She was clinging to me like I was the only solid thing left in her world—arms locked, thighs squeezing, breasts pillowed and dragging in that maddening, rhythmic tease.
And soon, when Jack demanded answers, when he saw her walking perfectly fine—no limp, no swelling, no mark at all on that "injured" ankle—she would stammer the same story:
"It twisted… Dexter had to carry me… I couldn't walk…"
He would look at her flushed cheeks, at the way she avoided his eyes, at the memory (or the rumor) of her body wrapped around mine like this—breasts crushed to my back, thighs locked around my waist, moaning softly into my neck—and every denial would sound like a lie.
Because how could a woman with a truly sprained ankle press herself so completely, so shamelessly, against another man and still claim innocence?
She couldn't.
And she wouldn't have to.
When the shouting started—when Jack's jealousy finally snapped—she would run to the only place that still felt safe.
To me.
