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Sally: What’s your lunch hour look like? Hardhats and awkward hard-ons on the job site?
Sly: Only hard-ons I’m getting are when I think about your pussy wrapped around my thick cock while you scream my name bent over my desk.
Sally: Vivid. I’ve got a wettie.
Groaning, he palmed his throbbing cock and squeezed, more than eager to get the day over with and get himself home so he could sink himself balls deep in his woman. Time to think about something else before he came in his pants like a thirteen-year-old.
Sly: Having lunch with Loni. She wants to apologize.
There. That should make Sally happy, knowing he was being open and not hiding anything from her. He hated knowing she probably compared his actions thus far to her father’s. He wasn’t a cheater, but he knew better than to hide anything Sally could see as suspect. Not that he was hiding anything anyway. His marriage to Loni was over, the woman just hadn’t gotten the memo yet.
His cell ringing jerked him from his thoughts.
“Hey, baby,” he purred into the phone, damn happy he’d get to hear her voice again.
“You’re having lunch with her?” Sally asked sharply. “Please tell me it’s at least at Chuck E. Cheese or someplace as loud and crowded.”
Um…he was not expecting this. How could you not? You know Sally and Loni aren’t exactly friends. Of course, Sally isn’t going to appreciate you going to lunch with your ex-fucking-wife.
Shit.
“I promise, nothing is going to happen. I won’t let it. She wants to apologize for being a bitch, and…I think it’s time that she and I talked some stuff out.”
“Stuff? Do you mean how you married her because you were guilty about something you had no control over? Do you mean how you spent five years miserable while she milked your emotions like a pregnant cow? You mean how she is still using your unearned guilt to get you to do what she wants?”
What the hell?
“She and I go way back, Sally. You know that. And I promised Jake—as he was fucking dying—that I would take care of her.”
“And now Yolanda, Jake’s sister, is using your self-imposed bullshit guilt to keep you in line, to keep you in her grasp and in her bed, to keep control over you. You see that, right? You see that she only brings up her beloved brother when you aren’t toeing the line, doing what she wants, or giving her what she wants, right?”
“She isn’t like that…” he began, his voice a ghost of breath and intention. “That’s not Loni.” Right? He hated the uncertainty the crawled up his spine and snapped at him.
Sally growled into the phone, cursing in French—which was damn sexy, even in his annoyance.
“Do you know why I was so pissed three nights ago? Do you know why I was angry enough to walk away and say, ‘fuck it, I don’t need this shit’?” she snapped, making his own anger twine around his heart and rise onto his tongue.
“Of course, I don’t fucking know! You run so hot and cold, I never know which Sallina I’m going to get most of the time!”
He heard his words after he said them and immediately knew he’d said the wrong damn thing.
Fuck. Me.
She was silent, but not the good kind of silence that happens right before an orgasm. It was the kind of silence that came right before the earthquake.
In a voice utterly devoid of emotion, as cold and flat as a sheet of steel, Sally replied, “Go to lunch with your wife, Sylvester.”
Her one-eighty was striking…and suspect.
“She’s not my wife, Sally.”
“Does she know that?” she inquired, the frostiness of her tone sending chills through his blood.
He sighed, frustrated and exhausted. “We’ll talk later this afternoon. I hope to be on my way home tonight.” He needed to get home to her because…she was pulling away, and he couldn’t let that happen.
