THREE 

 

Faye's kiss is minty as she climbs into bed later that night. She's just finished brushing her teeth.

“Well that was interesting,” she says with a big yawn and stretch.

“Yeah, interesting,” I mumble. “I'm glad it's over. Now we have no reason to see them again.”

She gawks at me as though I've just spoken Klingon or something. “Why wouldn't we see them again? He's your father, and Emily seems to really like him.”

“I hate to break it to you but our daughter can be bought easily. Give her toys and she's anybody's!”

She cuddles up to me, her body warm, and she kisses me on the cheek. “Well that and he's actually really sweet.”

Now it's my turn to look at her as though she's speaking a foreign language. “Kittens and puppies are sweet, Faye. My father is not.”

“He adores her. You heard him, he wants to take her to Disneyland next summer. We can't deny them that.”

“Why is this so important to you? She doesn't need him. We don't need him.”

She must hear the rising agitation in my voice, because she doesn't respond. I immediately feel stupid and insensitive for asking. Of course it's important to her that family sticks together. I'm literally the only family she has. Both her parents and her only sibling are deceased.

She doesn't speak for a while. Then finally she says, “Angelique's nice.”

Just the mention of her name gets my back up. Just like the “alias” she went by when we were together, I've tried to forget that name. But it's impossible. Everything she does is designed to be remembered, so that even when she's long gone, when you're curled up in bed with your wife – the woman you love more than life itself – you can't help thinking about her. Reliving the first time you felt her lips on yours, the first time she touched you and you knew what she had planned for you. The first time you heard your own moans echoing through the bedroom while she brought you to climax. The truth is, I've never been able to forget her. Even before tonight my mind would wander. She's like an addiction; you can never fully get over it. The poison remains in your system.

“It won't last,” I say, because I realize I've been quiet for a long time and Faye is waiting for a response.

“You don't know that. I think she's good for him. They seem genuinely happy.”

“Yeah, well she's a great actress.” It's out before I can stop myself. Shit! I sounded so adamant, so certain. I hope Faye doesn't pick up on it.

She shakes her head. “You can't fake affection like that.”

For the first time in a long time I look at Faye and see a naive person too romantic for her own good. I wish I could tell her how wrong she is about Angel, but that would blow my cover.

But is that really a bad thing? I mean, I have nothing to hide. Everyone has a past, has an ex. So my ex happens to be a stunning blonde who reentered my life looking even more gorgeous than she did before... She'll understand, right?

“Faye...” I start, taking her hand, taking a deep breath at the same time. But I can't bring myself to tell her. It's on the tip of my tongue, but the words won't spill forth. I'm a coward. And if I don't tell her now, I can't ever tell her, because the longer you leave a revelation like this, the more guilty you look. “Nothing, let's just go to sleep. Goodnight.” I fake a yawn, peck her on the lips and switch off my lamp. Telling her would only cause unnecessary strife.

The goodnight is supposed to signify the end of any further discussion, any further exchange, but soon after I lie down and pull the duvet up to my chin, I feel Faye's hand creeping along my leg, seeking out my crotch. It doesn't take her long to slip her fingers into my panties.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. It's a stupid question, but I'm so surprised by this impromptu move that I don't know what I'm saying.

She laughs as she kisses me. “I would have thought that was obvious to you by now.”

I want to want her, God knows I do, but even with her fingers dexterously stroking my bean in that gentle way that she does before leading into more firm strokes, I fail to get excited. It's as if a button has been switched off down there.

With Faye's lamp still on I can see the confusion in her eyes as she strums away, unsuccessfully. It's painful to watch, so I turn away. She doesn't know it's not her, but me.

I let her try for another couple of minutes before I take her hand, clutching it at the wrist. “I'm just not there tonight, baby.”

“Okay, I'm sorry.”

“No, don't be. I've just got too much on my mind.”

She's embarrassed, I can see it in her cheeks. Even though I've told her she isn't to blame, she'll question her skills anyway. That's what she's like.

I give her a long kiss on the cheek as though that will fix everything. “I love you.”

