Straightening my spine. I go back to the dining table and pick up my cell.

  Me: I missed you last night. How is your morning so far?

  I’m surprised by how quickly he responds.

  Tripp: Late night working. I’m in the office but about to walk into a meeting. Talk later?

  Me: Talk later. Love you.

  Now that I have the clear that he isn’t at the hotel, I tap on Emma’s name and send her a text in return.

  Me: I’ll be there in 2 hrs.

  A weird sense of anticipation comes over me, and I move quickly as I toss the empty bottle of wine and set the glass in the sink. I then rush upstairs, take a shower, throw on some makeup, and get dressed. Before I know it, I’m in the car and heading to the city.

  The hour-and-a-half long drive tests my patience. One minute, I’m angry, white-knuckling the steering wheel, and the next minute, I’m fighting back tears. Shuffled in between are moments of pure numbness. I savor the numb; it’s where I feel the safest. No thoughts, no feelings—just emptiness.

  After I drop my car off with the valet, I take the elevator up to the sixth floor. When she answers the door, she’s wearing a pair of jeans and a burgundy sweater with her hair tied back. She’s pulled together, which is encouraging, and when I step in, I spot a food cart draped in white linen. I turn cold when I see the two cups of half-drunk coffee and a messy bed.

  I don’t say anything at first as I wander over to the set of chairs positioned by the windows and take a seat. She joins me. It’s so quiet in this room that it amplifies the chaos inside my head.

  “What happened?” I finally ask. “Was he here?”

  “Yes,” she breathes.

  “And you two . . .”

  “No.”

  “I want to know everything.”

  She pulls her legs up, tucking them in close with her arms wrapped around them. “I showed up at Quill around ten o’clock, and he was there, just like you said he would be.” She speaks slowly and cautiously. “He was sitting at the bar, and I joined him. We talked for a while and had a couple of drinks. When the lounge was about to close, I invited him up here for a nightcap, and he accepted.”

  My hands twist as I listen to her, but in a way, I’m detached, as if it isn’t Tripp she’s talking about.

  “When we got to the room, he poured us both drinks and we talked for a bit.”

  “Did you sit here?” I ask, eyeing the chairs we’re in, and she shakes her head.

  “He kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed. I joined him. He seemed comfortable but also uneasy. He turned on the television,” she says and then shrugs. “He turned it to some old movie; a comedy. We drank and laughed, chitchatting all along.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “He asked about me. I lied, saying I’d just graduated from the University of Pennsylvania. He laughed, when I told him.”

  “Laughed?”

  “He said something like . . . ‘Leges sine moribus vanae.’ Said it was Latin for—”

  “Laws without morals are useless.” I smile tightly as Emma lets out a breathy laugh.

  “Yeah, that’s what he said. Ironic, huh? Apparently, it’s the university’s motto.”

  “So, you just talked?”

  “We kissed,” she reveals. “Nothing intense. No touching or anything. Just kissing. Like I said, he came off confident, but there was a hint of uneasiness. It was him who pulled away first, but then he asked if he could stay the night.”

  “He slept in bed with you?”

  She nods. You’d think I’d be irate to know they kissed, but I’m not. It doesn’t even feel real.

  “We both had a little too much to drink, so that’s all that happened. We talked, kissed, and then fell asleep.”

  “And this morning?”

  “He was up and had ordered room service before I was even awake. He seemed rushed, but he asked if he could see me again tonight.”

  “That’s um . . . that’s good.”

  “Can you rent the room for an extra night?”

  Flustered, I rub my brows. I don’t know what I was expecting. I mean . . . I sort of figured this would be a one-and-done, but that was stupid of me to assume. “Um, sure. Yeah, I’ll extend the reservation on my way out.”

  Emma reaches over, lays her hand over mine, and with a gentle tone, says, “If you don’t want me to meet him tonight, I don’t have to.”

  “No,” I blurt a little too quickly. “It’s fine.”

