This isn’t working for me and if we can’t fix it after 20 years, another night of endless discussions won’t be any more helpful. He was tempted...to just brush past her and go out while she demanded that he stay and talk it out. He actually doubted she would stop him. Maybe just go out the kitchen door so that there wouldn’t be a scene. What would she do then? Try to call him? Leave him alone until he cooled down? She’d probably try to call him. If she didn’t it was probably really over between. She was coming down. She had no idea how long her orgasm had lasted. Her mind started to race as it recovered from what he had done to her—how he’d made her his molested bitch. She shame of it made her body hot. He was keeping her pressed against the glass. But then her mind rang again. How many stops had it been since the last? Did anyone see? Her thighs were definitely damp—with her own squirt from what he had said—and she felt like she could smell her sex in the air. His fingers were no. More

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