her tongue as much as she can, because she's not taking it near as deep as some of the women in those videos she's seen.
The way his fingers snake into her hair, pulling just enough to let her know that he probably can't stop himself from doing it, though, says that she's not doing so badly.
She starts to move, and his hands tighten, trying to softly and subtly guide her mouth up and down his shaft. He must be enjoying it. Everything about the way he's acting suggests he does. But even still, she's amazed.
Morgan looks up at him. The look of complete rapture on his face, an inescapable bliss, is surprising. She must be doing something right after all.
His hips rock in to meet her mouth, his cock pressing itself dangerously toward the back of her mouth. The soft moan that escapes his lips stops her from telling him that she can't, though.
Instead, she continues. She ignores whatever reflexes her throat tries to throw at her. She can't overcome them, not with sheer force of will, but she can try to pretend that she doesn't notice it.
Finally he pulls her off. His breaths are coming hard and ragged. "Fuck that was good."
Something inside her, something she can't explain and will deny in the morning, feels a little bit sad that he didn't cum. Her pussy tingles at the thought of him shooting it down her throat, of taking her and making her give him whatever he wants.
"Did you like that?" She shouldn't ask. She can see on his face that he does. His eyes flutter shut at the memory.
"Fuck yes." He reaches down, one of his big, meaty hands wrapping around her arm and lifting her up a little. "Get up."
She gets up, and as soon as she's got her balance, she's being turned around, bent over the counter top. Her trousers slip down easily over her skin, wetness forcing him to peel them off of her.
"I'm going to fuck you," he growls. Morgan presses back against him. Deep in the pit of her stomach, she wants this. Needs it. It's been—God, it's been forever since she had anyone do this to her.
Never like this. Never a raw, primal lust. Never this bad of an idea. Never with a man ten years her elder. As he lines himself up with her slick entrance and pushes inside, she feels herself already starting to clamp down on him, her body tensing up a little and then relaxing.
Her eyes go wide. He pulls back out a ways and then pushes in again. Somehow, though it seems impossible, he goes in deeper this time.
He rocks his hips back once again, and with the third thrust he pulls himself in, using her hips like a handle, until he slams all the way home. His balls slap against her in a way she never realized would feel as hot as it does.
"Fuck me," she says. She's not sure why she says it, not sure if any of this is a good idea. The idea that she shouldn't be doing it only makes her want to keep going more. The need overtaking her senses keeps her on the edge of orgasm, always threatening to go over the edge once more.
He does what she asks. He pulls out and then slams himself home once more, his body moving in perfect time, filling her up to the breaking point. She's close. She feels as if she's been close the entire time, every thrust threatening to send her over the edge.
But something holds her back. Something that she can't name, something she can't explain. Something that she wants very badly to go away. When his hand comes down hard on her round ass, unleashing a resounding clapping sound, and then he thrusts in again, it's like the veil has been lifted.
Her entire body goes tight, her fingers scrabbling on the counter top. for grip that she can't find. Her body is moving on its own, now, her pussy squeezing to drain out every last drop of his essence.
And when he explodes inside her, the mistakes are complete, and she falls deeper and deeper into the orgasm, down to depths that she didn't know could exist, but now that she's got them, she's not giving them up for anything.
Chapter Thirteen
The weight of his mistakes hits him every time that he blinks. It doesn't take all night for it to start hitting him. It only takes as long as it takes to get some of that now-cold takeout into his belly.
He looks up at Morgan, at how attractive she is. He feels another stirring deep inside himself, even now that she's dressed. The desire that he's already slaked building up again. And he knows he should have told himself 'no,' but he didn't.
It hits him again when she leaves. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see the way her wide hips spread just a little, enough to accommodate him. He can see the way her back arches. He can feel the roundness of her ass in his hand.
It hits him harder in the morning, though. Everything always seems to. As if in the morning your mistakes are multiplied. The headache from dehydration, to little tiny hangover, isn't helping things at all.
