Page 31 of The Dating Pact

“It’s okay to let go,” she whispered into my ear. “I’ve got you.”

I closed my eyes to the sting behind them and gave in, grunting with each drive. It was exactly like I remembered yet not at all the same. The sensations—being so tightly wrapped up inside and outside—brought me quickly to the brink, faster than I would have liked. But I didn’t have time to be embarrassed because Brooke was kissing me, my shoulder, my cheek, my mouth, my throat, murmuring encouraging words about how good it felt and not to wait for her. To come.

“Come, Jude,” she rasped. “Come for me.” She tugged at my hair, forcing my eyes to hers. “Let go of everything and come for me.”

And I did.

I flew off the mountaintop I’d been so afraid to climb. I came inside Brooke with a shudder and sank all of my weight on top of her to roll us onto our sides. I tucked my face into her neck, breathing in her lavender scent while she skimmed her fingernails up and down my spine, helping my heart rate to return to normal.

We stayed like that for a while until she needed to use the bathroom. She scooped up her clothes on the way, and I stood in the middle of the room, cataloging everything, hunting for physical evidence of my betrayal.

I found none.

I cleaned up with a few tissues and dressed, waiting for the shame to hit.

It didn’t.

I slumped back down on the couch, where I’d had sex with a woman who was not my wife—where I’d enjoyed having sex with someone who wasn’t my wife—and absently rubbed at my tattoo. At Brooke’s suggestion, I’d had the word albi inked in Arabic on my left wrist a few years ago.

To honor my heart, my wife…

Joni Mitchell’s witchy voice filled the room, singing a melancholy song about clouds and illusions and love, and I rested my elbows on my knees, letting my head fall between my shoulders. I had always assumed the guilt I’d become familiar with whenever the prospect of dating came up would triple when it came time for sex. But I didn’t feel any guilt whatsoever.

And that made me feel sick to my stomach.

Brooke didn’t make a sound when she entered the room again, didn’t say anything as she sat next to me and slid her arm around my shoulders, didn’t offer anything besides what she always did: herself.

She towed me into her, and I finally succumbed to my tears. She wrapped her arms around me, hugging me, petting me, allowing me to dampen her skin and tank top as I cried against her shoulder. She had the right to be offended or upset I was acting like this after we’d just had sex; she probably needed some time to process as well. But as always, she gave her comfort to me instead. Gave me a moment to come to terms with what we’d done. What I’d done.

I didn’t know how long we stayed like that, but when I eventually stopped crying, she pushed my hair back from my face, wiped her thumbs under my eyes, and smiled.

She smiled.

Then she turned off the lights, locked up, and we ambled outside together, my arm around her shoulders. At her car, I pulled her in for a hug and kissed her temple. She rubbed my back and tugged on my beard. I closed the door after her and waved as she backed away before getting into my own car.

It was almost as if nothing had happened tonight.

When, really, everything had happened.

Everything had changed.

NINE

BROOKE

I’d had sex with Jude.

Jude, my pal.

My pal, Jude.

And I had no idea what to do with myself. Had no idea what or how to feel.

One minute, we were laughing and joking and getting high. The next, we were kissing and touching and getting naked.

I wasn’t thinking. Not when he pushed me down to the couch—or I pulled him; I didn’t know. Either way, I’d thrown all common sense out the window. I’d let myself be swept up in the weight of him, in the heat of his mouth, in the gentle way he’d touched me. Not only did I not stop my friend from giving me an orgasm, but I’d practically begged him to.

And now! Now, I knew what his hard cock looked like. I knew what it felt like. I knew—dear god—I knew how good it was.

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