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And, yet, I slapped him.
I am so, so, very sorry for what I’ve done. But I know an apology will not be enough.
I’ve crossed the line.
Marcel and I do not fight.
We do not argue.
We disagree.
We talk.
We make love.
We fuck.
Talk again.
Then fuck again, and again, and again.
Then talk some more.
Then fuck all over again.
We do not yell or scream or disrespect each other.
But in a blink of an eye, I have allowed this craziness with that…that desperate, emotionally unstable tramp to take me out of character and come at my husband all sideways and crazy.
The man I love.
The man I’ve always trusted and respected.
Nightmare. Definitely a bad fucking dream. Shit like this only happens on television. And in other couple’s lives. Not in ours.
We’re always so discreet.
Always so careful in whom we bring to our bed.
Until this shit…
“Marcel, I’m sorry,” I whisper, crossing into the sitting area adjacent to our bedroom. It is all I can imagine to say with him sitting there barefoot and bare-chested in his underwear. Boxer briefs.
I fight to keep from staring at his muscular shoulders and pecs tapered down to rippling stomach ridges.
I blink back images of his hard body hovering over mine.
He has a drink in his hand. Rémy. The crystal decanter sits half-full on the table with its Harcourt stopper off, next to the remote for the surround sound.
“You’re sorry?” He blows out a long breath.
“I was—”
He yanks up his hand, stopping me from taking a step toward him. My mouth clamps shut. He’s not done.
“We brought that broad into our lives. We fucked her. And yeah, the pussy was good. Damn good…”
I flinch.