She says it back as she switches off her lamp and settles into bed, her back to me. At that moment I hate myself, but even more than me, I hate Angel. This is why it's imperative that I get her out of my life for good. Because I'm already slipping back into old habits. Faye's ability to get me off has always been sufficient; it's always done the job, and I've never complained. But Angel's return has brought memories, reminders of what I've been missing. When the person who gave you the best sex of your life reenters it, suddenly what you thought adequate just starts to seem inadequate.

Angel has to go.    

 

“So... what was she like?” Sandra practically pounces on me the second I walk through the office door that Monday morning. It makes a change from hearing profanities shouted at our equipment. But this topic is one I don't want to discuss.

“What was who like?”

She rolls her eyes. “You know who. Your new stepmother.”

I unwrap my scarf. “She's not my stepmother yet. And with any luck she never will be.” If I have anything to do with it.

“That bad, huh?”

I trust Sandra with my life, and I tell her almost everything. She's great at keeping secrets. But as I open my mouth to say what has been bugging me since Saturday evening, I stop myself. It's too awkward, too embarrassing to share with even my best friend. Besides, I'm hoping this situation won't last long. If I can get Angel to walk away, there will be no need to mention our past involvement to anyone.

“She and my father have nothing in common. They're the most mismatched pair I've ever seen. Like chalk and cheese.”

“What does she look like? Is she pretty?” She perches herself on the edge of the desk, looking way too intrigued by all of this.

I shrug, unable to keep eye contact, and say with forced nonchalance, “Yeah, I guess, if you like that sort of thing.” I might as well have said she looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, because downplaying her obvious beauty is akin to lying.

“Bernie's loaded. A good-looking woman and a rich older man, that's all they need in common.”

“When did the world get so...immoral?”

“It's always been that way, girl, you've just managed to stay sheltered from it, and married the one woman in this world with integrity.”

Sandra loves Faye almost as much as I do. She's always telling me that if I ever screw things up with her, she'll step in to take my place. The imagery is hilarious – Sandra coming face to face with a vagina! She would run for the hills!

“When's the big day?” she continues.

“Mid-July, but hopefully never.”

Sandra folds her arms, gives me one of her looks. “Does your father seem happy?”

“That's not the–”

“Does he?”

“Well, yes, sure, why wouldn't he? I mean, the guy's marrying a woman more than half his age. He thinks he'll be getting lucky every night for the rest of his life.” I don't think it's just that, though. He does seem genuinely happy, the happiest he's been since my mother died. And Angel isn't even putting out! I wish I could say it was all about the sex, or even the promise of it, but it's more than that. I know she's putting on some kind of act, but he isn't. When he laughed at her jokes, he meant it. When he kissed her, I know he meant that too.

“Then can't you let him have this? You wanted him to accept your marriage, and he's done that. You have to do the same for him.”

“It's not that simple.” There I go again, close to spilling my dirty little secret.

“Why not?”

I shake my head miserably.

“Is it about your mom? Do you feel like this Angelique character is taking her place?”

 “Forget it.” I just want to get on with my work and not allow Angel to invade any more of my thoughts. She's done that way too much over the years as it is.

 

***

 

As I pull up across the street, the GPS tells me that I've reached my destination. I can see the shop already – bright pink, sparkly, situated in an upmarket part of town beside a boutique ladies clothes shop. Diamond Plaza it's called, and makes me roll my eyes as I cut the engine. She probably came up with the name, I think to myself, and hate it even more.

It's midweek, midday, the perfect time to make my visit, as it should be quiet. I sit back, wait five minutes building up the courage to see her again, and try to stop myself shaking.

“Pull yourself together. It's only Angel. Don't give her the satisfaction of being nervous,” I scold, but to no avail. Fact is, I've always been a little afraid of her, afraid of the hold she has over me. She gets a kick out of being intimidating. In her early twenties, when we met, she had a sort of blase attitude to life, like a reckless disregard for everything. A person like that is bad news.

Another fifteen minutes pass before I drag myself out of the car and cross the street, heading to the beauty salon.  

