6
Halfway through my Sunday afternoon run, my headphones pinged in my ear with a text alert. I pulled my phone out of my sports bra and stopped running. What the hell? Carson never texted me.
Carson: Are we really going to do this again?
Apparently, the message about our threesome had been relayed.
Me: I thought you were on board? That’s what Quinn told me.
Carson: I told him I’d do it if you agreed, but I didn’t think you would.
Me: Well maybe one of us should have had the balls to tell him no.
Carson: What am I supposed to say? That I didn’t enjoy it? Because I did. I loved every fucking second.
Before I could respond, Carson sent another message.
Carson: I want to taste you again, listen to you scream as you come, run my hands over every inch of your body.
Me: You have to stop. I’m married.
Carson: You started this. I was perfectly content, and then you had to go and bring me into your crazy sexual fantasy. Now I want more.
I wanted more, too, but that wasn’t the point. We were playing a dangerous game here—one I wasn’t sure anyone could win.
Me: Goddamn it, Carson! Can’t we just drop it and go back to the way everything was before?
Carson: Sorry babe. That ship has sailed.
Me: Why can’t we just enjoy it this way then?
Carson: Because I’m not Quinn. I don’t like watching you get fucked by someone else. Not when I want you to myself.
His words shocked me. I stared at my phone for a long time before I decided I wasn’t going to engage in that conversation with him.
Me: Then tell Quinn no … that’ll solve all our problems.
Carson: Will it? It wouldn’t change anything about how I feel.
Me: No one cares about your feelings, Carson. We’re doing this one more time, and then that has to be the end. Of everything. We can’t do what you’re suggesting.
Carson: Whatever you have to say so you can sleep at night. See you Friday.
I screamed out loud in frustration, and a guy on the street skirted around me. Why did Carson suddenly want me? Why did he think he could have me?
In a handful of text messages, he managed to make me incredibly horny and very pissed off at the same time. I turned up my music and ran even faster, letting the frustration and anger fuel me for the next twenty minutes.
By the time I got back home, my top was plastered to my body with sweat, my hair was wet and matted against my head, and my lungs and muscles were screaming. But the only thing I’d accomplished was making my body sore—my mind still clouded with anger and sexual frustration. No matter what I tried to tell myself, Carson was right: this whole situation was my fault, and to make matters worse, it hadn’t even satisfied my desire. I still wanted him just as much as ever. I got turned on at just the thought of him, my body refusing to listen to the voice in my head that kept telling me I should forget about Carson and move on.
For a long time, Carson and I had had a strange, flirtatious relationship. Quinn either never noticed or didn’t care, but somewhere along the way the flirting had turned into full blown fantasies. Quinn often reaped the benefits without knowing that many times it was thoughts of his best friend that fueled my lust. But they had been just fantasies, some improbable idea I’d had in my head. Now everything felt different. It wasn’t just an exciting idea anymore; I’d made it a reality, and I knew Carson felt the same way. And that changed everything.
And even after eight years, Quinn still gave me butterflies, but with Carson it was different. The sexual connection I felt with Carson, a connection I had thought was just in my head, was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. It was a pull I wasn’t sure I could resist. God knows I wanted more of Carson and more of everything that’d happened a few weeks ago. I was obsessed—now, more than ever—with ideas of what could happen.
I thought of Carson as I stripped off my running clothes, thought of what his hands, mouth, and cock could do to me as I touched myself in the shower; and that night, when Quinn made love to me, I imagined it was Carson.