But even still, the alarm kicks him awake before the sun rises, and he forces himself out of bed. He pulls on some clothes and an extra flannel shirt for good measure. It'll come off at some point during the day, but right now the outside is too cold to ignore it completely.
Deep breath. He's already had plenty of experience with all this. Already learned how to deal with things that you're absolutely not ready to deal with.
This time isn't any easier than it has been the last thousand times. Something inside him wants it to be harder, wants a hate to build up so big that it will burn forever. A hate for himself, for what he did to Sara, that he'll never feel okay again.
But he can't make himself feel that way. He already hated himself. This is just another in a long line of mistakes he's made, things he's done to embarrass himself. No change there.
And like he has to every morning, he has to force himself out the door. But that's no change, either. It's not any easier than it's ever been, but now he knows what to do. He knows how its supposed to feel. He knows that it's not going to be easy—not ever.
Somehow that makes it easier. It's made it easier every day since he left the hospital with two spaces in the car that should've had someone in them that were empty. Knowing that you'll never be able to fix it. He doesn't have to look forward to the day when it goes away.
He can just keep remembering that all he really has to do is make it through the next five minutes. Just keep going.
Five minutes is really progress, in the end. In the beginning, all he had was telling himself if he just took one more step, it would be fine. He could just put one foot in front of the other, and if that was too much, well, he could wait.
But eventually, he'd have to take one more step. Now, five minutes feels like a luxury. Just have to get to the coffee. Have to get a glass of water. Have to get breakfast started.
It's the routine that keeps him going on days like this. Some are better than others, but they're never good. How could they be? How could he let himself have a good day, when everything good that ever happened to him is gone?
He sits down at the table with his coffee, still steaming from the pot. He sets the water down next to it, and the plate of bacon and eggs down next to that. Deep breaths. It's easy to feel overwhelmed. Avoiding the overwhelming stress, that's the most important part.
He doesn't have to eat them, not if he doesn't want to. He just has to get everything on the table. Then, he has to sit down, and take a bite, and if he's not feeling it, then he won't eat.
But the routine gives hi
m momentum. The momentum that will carry him through the day. He spears a little egg with his fork and puts it in his mouth. He can stomach the idea of eating. So he takes another bite.
He takes a sip of coffee. It's a little burned. He should buy a new coffee maker, but he won't. He takes another sip. Still burned, but he can drink it. If it's unpleasant, then that's just fine. After all, he deserves it for what he did. He's betrayed his wife.
It's not the first time. The latest and worst in a long string of ever-worsening betrayals.
First it was letting her go. If he'd been there, in the room with her, the whole time… they'd told him he had to leave. He should've stayed. In the waiting room, in the chapel, somewhere. He should've been close to her.
She would've been able to take it then. She would've been stronger. He would've been stronger. They were a team. They'd always been a team. And when he'd been sitting there in his truck, fallen asleep out front of the ranch, she'd been fighting without her partner with her, and she'd lost the fight.
Then he'd kept going without her. He should've, you know. To meet her. But someone told him that she would have wanted him to keep going. Maybe they were right, but what she wanted and the right thing to do weren't the same thing.
In his weakness, he'd decided to do what they told him was the right thing. And he couldn't bring himself to regret it, not really, but he could absolutely blame himself for it. It wasn't even hard. Blame came easy and it stung bad enough that he felt like he was really suffering for what he'd done.
Then he'd started to live, a life that didn't have his wife in it. Now this. The latest and greatest in a line of failures. He takes a deep breath and drinks another sip of burned coffee.
It's always burned, though, and he deserves to drink burned coffee. He deserves it because he betrayed her, and now he was just going to hurt some other woman.
He reaches over and grabs the little brown box full of index cards, where he's written down numbers over the past fifteen years. It's not quite a Rolodex, like they used to use, and if the boys saw it then no doubt they'd have a whale of a time giving him shit about it.