“Welcome to the Diamond Plaza–” She stops when she looks up from behind the counter and sees me. Her smile is equal parts evil and sexy – something only she can pull off. “I was wondering when you'd show up. What took you so long?”

Her two partners look up from plucking eyebrows and giving manicures, decide that I'm not worth their time, and continue with their work.

I had this terrific speech about wanting her to pack up her shit and get the hell out of town, because she wasn't welcome. But now that I'm here, standing in the middle of her shop, staring at the woman who has been causing me grief these past two weeks, I can't speak. What the hell does she mean by what took me so long? How did she know I would come?

“I...I just...”

“Ladies, this is Nikki, Bernie's daughter, and my future stepdaughter.”

The women say hello in unison.

“You're here for a massage, right? We added them to our program a few weeks ago,” she says, and before I know it I'm being led through to the back of the shop, and into a dimly lit room. There's a massage bed in the middle of it, towels and various lotions on shelves covering the walls. Melodious, relaxing music plays from a hi-fi system I can't see.

“I didn't come for a massage.” Although I'm adamant about that deep down, my words don't come out as assured as I would like.

“It's on the house. And it's quiet in here. You'll be giving me something to do.” She shrugs off her cardigan, revealing a thin, white bra-top. I cast my eyes away immediately when I notice that her nipples are showing through the fabric. But it's still not quick enough to prevent my thoughts from running wild, getting impure like they always do around her. It's as if she made them hard on purpose, in anticipation of my visit. When I hear her laugh to herself, I know that she remembers. She could probably tell me how many cumulative hours I spent devouring her nipples, losing myself in her breasts. It was like playtime for me. I wonder if they feel the same against my tongue, if she makes the same sounds she used to make when I worked them over. Oh God, why am I dredging up these thoughts? I'm a married woman, a family woman. The only breasts I should have on my mind are Faye's.

“I really don't think that's appropriate.”

“Come on, Nikki, it's just a massage. What are you afraid of?”

It's a challenge. She's goading me, I can hear it in her voice. This is how she gets me to do everything. What are you afraid of, Nikki? Then I instantly rise to the challenge.

“I bet you're really tense working at the office all day. I can help to get the knots out of your shoulders.”

“I don't have any knots.”

“Just lie down on the table and take off your shirt.”

Heavenly Father, who art in Heaven, save me from myself! I'm not a religious person by any stretch of the imagination, but a prayer is about the only thing that, at this point, will help me here. Refusing isn't an option, because she'll know she's won. Refusing will mean that my resolve around her is weak, that I don't trust myself enough. I have to see this through.

She watches me as I slowly unbutton my shirt. I've done this a hundred times or more in front of her, but this is the first time it feels dirty. Dirty in a scandalously sexy way.

There's a lopsided smirk that's made its way to her face. Nothing about this will be harmless or innocent, I know that already. With that knowledge, I should take it as my cue to leave, forget my latest show of bravado, and sprint out of there like I'm on fire.

“It's nothing I haven't already seen, Nikki,” she says when I turn away slightly. “Although... I think those have gotten bigger. Yummy.” She's pointing to my bosom.

When my shirt's off, I scramble onto the massage table, lie on my front before she can ogle my breasts anymore. Even with my bra on I feel way too exposed.

“You know, I never thought I'd ever see you again, and certainly not in this state of undress.” She's selecting oils from her sizable collection. The glee in her voice is unnerving. “After the way we left things, I thought you would have fled the country to get away from me.”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“That doesn't surprise me. You've always been a drama queen.”

“You're poison. Dangerous. Like a ticking time bomb. Getting as far away from you as possible would have been the smart thing to do.”

“And yet you came all the way out here to see me.”

Even though my reason for visiting wasn't to exchange niceties, it does indeed look suspicious.

I sigh in exasperation. “Just get on with the massage.”