  “I’m on your side,” she assures.

  “I know. It’s just . . .”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  I take in a deep breath before letting it go and standing. “So, that’s it?”

  Looking up at me from where she still sits, she responds, “That was it. Aside from the kissing, it was harmless.”

  I stare into her eyes, knowing everything she’s been through this past year, and I get an overwhelming urge to protect her. It’s stupid of me. How can I possibly protect her when I’ve thrown her into this situation? But the feeling is there in spite of what I’ve done.

  “Are you okay?”

  She hesitates for just a moment. “I’m fine. Like I said, he was harmless. Actually, he was pretty gentlemanlike, all things considered.”

  “Yeah, he’s a man of chivalry, all right,” I condescend, to which she chuckles.

  She then stands with an air of lightness to her. “You know what I mean.”

  I smile before asking once more, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She nods, adding, “So, is the routine the same? I should text you after I see him tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  I pick up my purse, take one last look at the bed, and then turn for the door before she stops me, saying, “Oh, he said he wanted to have dinner at Plume.”

  I turn back to her, and she lifts her shoulders.

  “He said it was a Michelin-starred restaurant. I don’t have anything nice enough to wear.”

  Her eyes are bashful, and I feel bad that she’s having to ask for more help when I know how much she hates it.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her as I pull out my wallet and slip a few hundreds from it. “Here. This should be enough.” She takes the money, and before I walk out the door, I remind her, “If you need me, I’m here.”

  Her only response is a slight smile that I mirror in return before leaving.

  Carly

  Groundhog Day. It’s what I woke up to.

  The same unease remains, the same pit in my stomach, the same restlessness in my hands. It’s a litany of side effects that torment me. I couldn’t sit at home any longer, so I came into the office first thing this morning even though I don’t have any students scheduled for today.

  I’ve been rifling through paperwork, updating files, and doing anything I can to keep myself busy, but there’s no reprieve for my head and heart. No. Those two are webbed in a labyrinth of anguish.

  “I’m running out to grab a sandwich,” Jenny says from my doorway. “You want anything?”

  “Lunch already?” I look down at my watch, surprised to see it’s already half-past noon.

  “Yeah. You’ve been buried in here for hours,” she notes.

  I shove a file back into the drawer and slide the cabinet closed.

  “You hungry?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

  When she heads out, my stomach grumbles—not with hunger but with anxiety. I look at my cell to see I have no missed texts or calls and then double-check to make sure my ringer is turned up.

  Are the two of them still together?

  Spinning around in my chair, I retrieve another file to keep myself busy, and about an hour later, my phone finally chimes.

  Emma: He just left for work. Coast is clear.

  Me: Be there in 20 min.

  One foot in front of the other pulls me out to the parking lot and to my car. Chilly hands navigate my car down each busy street, leading me over to The Jefferson. Before I know it, I’m ditching my car with the valet and stepping onto the elevator. In a repetition of yesterday, I knock on the door, but this time, when Emma answers, I know our conversation will be a stark contrast to yesterday’s.

  She’s freshly showered with wet hair, and she’s wearing a hotel bathrobe. Her eyes don’t meet mine as she widens the door.

  I step inside, and Emma hesitantly walks over to the chairs we sat in fewer than twenty-four hours ago, but I don’t follow. It’s too close to the tangled sheets. Too close to where her dress and panties are strewn on the floor. Instead, I lean against the dresser that’s across from where Emma sits, twisting her hands anxiously.

  Lines that etch her youthful face expose guilt. But she shouldn’t feel guilty. She did nothing wrong, only what I asked of her. It’s me that should feel guilty. I’m the one who put this innocent girl in this situation.

  “Are you okay?” I eventually ask, but her eyes remain downcast when she gives me a nod. I look to the nightstand where there’s an open bottle of vodka. Walking over, I pick it up and pour some in one of the glasses that’s on the room service cart with two plates of half-eaten breakfast and a pitcher of orange juice. After adding a splash of the juice into the vodka, I hand it to Emma. “Here.”

