Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
As he crawls on top of me, his body pressing down in a way that should feel comforting, familiar, an insatiable, overwhelming amount of guilt floods my chest. This couch is tainted by what I’ve done with Saint, and now Shephard is crawling on top of me, in the exact position Saint was in a matter of days ago.
The memory of Saint—his hands, his lips, his body—flashes through my mind like an intrusive thought I can’t shake, a vivid, unwelcome superimposition over Shephard’s face.
He kisses me, his lips soft and familiar against mine, his breath warm, but I can’t lose myself in it the way I should, the way I used to. Every second of the kiss feels like a betrayal in itself, a searing reminder of the secret I’m keeping from him.
A lie pressed against his mouth.
I know the kiss won’t last long. Shephard is nothing if not predictable in moments like these. He’ll take it to the bedroom before things get too heated, before the passion can truly ignite, as he always does.
He’s a bedroom kind of lover, methodical, careful, almost . . . ritualistic. It’s the way he’s always been, always contained, always planned. There’s something safe about it, something comforting in its routine, its predictability, but tonight, it feels stifling, like I’m trapped in a script I’ve followed for too long, a play where I no longer remember my lines.
I don’t know that we’ve ever had spontaneous sex on a couch before. The thought strikes me as odd, considering how long we’ve been together. Our intimacy has always followed a pattern, a rhythm we both understand, a comfortable dance. There’s never been much room for surprises, for wild abandon, for spontaneity.
And yet, with Saint, everything was raw, unpredictable, charged with a kind of reckless energy I’d never felt before. The contrast between the two men, between the two experiences, is startling, a jarring shift in frequency. I can’t help but compare them in my mind, even though I know it’s wrong, know it’s unfair to Shephard, to our history, to everything we’ve built. But the comparison happens anyway.
“Let’s go to bed,” Shephard says, predictably, his voice soft and full of affection, a familiar invitation. He kisses my forehead before pulling away, leaving just enough space between us to remind me that this is how it’s always been, this careful, controlled distance. I nod, even though my mind is elsewhere, still trapped in the sticky web of lies I’ve spun.
“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’ll be right there. I have some emails I need to send first.” The lie slips out with scary ease.
“Take your time. I need a shower anyway.” Shephard’s voice is a warm, even murmur laced with a familiar, uncomplicated affection that feels like a heavy blanket draped over my shoulders. He stands up from the couch, stretching his arms over his head with a contented sigh, a soft, almost purring sound, as if nothing is wrong in the world, as if the unsettling encounter with Saint earlier was merely a quirky interlude.
As if everything is exactly as it should be, perfectly aligned in his predictable, comforting universe. His hand briefly brushes mine as he passes, a faint warmth, before he heads down the hall toward the bedroom. His footsteps are steady, even, his presence radiating an oblivious sense of comfort. But I can’t take comfort in him tonight. Not now. Not after what I’ve done.
My skin crawls with the memory of it, the scent of him still clinging to me like a phantom perfume.
The bedroom door closes softly, a quiet, almost imperceptible click that echoes like a gunshot in the sudden, cavernous silence of the living room. I wait, holding my breath, straining my ears, listening for the distinct sound of the bathroom door closing behind him. I hear the faintest creak, then the unmistakable whoosh and spray of the shower turning on, a steady, rhythmic rush of water that signals I have time, a precious, stolen window. Time to do what I shouldn’t. Time to fall deeper into the trap I’ve set for myself, a trap of my own design.
I bypass the laptop entirely, its purpose forgotten, a flimsy lie. My bare feet glide across the cool hardwood as I make my way to the back door, drawn by an invisible, irresistible pull. I unlatch the lock, the click surprisingly loud in the quiet house. I step outside and pull the screen door shut behind me.
The cool night air hits my skin like a slap in the face, sharp and biting, chilling me to the bone, but at the same time waking me up to the raw, treacherous reality of what I’m about to do.
My hands are shaking, a nervous tremor that runs through my entire body, as I pull out my phone, my fingers fumbling clumsily with the screen, almost dropping the device onto the wooden porch. Without hesitation, almost by instinct, I immediately dial Saint’s number, my mind racing, a frantic carousel of emotions: raw anger, piercing guilt, and a flicker of excitement.