As soon as she squirts the warm liquid onto my back, my body goes rigid. It's the opposite of what it should be, but this isn't just any massage. This has a million different connotations, implications. When her hands connect with my flesh, for the first time in seven years, it's as though I'm being transported back to 2008, to her cozy little loft-style apartment. I want to tell her that I won't enjoy this, that she's lousy at her job, but within seconds my eyes have fluttered shut, and I feel as though I'm floating on a cloud. Those knots she spoke of in my shoulders, the ones I didn't realize I had, start to fade.

“How does that feel?” Her voice is smooth, hypnotic.

I hear myself moan in agreement with the massage. That's answer enough. She lets out a little laugh.

“Your father thinks you don't like me.”

“He's right.”

“That's not exactly true though, is it?” She's standing over me, her crotch level with my face. “I think the problem is that you like me a little too much.”

“That was in the past. Whatever I felt for you ended the day you tried to run me down with my own car.”

“You're exaggerating.” She chuckles. “I sped off and you got in the way. I could be wrong, but jumping in front of moving cars isn't a sensible thing to do.”

She's twisting things like she usually does. That's not how it happened.

“You stole my car! I was trying to stop you.”

“Correction: I borrowed your car. We were a couple, albeit an on-off one. Whatever was yours was mine.”

I'm so outraged by this assertion, but you wouldn't think it to look at me. Her hands are magical. She truly is great at her job. My intention of disputing her claims are laid to rest as her hands travel along my back, paying wonderful attention to my lower section. I notice how dangerously close she's getting to my butt. It sends a shiver down my spine.

“We had some wild times together, didn't we?” she continues. “In and out of the bedroom. But mostly in the bedroom...” Her hands glide up my back again, then they stop. “For me to do my job properly I'll need to remove this.”

It's as if I anticipated this, and thus don't even attempt to stop her when she starts fiddling with my bra strap. In a couple of seconds it breaks loose. It's at this point that I decide to approach the reason why I came here, because I'm beginning to forget.

“What are you really doing here, Angel?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Why are you in town? You're a long way from home. And what do you want with my father?”

“I thought I answered that already. He's a great guy. He makes me laugh.”

“You expect me to believe that? His jokes are lame.”

“You and I never did share the same sense of humor. Your lame is my funny.”

“Look, enough with the bullshit!” I sit up, forgetting that I'm topless. But like she said, it's nothing she hasn't seen before. There's something exciting about being exposed like this in front of her, knowing that Faye is the only woman permitted to see my breasts, (and the only woman, besides my doctor, who has had the pleasure for the past six years). “You're not fooling anyone. Someone like you wouldn't be interested in someone like him unless there was something major involved.”

She crosses her arms, looking mildly amused by my outburst. I'm swearing again, thanks to her. It took me two years to get my cursing under control, and within a couple of weeks she's undone all my hard work.

“What might be in it for me?” Her eyes shoot back and forth between my eyes and my bare chest.

“Money is the only possible explanation.”

“I don't want his money. I have my own money. When have I ever been motivated by money?”

I'm forced to admit that she's right. When we were together she didn't care about money, possessions, any of that stuff. I think she was a trust fund kid, or a rich, dead aunt left her a bunch of money when she was younger.

“I don't really care what your reasons for being here are. I don't want you dating, marrying or sleeping with my father. Period. What's it going to take for you to leave?”

She raises an eyebrow in alarm, seemingly more amused than before. All I am to her is a running gag that she refuses to take seriously.  

“I could be way off, but I think you're a little jealous.”

“What do I have to be jealous of? I'm a happily married woman. My wife is perfect.”

She raises her eyebrow even higher. “Who exactly are you trying to convince, me or yourself? I'm sure you love your wife a lot, she's easy to love. But...” She shakes her head, “she's not me, is she? I would bet my life that she doesn't make you come the way I do. Have you dared share with her all your secret little fetishes? Does she know how much you like to be spanked? No, I bet she doesn't. Because she wouldn't understand. Women like that never do.”

“Don't you dare talk about Faye. You know nothing about her.” I'm pointing a threatening finger at her, but somehow doing so topless isn't having the effect I'm going for.

“I love how defensive you get.”

“I'm defensive when it comes to the people I care about.”