  Reluctantly, she accepts it, staring into the glass for just a moment before taking a gulp. “Thanks.”

  I move back over to the dresser and try to keep my voice steady and un-accusatory when I ask, “So, what happened?”

  Her eyes skitter around the room and eventually land on the bed. “Exactly what you wanted to happen.”

  Tense, I lick my lips. My stomach barrels into itself, and I’m forced to brace my hands along the edge of the dresser. “How?”

  Slowly, she looks up at me, finally showing me the confusion and apprehension and guilt that stain her cheeks.

  “Start from the beginning,” I prompt. “Start with dinner.”

  She takes another swallow of the vodka, seeming to relax a little when she begins. “When I got to Plume,” she says, her voice timid, “he was already at a table, drinking a glass of scotch. He seemed tired, but he was probably just hungry because after we ate our dinner, he became livelier. We talked about my family . . . of course, I lied, telling him I was the youngest of two brothers and that my parents were still alive and well. He laughed when I recalled fictitious stories of my childhood.”

  “And what about him? What things did he tell you?”

  “Not much,” she admits. “He was more interested in getting to know me rather than me getting to know him.” She pauses for a second. “I asked him about you.”

  My eyes widen in surprise. “And?”

  “He dodged the topic. Said that things were complicated.”

  Exhaling an annoyed breath, I push forward. “What happened after dinner?”

  “He asked if I was tired, and I told him no. I invited him up here, and as soon as we got into the room, he kissed me,” she tells me. I know she’s nervous to see how I’ll react, so I stay as poised as I possibly can. “I think he was nervous.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “I don’t know. He just wasn’t as relaxed as he’d been in the restaurant. He seemed anxious when we got up here. It was different from the time before.”

  “How so?”

  With trepidation, she bites her lip and drops her head.

  “It’s okay, Emma. I just need you to be honest with me.”

  She runs her fingers along her brow, takes the last sip, and glances at me. “As soon as we got up here, he kissed me.”

  I’m unmoving, unbelieving, but believing.

  “There was a sense of urgency that he didn’t have the night before.”

  My chest constricts as I flash back to memories. Memories of that very same urgency. As if he couldn’t get enough of me. Those moments feel like ages ago. “I want to know everything,” I stress, hoping she’ll feed my sick desire to know every detail, every touch, every word spoken.

  “Like I said, as soon as the door closed, he was kissing me. We stumbled over to the bed, and I was kissing him back, pulling at his tie while he was tugging down the straps of my dress. He stopped when he saw I wasn’t wearing a bra and lowered his mouth to my chest.”

  My knees weaken as a cool stream of shock swims through my veins. I wonder where the white-hot anger is because it’s absent. It should be roiling inside me, but all I can grasp on to is the curiosity to know more. She continues to talk as my vision swims out of focus, and when I glance over to the mussed-up bed, I see myself with Tripp as we play out the events Emma is describing.

  “He pulled my dress down to my waist, and I started fumbling with his belt, but . . .”

  I shift my focus back to her. “But what?”

  “He was still soft,” she admits. “He was frustrated, and that was when he told me to call down for a bottle of vodka. I pulled my dress back up, and when the bottle came, we both started drinking. He sat on the edge of the bed, and I kneeled between his legs. I opened his pants as he took another shot of vodka. He was still soft, so I went down on him.”

  My heart double thumps, and I don’t know how to feel as my lids fall shut.

  As she goes on, I drop my head, getting lost in her voice. “He grew hard in my mouth, and I could tell he wanted to come, so I backed off. He watched as I slipped my dress off, and when I was naked, he stood, grabbed my hips, spun me around, and bent me over the bed.”

