When I wasn’t thinking of her, I was obsessed with Margaux. Not in a sexual way. Okay, not only in a sexual way. My gut kept telling me not to trust her while my heart kept asking why not. There were at least a thousand reasons between both of those extremes. All of them were rooted in the overwhelming sensation I had when I first met that girl years ago—she was as sneaky as a snake. While she slithered around my dick, endlessly pleasuring me, I was convinced that if given the opportunity, she’d construct ways to betray me.
Sadly, my suspicion was based on a sense of déjà vu—not fact. In my lifetime, I’d had too many experiences with women like her. They willingly used sex to get information. Intelligence and a guarded demeanor enabled me to survive those encounters, but when it came to Margaux, common sense took a backseat.
Instead of staying aware, I was caught up in how much she looked like Peyton. Every now and then, Margaux gestured or said something that reminded me of her cousin. My psyche had rationalized that if I had to stay away from Peyton, fucking her cousin was the next best thing.
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