and passionate and bordering on angry. Meg screwed as she lived. With fire. And then as soon as I pulled out, she ran away, barely taking the time to button her shorts.
With a deep, unsettled groan, I sat up in bed, swinging my legs over the side and standing up. The hardwood floor was cool beneath my feet.
I was too amped up to sleep, so I put on an old pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt. I headed downstairs, making my way to the room at the back of the house Chelsea had done up as a home gym. It was filled with state-of-the-art equipment. I barely used it. Working out wasn’t really my thing. I had good genetics to thank for my absence of body fat.
Turning on the lights, I switched on some music, something rough and a little ragey. It suited my mood. I sat at the rowing machine and started pumping my arms. I needed to figure out what I was going to do—if I was going to do anything at all.
Sex with Meg didn’t have to mean anything.
But it did. It changed everything. Neither one of us could pretend it didn’t happen. Not given our history.And especially not considering the orgasms I gave her and how hard I came.
I closed my eyes, trying not to moan as the memory of her tits bouncing as I pumped into her invaded my mind.
I had fucked Meg.
And I wanted to fuck her again.
And again.
And again.
The truth was she had no idea that I had been half in love with her for most of my life. But the summer before senior year I had finally given up on my feelings ever being reciprocated. I fell into a thing with Chelsea at first because it was something to help me stop obsessing over my best friend. Chelsea was the opposite of Meg in every way. For me, at the time, it was the perfect solution to what I felt to be an impossible situation. I could forget about loving Meg.
I hadn’t really thought about the fallout when I started seeing my soon-to-be-ex-wife. I had been a little desperate to push away my feelings for Meg. It had become harder and harder to keep quiet, to pretend I didn’t love her.
Meg continued to treat me like a brother. She had no clue that I spent most of my free time thinking about ways to make her love me back. We had so many near chances that never amounted to anything. The time at the Old Grourer swimming hole had been the final straw. I had been seeing Chelsea for a few weeks and knew I had to give up on the fantastical notion that Meg and I were ever going to be anything.
I had been a bit of a sad sack back then on top of being a complete moron. On what planet did I think being with Chelsea would be a good idea? Then I had slept with Chelsea, and the rest, as they say, was history.
Until yesterday happened.
Meg had seemed downright panicked afterward. It was more than a bit of a blow to my self-esteem if I was being truthful with myself. I thought she was into it. I would never have gone that far if I didn’t think she wanted it too.
She had kissed me, damn it.
She told me to fuck her.
So I did.
I fucked her sideways.
Was it the booze? We were both a bit drunk. But I, for one, wasn’t so inebriated that I didn’t know what I was doing.
Had Meg been tipsier than I thought? That made me feel like a total asshole.
I hated second-guessing myself. I didn’t make a habit of it. I was decisive and in control at all times. In the courtroom, I was a warrior. I had built a reputation for ferocity and not taking any bullshit. I ended my marriage without a moment’s hesitation. I didn’t question what I was doing. I made a decision and stuck to it.
It’s what made me so successful.
It’s what pissed a lot of people off.
Yet Meg had me hemming and hawing like a goddamn idiot. I had regressed to my fifteen-year-old self, worrying and obsessing and fixating on the girl I couldn’t get out of my head.
She had rejected me. Her Olympic sprint out of Grandy’s made that obvious.
I was left literally holding her panties. Seriously. I had found the silky scrap of fabric underneath our seats, and it was now tucked in my drawer