“Or maybe I hit too close to home. It's tragic when the woman you love doesn't satisfy you the way your ex once did.”

I've had enough. This was a mistake, I shouldn't have come. I've never been able to get her to do anything she doesn't want to do. I don't know why I thought I could successfully run her out of town.

“Tell me, does Saint Faye know that you asked someone to marry you before her? That my turning you down was the reason you're together now?”

“I never would have married you. You're not marriage material. Heck, you're not even suitable girlfriend material.” I'm trying to hurt her, trying to insult her, but from the size of her shit-eating grin, I'm failing miserably. I don't think there's an insult in the English language, or any other, that would work on her.

“Your dad doesn't seem to think so.”

“My dad's an old fool who's thinking with his penis.”

“So that would mean that you were thinking with your crotch when you proposed to me.”

“Pretty much.”

“I bet you think with your crotch all the time. Like when you're alone and you touch yourself, who do you think about? Your wife, or the woman who could make you come just by looking at you?”

I stand up to meet her head on. “My wife, always my wife.” I say it without flinching, without looking away. Too bad it's a bare-faced lie.

“I don't believe you,” she says simply. “You're a terrible liar, Nik.”

I hate how she shortens my name, as though we're friends or familiars.

When I don't speak, don't deny her claim, she smiles cunningly and says, “All right, you wanted to know what it would take to get me out of your father's life.”

I'm listening, but I suspect her conditions are going to be too demanding.

“Tell me, truthfully, and I'll know if you're lying, do you ever think about me, even just a little, to get yourself off?”

Any other question would have been better than that one. To answer truthfully would reveal too much about the state of my sex life, and the power she still yields over me. That's why she chose this particular question. But if me answering will get her to leave, I owe it to myself and my father to take that chance.

“Yes.” It's almost inaudible.

She leans in a little closer, looking victorious. “Sorry, I didn't quite get that.”

“I said yes, goddammit!” Of course she heard me the first time.

“I thought so.”

“Okay, you got what you wanted. Now will you end it with my father?”

She frowns, cocks her head to the side as though she remembers making no such deal. “If you want me to call off my engagement, my dream wedding, alter the course of my future, you're going to have to give me something better than that, Nikki.”

I'm almost afraid to ask, but I do. “What? What the hell do you want?”

“It's actually really easy–”

“Just say it already,” I snap.

“You never did give me a farewell fuck. I think you owe me that at least.”

I choke on my own saliva, scarcely able to believe what I'm hearing.

“You're out of your mind. I've always known it deep down, but now you've confirmed it.” I'm shaking my head in pure puzzlement.

“You act like I'm asking you to kill someone. You used to love screwing me. I couldn't get you to keep your legs closed...”

“That was before I realized what a psychopath you are. And, you know,” I say, and thrust my hand out at her, “before I got married.”

She rolls her eyes. “I'm not asking you to leave your wife. And I'm not asking you to do anything we haven't already done a thousand times already.”

“I'm married,” I repeat, and it's the only thing I can say. Her request has shocked the speech right out of me. Not just the request, but her apparent ignorance as to why I would have a problem just lying back and letting her have her wicked, sexy, delicious way with me.

“I was there long before she was, remember that.”

“So what, you think that entitles you to eternal first refusal rights over my vagina?” I mouth the word because even saying something like that in her company feels naughty.

“A right of first refusal, I like that. And I must admit, when it comes to you, more than any other woman I've been with, I do feel a certain element of entitlement to your body.”

“This is a test, isn't it? It has to be. You couldn't possibly think I'd go for something like this.”

“Well, you said it yourself, you do this all the time in your head.”

“Okay, this conversation's over.” I reach for my bra but she snatches it away before I can get it. “Really, you think that will work in your favor?”

She shakes her head with a smile. “No, I just really like the view.”

I stare her down for the longest time, unable to believe any of this is happening. I'm still praying it's a joke or a test of sorts. I'm also hoping I don't succumb. Because there's just something about being alone in a room with this woman that does things to my body no other person has ever come close to achieving. The effect she has on me is lethal, that's why it's imperative I get my shit and leave. But, as if reading my mind, she quickly scoops up my shirt. Now she has everything I need to escape, and my hopes of doing so are dashed.

