“Asa.” Her soft cry vibrates against my lips, shakes against my ears.
And it’s a blast of frigid water, drenching me. Ripping me from the vortex of lust I catapulted us both into and dumping me into cold, hard, unforgivable reality.
What the hell am I doing? Who the hell have I become?
This woman turned to me for answers, for comfort after finding out her man cheated, and I took advantage of it. I’m kissing my best friend’s girl. I’m dry-fucking her on my foyer floor.
My actions are no better than his. Because I’m betraying her.
I’m betraying him. The man who has been closer to me than a brother since we were ten years old.
Who have I become? A vulture, scavenging and feeding on the carrion of their relationship.
Jesus Christ.
Pleasure had soaked her cry only seconds ago, but now as I thrust her away from me, it’s filled with surprise. I tried to be gentle, but as she skids several inches on her ass across the brown laminate flooring, I know I failed in that. Regret for my careless handling spears through me, mingling in a noxious mix with the guilt, shame, and anger at myself.
“Fuck.” I jackknife to my feet and crossing the short distance to cup her arm and tug her to her feet. After steadying her, I step back. And then again. Placing much needed space between us. Because my trust in myself spikes at a negative five. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” Grinding my teeth together, I scrub a hand down my face, forcing myself to meet her gaze. It’s the least I can do. The very least. “I shouldn’t have…” Goddammit. Can I get one whole fucking sentence out? “I’m sorry.” I finally finish. Pathetically.
She stares at me, lifting two fingers to her kiss-swollen mouth, her copper eyes inscrutable. Part of me is glad for it—glimpsing the disgust and remorse there would punch a hole in my chest. But the other part… It’s dying to know what she’s thinking. Dying to know if she hates me for taking what wasn’t mine. The not knowing—it’s fucking killing me.
“Sorry,” she repeats, dropping her arm to her side. An emotion that my frozen mind can’t decipher flickers across her face. Pain. Regret. Disappointment... Resignation. Maybe a screwed-up combination of them all. “That seems to be going around, doesn’t it?”
Shaking her head, she spins around and heads for the front door. The sight of her retreating back unlocks my muscles, and I lurch forward to… what? Stop her? Touch her? Apologize again? Beg her not to go? All of those ideas are epically bad.
“India.” She pauses at the door, her hand gripping the knob. “I…” Fuck. “I’m so goddamn sorry.” Please forgive me.
“You said that,” she says, tone flat, empty. “And I hear you. Finally, I’m hearing and getting it. All of it.”
With those cryptic words, she opens the doors and quietly shuts it. But I flinch, the soft snick as deafening as if she’d slammed it.
How long I stand there, staring at that door, my heart a hammer against my rib cage, I don’t know. But one thing is for certain.
Touching India Roberts was a mistake. The biggest one I’ve ever made.
But the guilt flaying me alive isn’t because I now know what my best friend’s woman tastes like.
It’s because, if given the chance to repeat that mistake, I’m not sure if I wouldn’t do it again.
And damn the consequences.