Page 43 of Hale Damage
Joe! Oh god, you’re making me fly.
“Me too, baby,” I cry, unable to hold back another second. I come deep inside her, no condom, just bare flesh rubbing and squeezing and throbbing together. “Fuck, I love you.”
I don’t know how long I lie there, my chest heaving from exertion before I open my eyes to…
An empty room. Exactly like that fateful morning.
The sleek white lamp beside my bed highlights the mess I’ve made of myself, my release dripping down the sides of my stomach and streaking the red panties.
“God, I’m fucking pathetic,” I curse, gritting my teeth because I swore I wasn’t going to do this again. And yet, here I am… once again covered in my own sticky fluids with her panties wrapped around my dick.
And did I really cry out that I loved her? Jesus Christ, I think that pisses me off more than my inability to control myself. There’s no way I love Minnie. She was a one-night stand who fucking ghosted me. That’s it. If anything, I hate her.
I reach for a few tissues and roughly clean the worst of the messbefore standing and making my way to the en suite. I toss the tissues into the small trash can and stare at the soiled panties bunched in my fist.
“I’ve got to stop doing this,” I say aloud. Holding my hand over the trash can, I inhale deeply before releasing the garment. But a second before they land inside, my arm swoops down like it has a mind of its own and snags the panties on my fingertips.
My exhale is part relief and part annoyance at myself. Turning on my heel, I walk across the marble tile floor and close the stopper on the sink. Then I fill the basin with lukewarm water and some lingerie wash from the bottle I keep beneath the cabinet.
After carefully washing them and setting them aside to dry, I inspect myself in the mirror. There’s no lipstick smeared on my face, no love bites on my neck, no scratches down my back.
Because she’s not here. Only the remnants of memories and my fantasies.
Pressing my hands against the countertop, I hang my head and do some deep breathing. I’ve got to get over this. Overher.
In the past year, I haven’t fucked another woman. I haven’t even kissed anyone. Ample opportunities have presented themselves, but I didn’t feel even the slightest temptation.
Maybe if I get the hell out of Houston, it will be easier to move past this foolish obsession. Pushing away from the counter, I nod at my reflection in the mirror.
Decision made. I’m going to call my father tomorrow and tell him I’ll go to London.
And I’m not taking those fucking red panties with me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sex isn’t everything, right?
Mindy
THREE YEARS LATER
Closing the door quietly, I put my purse down on the whitewashed cabinet beside our front door and strip off my blouse. I drop it on the sky-blue rug and step out of my heels as I cross the room, shucking my bra and letting it fall before I round the corner to the kitchen.
And there he is, standing at the stovetop, stirring what smells like spaghetti sauce. He’s wearing charcoal-gray pants and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Roger McCoy… my future husband. He’s the banker I met when I went to close Mama’s account that day. I never did use his card to call him back, but after I got the job as the bank manager’s admin, Roger stopped by my office each day to say hi. He asked me out for an entire year before I finally relented.
We dated for only six months when he proposed, but I turned him down. Some unknown force held me back from accepting his proposal. If I really put my mind to it, I could probably figure out the reason why, but I’m a chickenshit in denial, so I didn’t. I simply told him it was too soon.
When he proposed again eight months later, I said yes. Roger is agood man, not exactly a tiger in the bedroom, but I do what I can to keep things spicy.
Including now when I tiptoe across the room and grab a couple of handfuls of his butt. Roger jumps and turns around with a laugh, his eyebrows lifting when he takes in my state of undress. “Did you go to the store like that?” he teases, turning back to stir the sauce again.
Disappointment runs through me at the lackluster response, and I take away his wooden spoon and place it on the spoon rest. Pressing my body against his, I wrap my arms around his neck. “No, I’ve just been thinking about how hot my fiancé is, and I decided to cool myself off as soon as I got home.”
“Babe, maybe?—”
I cut him off with a kiss. A steamy, lusty press of my lips to his, working my tongue against the seam of his mouth until he opens for me. When he hardens against my stomach, a sense of feminine triumph replaces the earlier disappointment. I deepen the kiss, moaning loudly into his mouth when his hands go to my waist. It’s been almost two weeks since we’ve had sex, and I’m needy.
