I can’t do this anymore…
Mads gripped her hips and thrust into her one last time before he came. Eyes squeezed shut, he tried to blot out the mewing sound she made. She’d asked him once if he thought it was sexy. It wasn’t. The last thing he wanted was to think about anything sexy. This was work. This wasn’t fucking because it felt good or because he loved her or anything personal. Sophie was a client. That was it. He had to tell himself that as he pulled out of her and retreated to the bathroom. She’d rolled over on her back and hoisted her legs in the air.
“I think it worked this time,” she called out to him. “I’m sure it did.”
Great. He turned on the faucet of her tiny sink and rinsed off as best he could. He would shower at his workshop. He didn’t want to stay much longer than he had to. He rubbed his chin and stared at his reflection in the mottled mirror. His reddish-blond hair hung looked shaggier than he remembered. Three days worth of stubble covered his chin. And the dark circles under his eyes weren’t going to make him very popular at that week’s mingle.
Maybe I’m getting too old for this. He splashed warm water on his face, hoping it would wash away how sordid he felt. Just get dressed, say goodbye, tell them you hope it worked and get the fuck out of here.
He looked around for a guest towel without any luck. At least there was a roll of paper towels on edge of the tub. As soon as he’d dried off as best he could, he went back into the bedroom and started to dress.
Sophie was still lying naked on the bed, her legs in the air. Her right hand rested on her concave stomach. “Are you staying for lunch?” she asked.
“No, I’ve got to get back to the workshop. I’ve got some prospective clients coming in.” A lie, but it was better than outstaying his welcome, no matter how many times Sophie assured him her husband was okay with the arrangement.
“But I told Sander you were having lunch with us…”
“Sorry, I can’t.” He’d stayed the previous time at Sophie’s insistence. Sander had been nice enough–he’d cooked lunch then too–but his chill glare spoke volumes. He was going along with this because Sophie was desperate, they both were, to have a baby–but they couldn’t afford the clinic’s fee. It was the only reason Mads was even…making house calls. If the clinic ever found out, he’d be in a world of trouble.
He threw on his clothes, said a quick goodbye to Sophie, who called out, “I’ll keep you posted!”, and rushed past the kitchen to the hallway where his shoes were waiting by the door. He’d nearly finished tying his laces when Sander emerged from the kitchen. “Leaving already?”
“Yeah…some clients, I’m making cabinets for their kitchen renovation.”
Sander’s nostrils flared then relaxed. “So not another charity case then.”
“You and Sophie are the only people I’ve ever helped like this.”
“Right…” Sander crossed his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. His lips thinned to a tight, white line. “Listen…I know you mean well. And that this is…just work for you. But if she tells you it didn’t work this time, don’t let her talk you into anymore of…this. It’s…I mean, you’re fucking my wife, for Chrissake.”
Mads couldn’t look him in the eye. His anger, his frustration came through loud and clear.
“I’ll say no.”
“Good. Because I really don’t want to see you again. I don’t think I can take this anymore.”
Mads nodded and then let himself out. He didn’t think as he pounded down the spiral curve of the marble stairs that led to the apartment building’s main door.
He just wanted to get away.
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