“The way I see it, you have two options–”

“Yeah, I take my clothes back from you, or I scream this place down and let the whole neighborhood know you're harassing me.”

“I'll give you back your clothes, and I'll walk out of your life for good. You know what you have to do for that, though. Or you could leave here half-naked.”

I know I could wrestle her for my stolen clothing, and I would likely win (as she's at least a stone lighter than me), but then wrestling my ex while topless doesn't sound like such a far cry from what she's proposing.

Instead, I yank the white sheet off the table and wrap it around myself, holding it steady. Robbing her of the view she likes is my little piece of revenge.

“You expect me to believe that if I sleep with you you'll give everything up and walk away? Just like that?”

“You have my word.” She raises a hand. “Scout's honor.”

“Your word isn't worth a goddamn thing, Angel.”

“You should learn to trust people more.”

“I trust people, I just don't trust you.”

Her face goes serious for a moment when she responds. “I'll end it with your father, tell him I went back to women or something. He'll buy it.”

Holy hell, I'm actually considering this! How can it be that my wife of five years, my lover and best friend, has become but a distant memory in the face of wild, multiple-orgasm inducing sex, with my psycho ex no less?

And now I realize that this isn't about protecting my father anymore, and likely never was. It was always about me seeing Angel again. Purely selfish reasons. She is the drug that takes hold, digs its claws into you, and doesn't let go until it's taken everything you have. She's that one weakness man is prone to but can never explain. And I was hers the second I climbed into my car this afternoon and headed to her workplace...

“Or I could stay in your life, play the doting stepmother you never wanted.” She prowls toward me, her eyes daring and half-lidded, her bottom lip wet and glistening with her saliva. When there is hardly any space between us, and I smell the coconut scent on her skin, I remember it well and it makes me shiver in anticipation. She always smelled sweet, like dessert – the kind that kills you from over-consumption! She grips the sheet herself, and we both stand there holding the thin material that is currently keeping me faithful to my wife.

“But think about all those joint family holidays we'll have together. That could get pretty awkward.”

I narrow my eyes at her, though it's all for show. “So what you're saying is that I really don't have a choice?”

“Everyone has a choice,” is all she says before yanking the sheet from me, turning her statement into a huge contradiction.

My breasts hang bare and exposed for the second time that afternoon, but it's different this time. I let her eyes drink them in, enjoying being on display, and loving the smile my body is bringing to her face.

“I feel like I'm making a deal with the devil,” I mumble.

Her finger drifts across one of my already hardened nipples, stiffening it beyond recognition with a simple touch. I tremble and she smiles wider, our eyes locked on each other.

“Does this feel like hell to you?” she whispers, trapping my nipple between her index and middle fingers. I shake my head, unable to breathe a word. She lowers her head and pricks my captured nipple with her tongue. “Tell me what it feels like?”

There's only one possible answer, and I breathe it without thinking. “Heaven.”

She rewards me with a kiss, her lips super soft and damp. She even tastes like coconuts, though that's probably all in my head. Her tongue feels right in my mouth, and I let her dominate the kiss while driving me backward until I'm on the table again. I didn't realize how much I'd been missing this unrestrained passion, the almost animalistic desire for her body.

“Your coworkers...” I say as she lays me down. After all, I don't want them walking in on this scene. She's already introduced me as her fiance's daughter.  

“They don't care,” she says, kissing my worries away.

In no time she's worked my pants off, and moments later my panties follow suit. Naked, lying on my back on a massage table, about to submit to a woman I thought and hoped never to see again, my desire for her is so strong it leaves no room for guilt.

She spreads my legs gently. “Mmm, there's a scent I remember well.”

I want to watch her at work between my legs, to see such a beautiful woman devouring me ravenously, but as she bears down on my sex, I find I can't keep my head up. She doesn't hold back. Her whole mouth is being utilized, not just her talented tongue. I feel her in every corner, every nook and cranny.

