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We remain silent, but I know he is also thinking about the mess we made and what we did. We should’ve been stronger and fought against our lust. Instead, we fucked.
Multiple times.
Our moment of silent overthinking is interrupted by a cell phone ringing in the distance. Dean tenses behind me, letting out a sigh. His grip on me loosens, so I take the opportunity to sit up and wrap myself in the sheet that we’d been tangled in.
I can’t bring myself to look at him because I can’t face him.
Not right now.
Not when I have a good idea of who’s calling him.
He shifts to the other side of the bed, a sigh leaving his lips and confirming my suspicion of who’s on the other end of the phone.
Clearing his throat, Dean answers the phone, and I hear him stand and leave the room. While he’s in the living room having a conversation with his wife, I take the free moment to gather my clothes from the floor and step inside the bathroom to clean myself up as much as possible.
I'm taking a whore bath in the sink, cleaning his cum that’s dripping down my thighs while he's in the other room talking to his wife.
A shower would be nice, but I can’t bring myself to step inside the massive glass shower that's calling my name and offering to set me free and allow me to repent. Showering would mean being here even longer, and I can't.
Instead, I dress, wash my face, pull my hair into a neat bun, then use his toothbrush to brush my teeth.
I’ve just set the used toothbrush on the counter when Dean steps inside the bathroom and stands behind me. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close enough for me to feel the warmth of his body that’s only covered by the black boxer briefs he wore last night.
Our eyes instantly find each other in the mirror.
My shoulders sag. “We fucked up, Dean.” I close my eyes, unable to look at him or myself any longer, a tear rolling down my cheek. “We made a mistake, and it can never happen again.” This isn’t who I am.
I’m not a cheater. My marriage may be in the shitter and at a dead end, but that doesn’t change the fact that Iamstill married, and right now, my husband is probably at home wondering where I am.
When I open my eyes, they lock with Dean’s in the mirror. Wiping my tears away, I turn and rush past him, bumping his shoulder on my way out.
Thankfully, he doesn’t follow me out of the bathroom.
I’m able to grab my shoes and purse from the living room and get my car from the valet without him following.
Judging by the look in his eyes in the bathroom, he, too, knows that we made a mistake.
A huge fucking mistake.
But how can it be a mistake when it doesn’t feel like one?
I feel guilty. Guilty because I cheated on my husband and betrayed our vows, but if I had the chance to do things over, I’m still not sure I’d change a damn thing.
Once I reach my office,I power my phone on and check my missed notifications. As suspected, I have multiple missed calls and texts from Declan asking where I am, if I’m okay, saying he’s sorry, and begging me to come home.
My heart pounds in my chest, guilt consuming me as I read all twenty-three worried text messages he sent.
As I scroll through, reading them all again, my phone vibrates in my hand, and his photo pops up, showing that he’s calling.
I stare at the phone, stare at the contact photo that I have set for Declan. It’s a photo from a few years ago, a candid photo I took during one of his concerts. I was backstage, and he’d just turned to face me, and his face lit up with pure happiness. His smile was wide, all his straight white teeth on display, beads of sweat lining his forehead, and his dark hair damp, stars bright in his brown eyes.
At that moment, he was so fucking happy, and I loved him more than ever. I snapped that photo and set it as his contact photo. It’s always been one of my favorite pictures of him.
Wiping away the tears that I didn’t realize are streaming down my cheeks until I taste the salt, I answer his call and press my phone against my ear, unable to bring myself to say anything. The only thing I can semi-manage in my current state is breathing.
“Baby girl, I’m so fucking sorry.” Declan sighs into the phone, his voice causing more tears to stream silently down my face. “Where are you? Come home, please, or I will come to you.” The remorse in his tone is evident. I know he didn’t mean to hit me, and I don’t even blame him for it. I hit him first, and he only returned my action. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but I don’t blame him. I can’t, not when my pussy is still wet with another man’s cum.
“Please, please, come home. We need to talk and figure things out.”
