I look down at the bed. “Not much longer.” I bend over and extend her over the bed, smiling as she burrows into my neck, her deep inhale not much different than my own had been. I gently set her onto the mattress, and straighten, my arms sliding through hers, when her grip clamps down on my forearm, her eyes going from sleepy to sharp.
“Trey?” My stomach clenches at the accusatory way she says my name. “Why do you smell like Mira’s perfume?”
I meet her eyes, and in that connection, she knows. She doesn’t know everything, but she knows I fucked her, and that is enough.
Kate pushes out of my arms, sliding across the bed, to the other side. “Kate,” I plea. This is bad. This is fucking bad, made worse because I can’t explain it to her.
“Shut up,” she snaps, her hands pulling at the sheet, covering herself as if she is naked. “I—” She looks away. “I literally have nothing to say to you.”
“It didn’t mean anything.” I press the fingers of my hand into my forehead, rubbing at the stress points there. Why didn’t I take a fucking shower? But the answer to that is easy: Kate Martin was in my bed.
“That makes it even worse!” Her eyes widen, and in them, I see her hurt. “What if Edward finds out?”
Edward reaches down, gripping her chin and lifting it, her eyes meeting his, the rock of her body not stopping their eye contact. “Tell me,” he orders. “Do you like how he fucks you?”
“Yes sir,” she gasps, and he smiles, pulling down the zipper of his pants.
“Edward isn’t going to find out.” Edward knows, I want to scream. Stop worrying about work, or our precious order. Everything there is fine. I have a brief moment of insanity, one where I want to tell her everything, to try and explain it all. But I don’t, I can’t. This isn’t my secret to tell. There are other lives involved, other reputations at stake. Would Mira care? Probably not. But that’s not my call to make. And even if it were, could I tell Kate? Could I really tell her that Edward and I took turns with Mira? That he held back her hair and told her to suck my cock?
I can’t. There is no way. Tears leak out of the corners of her eyes and I feel a piece of me break. “God dammit, Kate,” I say softly. “Just forget it. Please.”
She rolls over on the bed, her back to me. “Go away, Trey. Just let me sleep.”
Leaving her is the last thing I want to do. We need to discuss this, to talk this through, to get back to us. But it’s hard to talk through it when I can’t explain my actions, my motivations. I have nothing to say, no defense to give. I move back a step, then another. I wait for a long moment in the doorway, considering what this will do to our relationship, what this will mean. She doesn’t turn, and I pull the adjoining door closed, the act feeling almost ceremonial in its division of us.
Maybe this is it, the death of our possibilities. Maybe I need this reminder of the differences between her and me, of all of the ways that—even without the company dividing us—we would never work. Maybe I should use this excuse, this opportunity, to mentally push away.
She won’t ever accept what happened between Mira, Edward, and me. I swallow that reality and head to the shower, anxious to wash away everything.
If this evening was lingerie, it’d be expensive, the kind that seems worth the price tag but isn’t, the kind that leaves your wallet empty and your mind fucked.
Her
It’s official. The man’s penis only knows stupid mistakes. First that crazy mugger woman, and now this—a married woman. I bet Edward wasn’t even out of the hotel before Trey was knocking on her door. Had I even been a thought? You’d think if the man was going to destroy everything, he might have at least glanced my way, at least considered me before risking the wrath of our client by sleeping with his wife.
I lay in the dark room, gripping a pillow against my chest, and listen to the click of the air conditioner as it comes on. My heart gallops against my chest, my arms tighten around the pillow, and I want to scream, but instead, I only growl. I tell myself that it’s not jealousy, but it is. It’s jealousy, and regret, and months of sexual frustration. Why her? Why not a Vegas hooker, or a horny tourist? Why risk this account, one that we need, all to fuck an ex-girlfriend? If he’s so cavalier about the risk to the company, then why not date me?
I roll onto my back and force my arms to relax, to flop back on the mattress. My mind relaxes slightly. Maybe it’s because, despite all of his flirting, and our latent chemistry—I’m not his type. Maybe all of my sexual tension is one-sided, and he’s operating in a purely platonic world where he flirts for the sheer fun of it, and is oblivious to the delusional fantasies of my starved sex drive. I consider knocking on his door and just asking him, flat out, to explain himself, but abandon the thought. My nerves are too frayed to have that conversation face-to-face, in an environment where all of my reactions and emotions will be seen. No way to play the cool, aloof girl in that scenario. I roll over, pick up my phone, and compose a text.