Page 15 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
I fucked her again.
And she had enjoyed herself then smiled sexily as she crawled out of bed, not bothering with clothes as she retrieved her bag from the kitchen and came back, handing me the manila envelope with the divorce paperwork I’d served her time and time again.
Only finally, this time—I checked—the papers were actually signed and notarized.
Freedom.
Then more shame.
Because then she was showing me the diamond engagement ring and I shouldn’t give a damn that the woman who made my life a living nightmare for fucking years was engaged to another man and happily cheating on him.
But I did. Do.
I felt like shit—and it wasn’t just guilt that I fucked an engaged woman whom I didn’t know was engaged.
It was shame because a sick part of me was jealous she’d finally found someone else.
Fucked up?
Totally.
Completely.
I sat in that shame after she left, my shitty action movie playing in the background, my popcorn untouched…wondering how I’d gone so fucking wrong for so many years.
Until the glowing orange pulled me from my thoughts.
For a minute, I was confused, not understanding the sudden brightness in the depth of night.
Then I put the pieces together, was sprinting out of my house, bursting through the front door of hers, the wooden panel in splinters before I truly processed what was happening.
A heartbeat later, she was in my arms and I wasn’t thinking about the cuts on my arms and face from the wood and glass, wasn’t thinking about the way my side burned, my back as flaming debris fell while I was carrying her out.
It was just?—
Faye in my arms and fresh air merely feet away.
“Maybe the firefighters would have made it in time,” Faye whispers. “But you were the one who saved me.” Another squeeze before her fingers run lightly over the bandage on my arm. “And you were hurt because of it?—”
I still. When has a woman ever given a fuck I was hurt?
“—I’m sorry you were injured.”
I shrug, heart pounding for absolutely no reason. “It’s barely a scratch.”
“I think—” Her tongue darts out to moisten her bottom lip, drawing my gaze to that plump, pink mouth of hers that gives a man—okay gives me—thoughts of different parts that are pink and plump. “I think,” she says again, “it’s much more than that.” Another brush of her fingers. “But thank you for being there and saving me, anyway.”
Before I can reply, those words rippling through my insides, the curtain slides open with a screech and the nurse is back, a doctor on his heels.
I gently free the oxygen mask from Faye’s other hand, settle it carefully over her nose and mouth.
Then I start to stand, but pause, some insane urge stopping me so I can smooth back an errant bright red curl.
Her lips part.
My cock twitches?—
Shame slices through my middle.
