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That was the last time she’d ever allow herself to feel anything but well-fucked. No more emotions. No more mixing feelings with flings.
A sneer lifted one corner of her mouth when she remembered that, though she had experienced a life-altering encounter, he obviously hadn’t. He’d ghosted her, waiting until she fell into a post-coital coma to skip out. He didn’t leave his number, a thank you note, or even the condom and condom wrapper. It was like he hadn’t even been there. Like a sex ninja assassin—in, killing her with his most deadly weapon, then out, with the least evidence of having been there.
The fucker. The sex god of a man who’d made her feel—even for just one night—that she was everything to someone. Truly and honestly wanted. And it had meant nothing to him. His beautiful, heated words whispered in her ear were lies. Lies she almost fell for.
Yeah, right, bitch. Almost.
Her heart gave a sickening twist in her chest.
“…what have you done to me? I’ve never felt this way about anyone….” His deep voice rasped against her neck as he ran his nose over the nerve based just there, sending rhapsodic pulses of pleasure into her core. The brush of his velvet, baritone voice stole her breath, and she trembled beneath him, his hard chest pressed against hers, her nipples scraping over his heated flesh and the prickling of his dark chest hair.
“I could live inside you, baby…. I never want to leave….”
But he had. He left. He lied.
She shook the memory off viciously.
She was done—done!—with men. Screw them all. They only ever hurt. Selfish, arrogant, and careless to their core. She had a drawer full of hand-held boyfriends who were all givers. No way to get all stupid emotional over silicone and batteries.
Dragging her eyes from the bed and the love-hate memories, Sally set her wine glass on top of her dresser and pulled out the clothes she’d need after her long, hot shower.
An hour later, Sally began sipping her second glass of wine as she slid onto her overstuffed, baby blue faux suede couch. When she’d gotten her apartment, which depleted her savings, she’d lucked out finding the sofa at the furniture store on deep discount because it had been repossessed. After a thorough cleaning and reupholstering, it fit perfectly into Sally’s work-hard-relax-hard lifestyle. Snuggling down into the couch, she snatched the TV remote from the seat next to her and clicked it on.
One of her weirdest relaxation activities was to watch gossip news—the smarmier the better. All the crud in the tabloids never failed to make her feel better about herself and her life choices.
She snickered, hunkering down for celebrity dirt goodness.
“And now for the juiciest dish of the night!” the high-pitched, too excited effeminate male voiceover announced. “Newly minted billionaire, Sylvester White, is headed back on to the Miami singles market after his former model wife, Yolanda, filed for divorce this morning. The much-beloved Insta-Star, model, and philanthropist was married to the darkly sexy businessman for five years amongst whispers of his numerous affairs swirling….”
Her ears stopped working, the rest of the report lost to the tympanic pounding in her ears. Sally couldn’t breathe. Her hands shaking, the wine sloshing from the glass onto her yoga pants, the remote in her other hand falling onto the floor. Her heart thudded painfully, racing to find someplace dark to hide away from the hideous truth, grinning like a Greek god from the screen.
It was him.
Her one-night stand. The man she’d stupidly fallen for after the best night of sex of her life.
The married man.
Sick rose into her throat, making her mouth tingle.
Sylvester White. Billionaire. Married.
Married.
And she’d slept with him. He’d fucked her so hard and so well, she was still feeling him between her legs. She’d welcomed him into her bed, her body, and had been seduced by his scent, his words, his sensual touch, and his giant cock. She’d begged him, screamed for him, had fallen asleep beside him, her heart foolishly wishing for more.
But he’d ghosted her, disappearing before she could roll over and do something stupid…like ask him to stay for breakfast.
She ran for the toilet, retching until she was empty, her body shaking, her mind reeling, her eyes burning with tears. She slumped against the wall, drawing her legs up to squeeze them against her chest as a shield against the staggering emotions stabbing her.
After all her promises, all her vows to never sink to the level of all the women her father had brought around to rub in her mother’s face. After all those times she swore she would never, ever be that person, that bitch who broke homes and hearts, and ruined marriages.
But he had done it. He had made her into the cliché she’d so desperately fought against becoming.
She was the other woman. Unfettered memories of her mother…draped over her marital bed, weeping as her husband was downstairs in his study fucking her AA sponsor, Beth, flitted through Sally’s mind, making her gag once more.
God, she was no better than Beth the Bitch, Fucker of Husbands and Breaker of Friends. And Sylvester White had made her that way.
That fucking asshole!she seethed, ready to spill blood, to tear him to pieces. To tell him to his face that he was a piece of shit and she despised everything about him. Then, she’d walk away and forget him.
Sylvester White was her biggest mistake. Her greatest regret. And…God…still her most fantastic fantasy. No one had ever made her feel as good as he had…or as retched.
Ugh.
At least she’d never see him again.
