It hit me all at once, those flashes I’d been seeing, her looking up at me, moving beneath me as she took my cock, her looking back over her shoulder at me when I took her from behind and so much more.
I’d fucked her three times that night before she left my bed. Each time she’d tried leaving me, I’d pulled her back for more. It was as if I couldn’t get enough of her, her taste, her feel, the way I felt when I was inside her. It all came back in a flood of memories that spliced themselves together to make one whole picture.
I felt my guts turn as I remembered the next time I’d seen her after that. I remembered that I’d forgotten that night. How must she have felt, that I’d taken something so precious from her and forgotten, just like I’d forgotten the promise I’d made to an impressionable eight-year-old girl who’d genuinely given her heart to me.
What I thought then was just a passing fancy was anything but. She’d meant it, everything she’d done then and now had been from the heart. A part of me knows that I’ve fucked up royally where she’ s concerned, that there’s no way I can make up for what I’ve done to her, and I’m gutted.
“I’m so sorry, Jenny!” Pointless words, words that meant nothing because sorry wasn’t going to cut it this time. It doesn’t matter that I was hopped up on pain pills or that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
I fucked her while I was married to someone else and then was bastard enough not to remember, fuck me—way to walk the straight and narrow and never put a toe wrong. I put every fuck wrong in my whole entire life, and she seems to be the one to pay for it.
Those looks of disinterested indifference I’ve seen on her face, how much hurt did they hide? And why me? Why did someone like her, beautiful, obviously bright and sweet the way she is with my girls, why did she love me so much? I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve her.
My feelings were all over the place by the time I turned off the computer and walked away. In my head, I was calling myself every name in the book, but there was a part of me that wanted to hold onto the feelings I had, the feelings I’d thought were just a dream—the memory of how it felt to be inside her. And I felt like more of a bastard for wanting to hold onto those memories while I was still legally bound to someone else.
I was tying myself up in knots and getting nowhere. My mind kept going back to her as I wondered how she was handling the aftermath of what I’d done to her. But I couldn’t go to her right away as much as I wanted to.
I had things to do, things to take care of. I couldn’t go to her as I am, married to a fucking psycho who tried to kill her. And I won’t go anywhere near her unless I was sure. Unless I knew there was more than just the way, I felt when I was inside her. Whole, that’s how I’d felt, and the memory of that feeling was emblazoned on my heart and soul.
I have to get her to see if nothing else that she’d done nothing wrong, that it was all me, I’m the fuck up. I relived every moment I’d seen her since I moved back home. From the interview to the day she saved my life, and never felt like more of an asshole.
The only reason I didn’t hit the bottle hard is because I had to take care of my girls, but every spare moment I went over and over it again in my head. I wasn’t in love with Jenny; I never was. When she was a child, she was just the little kid who used to follow me around, cute and somewhat of a pest. And when she came back into my life, I was a married man who didn’t have the right to even look at her.
Now she’s a woman, thanks to me fucking her in a drug-induced state, something I don’t think I’ll ever get over or forgive myself for. But it was done, and I have to figure out now if there’s more to my feelings than the memory of what it felt like to be inside her.
But before that, before I can open myself, and her up to that, I have to take care of the shit storm in my own backyard. Even though my mind was consumed with Jenny and where to go from here, I didn’t overlook everything I’d seen and heard on that tape.