Her tongue goes from one extreme to the next, flexible and loose to stiff and rigid. I instantly know what's coming, and moan in anticipation. Being penetrated this way sends me into ecstasy. I grip the sides of the table, fearing that I might tear into the mattress. The moans rip from my lips and fill the room. Everyone beyond these walls can no doubt hear me, as there is no door, only a curtain separating us from the rest of the shop. None of this matters while I'm getting some of the best head I've ever received.

When she's done stabbing at my hole with her skillful muscle, the way only she knows how, her tongue returns to its regular, flexible disposition, and she continues gobbling me up before taking the party further up north. I'm shivering like a virgin about to have her innocence taken. She always had that effect on me, that's probably why our sex is memorable to me. It's like losing my virginity all over again.

“Still as wet as I remember.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

I don't respond. She's not expecting me to, this is just her way of asserting her authority. She can say whatever she wants now, as far as I'm concerned, so long as she finishes what she starts.

And she does, with a vengeance, attacking my nub with reckless abandon. I'm not prepared for how forceful the move is, and so my moan of delight is half scream. Nothing deters her, however. With her lips wrapped around my bean, she sucks and licks like never before, unconcerned by my violent writhing against her mouth.

“Ohh...” I groan, pulling at my hair like a mad woman.

At this rate I know it's only a matter of time before I expire all over her face. She'll decide when she wants me to come – I don't get a say.

She decides a couple of minutes later, going in for the kill, letting her tongue stroke and jab me to a rolling orgasm.

My body becomes lifeless, completely spent. If I try to get up now I'll fall right back down. The energy, along with my juices, has been sucked out of me. I have nothing left to give. This is when she laughs, and she does so with her mouth still buried in my crotch.

“Seeing you like this, all fucked-out, was totally worth it.” She kisses my sex, long and drawn out. But I'm far too sensitive down there to enjoy it. I shove her head away with the energy I can muster. This only makes her laugh even more. Causing me discomfort was likely on her to-do list in addition to bringing me to climax, if I know her as well as I think I do.

“What's the matter, you don't like my mouth here anymore?”

“You can get off me now,” I say, and don't feel bad about it at all.

She doesn't move. “Or I could go in for round two. What do you think? Could you handle that?”

“I need you to get off me now,” I say, my voice more stern.

She plants a kiss on my sex one final time, then straightens up. Her lips and chin are shimmering with my sap. I can only glare at her, looking pleased with herself, wearing the incriminating evidence of my infidelity like a badge of honor. Now that the aftershocks of my orgasm have faded, the guilt is returning.

“What?” she asks with a laugh, seeing the look on my face. “You're not seriously blaming me for your surrender are you?”

Without speaking I climb off the table and retrieve my clothes, putting them back on as fast as I can. I feel light-headed and generally unwell, like I've been punched in the gut a few times. The realization of what I've done is starting to hit me, hard.

“Okay, so I did think I would have to work a little harder to get you to put out...” She finally wipes me from her face. “How do you feel? Or should I ask, how does she feel?” Her gaze falls to my crotch.

“Dirty,” I say. “Dirty and wrong. Like I've just been screwed by a cheap whore I met on the street.” My words are purposefully harsh, and I don't regret them. Not even when the smile fades from her face. Is that really hurt I see in her eyes?

She turns away from me so that I can no longer see it, whatever it was. But when she speaks again it's present in her voice. “I need to get back to work. You can see yourself out.”

I start to the exit then stop. “I hope you stick to your word, Angel. That's all this was for, getting you to leave. I hope you do the right thing.”

She says nothing, doesn't turn to look at me. Maybe my insult was too harsh, on reflection. She has a thick skin, but it's hard to shrug off being called a prostitute after giving someone amazing head. I consider apologizing, telling her I didn't mean it. But I hurry out of the room instead. I pass her coworkers without looking at them, mumbling a hasty goodbye, my cheeks burning as I feel their eyes on me. I can only imagine what thoughts are running through their heads.