Another one, because I really have no life.
Guilt
His favourite part of her: just below her collarbone. He loved how her breath hitched in her throat when he kissed it. He loved how her eyes darkened and her lips fell to his. He loved how she whispered in his ear:
"God, Mark, stop it! What if Derek comes home?"
But they both knew Derek wouldn't come home. They both knew he would be at the hospital until at least three in the morning - oblivious that his best friend had taken keeping his wife company to a whole new level.
He loved the way she half dragged him into the bed that she and Derek shared, rarely now, because of their shifts, but it was still their's, and he loved the way she muttered, "God, this is bad!" as he slowly peeled off every layer of her clothing.
He loved the way she never stopped kissing him, not for one second, until they fell, side by side, shattered.
After that, it changed. He hated how she would turn to face the wall away from him. He hated how they would lay in silence for a minute or two, and then she would sit up, wrapping blankets around her, as if trying to hide herself from him.
He hated how she would say, "Go, Mark." And how every single time she would give him some variation on "It won't happen again."
He hated how she wouldn't meet his eyes, and she would cry sometimes, thinking he couldn't hear her.
He hated the guilt in her eyes, and he struggled to understand how something so immoral could feel so...heavenly.
Just another random rambling from my slightly disturbed, Maddison obsessed brain.
