You shouldn't be good at this. You shouldn't like it. You should stop. But your body doesn't listen to morality, only to Lynette's pleas for a third finger. She bites your shoulder as you comply. You move your other hand to the small of her back, holding her close as her body arches away from you. Her eyes close as she comes.
You press your mouth against hers in an artless kiss, trail your lips over her chin as you pull away. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. You listen to her breathe, to her short gasps evening out.
Lynette moves closer to you. Her hand brushes over your breast as her thigh presses against your abdomen. She shifts her weight and straddles your bare stomach.
"So, how do you think we'll like hell?" she says with a slight smirk.
You cringe. "Please don't make fun of me," you say.
"I wasn't... you really believe that?" She stares at you expectantly. "That *wasn't* a joke?" You still don't answer. "What are you, planning a death-bed repentance?"
You itch to tell her that you repent every night, even the nights that don't follow one of your early afternoon trysts. That you blame her for making you give in to wants you've always known were wrong. That you hate her when she makes you forget you're sinning, those moments after sex when she rests her head on your shoulder and a hand on your hip and this seems like love instead of indiscretion.
What you actually end up saying, with much more cheer than is necessary: "Better than no repentance at all."
Even you're surprised at how tense your voice sounds. Lynette shifts away from you, brow furrowed.
"I don't even know who you are half the time," she mumbles.
Your breath hitches and you itch to tell her something else: I don't, either.
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