Darkness.
In the darkness, the smell of vanilla candle wax faded. In the darkness, the scratchy sheets became Egyptian cotton.
He wasn't in this apartment. He was back in the house.
The rain on the roof.
The smell of jasmine.
Her touch.
He reached up and grabbed Emily’s hips, but in his mind, they were Sarah’s hips. He pulled her down, burying his face in her neck.
"God," he groaned, the alcohol lowering the barrier between his reality and his subconscious.
He started to move with her. The rhythm was familiar, but his mind was completely disassociated. He was replaying a memory—their anniversary, two years ago. The way Sarah had looked at him with total trust. The way she had arched her back.
He needed her. He needed Sarah so bad it felt like his chest was being ripped open.
The pleasure built, sharp and inevitable. He was close. He was gripping the woman on top of him so hard his fingers dug into her flesh.
He wasn't fucking Emily. He was trying to fuck his way back to his wife.
The climax hit him like a freight train—a release of five months of torture.
He arched his back, throwing his head into the pillow, and the truth ripped out of his throat before he could stop it.
"Sarah!" he cried out, his voice broken and loud in the small room. "Oh god, Sarah... I love you... I love you more than anything."
He shuddered, emptying himself, the echo of the name hanging in the air.
Sarah.
He opened his eyes, panting, a dopey, drunken smile on his face as the aftershocks rolled through him.
Then, the silence hit.
He looked up.
Emily was frozen on top of him. Her hands were still on his chest.
Her face was a mask of absolute horror. The color had drained completely, leaving her gray. Her mouth was slightly open, trembling.
She hadn't just heard a name. She had heard the confession. She had heard the tone—the desperate, aching worship in his voice that he had never, not once, used with her.
Harrison blinked, the alcohol haze clearing just enough for the terror to set in.
"Emily," he rasped, "I..."
She scrambled off him as if he were on fire. She backed away until she hit the dresser, knocking over a bottle of perfume. It shattered, the smell of cheap flowers filling the room.
"You..." she whispered, clutching her stomach. "You were thinking of her."
Harrison pulled the sheet up, covering his shame. He couldn't lie. He didn't have the energy left to lie.
"You're inside me," Emily’s voice rose to a shriek, hysterical and jagged. "You're inside me, with our baby, and you're telling her you love her?"
Harrison turned his head to the wall, closing his eyes again. He wished he hadn't woken up.
