Wreckers

He backs you up against the door before your fingertips even get to his belt. His jeans are so tight tonight that you doubt your shaking hands will even be able to remove them and so you wonder whether you can make him come standing here, right now. You almost want to try.

You can hear people talking outside the dressing room but he’s currently nipping at your earlobe and growling low in his throat as you play with his hair and so you don’t really care who they are or what they’re saying. He isn’t even meant to be in here with you right now. You’d overheard him telling Kristen that he would just be a minute. You tilt your hips up against his, grind against him, as you think about whether she might be out there too. If she is, you want her to hear you make Lindsey scream. Because you will make him scream. More than once.

-

She’s laying down next to you, curled up on her side just inches away (gone are the casual touches of the first year or two of your marriage) and you can’t stop your mind from racing. You think what you’re feeling is guilt but maybe it’s actually excitement - it’s close to the adrenaline rush you get onstage. Because can she even tell? Can she tell that you spent the past three days forgoing the recording you were meant to be doing with Stevie in order to hang out with her and fuck her? In this bed?

Your wife smiles softly and presses a tender kiss to your bare chest. You look down at her warily and when you see her inhale (just a moment - you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been looking for it), you wonder whether she can tell that you haven’t even changed the sheets. Looking at Kristen’s huddled body beneath the comforter doesn’t present much of a challenge to your imagination and you run your fingers through her blonde hair. When you close your eyes you barely have to imagine at all. As you bury your head in your pillow, you can still smell your lover.

-

He wants to take you slowly on the couch and with the way he’s currently caressing you with his incredibly nimble, strong fingers, you’re almost ready to say yes. But you whisper words to him - not here, not yet - and drag him to the bedroom by the hand. He looks unsure and keeps sneaking glances at the framed pictures of his children on the wall. You don’t care right now, though. You need him to know that there is no area of his life where you don’t belong. You are his completely and he is yours completely and nothing is off bounds. He needs to know it and deep down you wish there was a way Kristen could know it too, so she can’t deny it any longer.

Is it wrong to want to be caught? And not because you feel guilty for having an affair with a married man. No, because you want to show Lindsey’s wife exactly what you have that she doesn’t. All of him.

-

You were meant to sneak out. But maybe you’d overestimated your ability to wake up with the sun. You think, though, that it’s more because you’d underestimated how completely sated you’d be after Lindsey had finished fucking you against the wall of the master bedroom. And on the bed itself. And so you didn’t make it out on time. You don’t realize at first what’s happened. You feel someone pressing a warm kiss against your bare shoulder and then everything becomes a blur. Someone is shouting and screaming (how could you?! in our bed?!). Someone else is apologizing. You think maybe that someone should be you. But it’s not. You don’t think you could find an apology within your extremely satisfied body right now. Because, after all, all you did was make love with the man you were destined to love. And no one, not a single person, can ruin that for you now that you’ve embraced that knowledge.

You pull the sheets up around you, hiding from her (not from him, never him) and watch as they leave the room. Lindsey follows her, his back straight, his head high, and you wonder whether this time he won’t grovel and beg. You hope she won’t back down. There’s room in your home for him. And in your heart. Always has been.

-

He smells different and at first you wonder why. The way he avoids your eyes as he pulls back the covers that night as you get ready for bed gives you a clue. The way he can’t or won’t tell you how much work he and Stevie got done today is like a huge red flag being waved in front of you. The way he refuses point blank to make love is the last straw. You ask him, confront him, and he mumbles defensively about destiny and closure and cycles and you tell him to fuck off. You take your pillow from the bed, telling him you’ll sleep in the spare room. You don’t sleep though. Because you can smell another woman’s shampoo (conditioner? something else?) on your pillow. And you know it’s hers.

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