Reluctantly, she climbed out from under the blanket, pulling down her nightgown as she stepped painfully on the floor, grimacing as a searing charge of pain shot from between her bruised, tender thighs.She stepped gingerly to the bathroom, and turned on the faucets for a nice, long hot soak, and sat back to wait for the tub to fill. But the steaming water was so inviting, she decided not to wait, and hastily yanked the nightgown over her head, pulled down her bikini panties, and stepped into the still-shallow bath. She splashed a little on the cold ceramic tub so she could stretch out without touching the chilling surface.The deepening water seemed to engulf her like an ocean wave, rising higher and higher, easing away her aches and soreness like gallons of liniment. In a few seconds, she caught herself falling asleep, sprawled in the whirling water, really relaxed for the first time since those horrible minutes in Marty Bondman's office.Also for the first time, she was able to. “Fine,” I grudgingly told him. “We can meet up during my lunch hour for a chat. But that is it, just talking, no sex.” On the other end, Derek chuckled. “If it makes you feel better you tell yourself that, but you and I both know what the outcome will be.” For the rest of the weekend, my husband Bryan noticed that I was in an odd mood. He kept asking me if I was okay. He was being so nice to me and I snapped and yelled at him, told him to stop asking me how I was and if I was okay. Poor, nice, considerate Bryan who was just trying to make sure that everything was okay with me and I bit his head off and snapped at him. Half an hour later I apologized repeatedly to Bryan. I made love to him, as a way to make up for being a bitch to him. But it wasn’t the same as it was with Derek. It wasn’t exhilarating or dangerous. The excitement came from the fact that I was doing something I shouldn’t with my husband’s best friend. After the guilt of what I was doing wore off, I tried to justify.
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