  Warmth pools low in my belly as I hang on to each of her words. I lose myself in them, painting my face over hers in an effort to feel closer to my husband. It’s like a magnet of desperation, the yearning to go back to what we once were. A beacon illuminating just how long I’ve been deprived.

  I miss him.

  I miss my husband.

  “He kicked my legs open, knelt behind me, and jerked me back toward his face. He licked me until my knees gave way.”

  There’s a faint sizzle that begins to spread through my core, and when I notice that she isn’t talking anymore, I open my eyes and clear my throat. “Was there any talking at all?”

  “He said that I tasted like sin.”

  “Like sin,” I repeat under my breath. “Anything else?”

  “He made a few comments about my body. He said I was beautiful, and when . . . when he finally pushed himself inside me, he told me that . . .”

  She drifts off, and her face flushes as her eyes avoid me. “Go on,” I implore.

  “He said my tight pussy felt amazing.”

  My breath tangles in my throat, and my hands grip the edge of the dresser even tighter. I shouldn’t be this turned on, but I am. I miss the connection we used to have. The raw passion that made me irresistible to him. The way he would talk dirty for me. I can’t remember the last time he spoke to me that way. Crude and intimate and loving. Words would slip from his lips, and I would completely lose myself to him.

  “Are you okay?”

  Her voice flitters through the thoughts that cast a cloud over my sanity. “I’m sorry, I’m just . . .” I shift in my stance, but I feel uneasy on my feet. “I’m fine . . . go on.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I want to know how it happened—the details.” I tell her this with a bashfulness I hope she can’t hear. It would make this so much worse if she knew how eager I was to feel even a shred of closeness to Tripp.

  “It started out with him taking me from behind. He then laid on the bed, and I got on top of him. He used his hands to maneuver my hips, and I could sense he wanted to take control, so I went with it when he flipped us over and got on top of me. He spread me wide, pushing my knees down into the mattress. I could feel him growing inside me,” she says, and as the two of us lock eyes, she adds, “As soon as I orgasmed, he pulled out of me, ripped the condom off, and started jerking himself off. I must’ve gotten carried away because I pushed his hand aside and finished him off with my mouth.”

  “Did . . . did he . . .” I mutter, finding it hard to spit out the question.

  “Did he come in my mouth?”

  I nod.

  “Yes.”

  I hang my head, trying my best to temper my arousal when aroused should be the last thing I feel. I should be heartbroken or furious, but those emotions are so far away. Instead, I’m hung up on desire and need, wanting to know even more, wishing for my senses to be consumed with their sounds, their smell, their taste. As twisted as it is, I feel a connection with Tripp that I haven’t felt in a while. It’s disturbing, but also thrilling.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Clearing my throat again, I glance back to the bed, wondering what the sheets would feel like against my bare skin. I’m ripe with lust. With my skin tingling in erotic delight, my head sways for a moment before I right myself. Pushing off the dresser, I walk over to the credenza and grab a bottle of water that’s sitting out. It’s nothing more than a distraction, and when I screw the lid back on and turn to face Emma, she apologizes.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, but you said you wanted—”

  “No. It’s fine. You didn’t upset me, it’s just not that easy to hear.”

  That isn’t exactly the truth. Surprisingly, it was easy to hear, and even more to my surprise, I want more, and I’m not exactly sure why. One thing I do know is that I have to get out of here because there’s no chance of me collecting my thoughts while I’m swimming in the wake of their sex.

  Going back to the dresser where my purse sits, I pull out the envelope that holds the promise I made to her when she agreed to do this. The forty thousand dollars that my mother left me when she died is now hers. I never spent the money because I know how hard she worked for every penny she earned, and for some reason, I just couldn’t touch it, so I hesitate to hand it over.

  But it isn’t the only reason I hesitate.

  It’s a sadistic feeling of wanting more—needing more. I want to keep this connection to my husband alive just a little longer before he’s gone from my life for good. So, when I hold out the envelope, I ask, “Do you think he’ll want to see you again?”