And drink. That too.

When I finally finished cleaning the church basement and went home, I saw that Bishop Bove had called again and sent me a badly garbled text message that also included several what I assume were accidental emojis.

I should call him back.

But instead, I changed into my gym shorts, grabbed the half-empty bottle of Scotch and trotted downstairs, where I turned up the Britney as loud as the speakers would go, and brutalized my screaming muscles with more weights, more sit-ups, more squats, chugging whisky straight from the bottle in between each set.

I would drink and sweat until I forgot that Sterling existed. Hell, I would drink until I forgot Poppy existed.

And I was getting close. The drunk push-ups were beginning to drive home how much my body did not appreciate the concurrent intoxication and exertion, and my arms were about to give out when the music stopped abruptly, and I heard my name called by the only voice I wanted to hear.

Startled, I got to my knees as Poppy walked over to me, wearing the same pale tie-neck blouse that she was wearing in the picture last night. Did that mean she spent the night with Sterling? The Macallan and exhaustion destabilized me enough that I wanted to ask—no, accuse—just that.

But then she got to her knees too, and without hesitation, wove her fingers into my sweaty hair and pulled her face to mine.

The moment her lips touched me, everything else flared up and burned away, like so much flash paper thrown into the air. I forgot why I was punishing my body, why I was drinking, why I hadn’t been able to sleep last night.

She slid her arms around my waist and parted her lips, beckoning me inside her mouth, and I went where I was summoned, finding her tongue with mine and kissing her with everything I had. I seized the back of her neck with my hand, gripping her in the way that I couldn’t grip her commitment or her time, and my other hand reached under the wrinkled pencil skirt she was wearing and found the lace of her thong, pushing it aside to find the soft skin between her legs. Without preamble or prologue, I pushed a finger inside of her pussy, which was tight and not entirely ready for me, although I could tell that she was getting there.

She moaned into my mouth at my intrusion, breaking our kiss with a gasp as I started rubbing her clit with my thumb while I crooked my finger inside of her.

She leaned against me as I worked her cunt, and God forgive me, I was so jealous that Sterling might have touched it the night before that I couldn’t discern whether I was touching her for her benefit or mine—as if I could reclaim her if I made her come.

Watching her pant into my shoulder with her day-after hair and day-after makeup, her creased clothes, that general walk-of-shame look, was so fucking hot and so goddamn infuriating at the same time, and it was no wonder she flinched at my voice when I said, “On your hands and knees. Facing away from me.”

She swallowed and slowly obeyed. “Tyler…” she said, as if realizing for the first time that maybe she owed me an explanation.

“No. You don’t get to talk.” My voice was raspy from the workout and the Scotch. “Not a fucking word.”

My dick had been stiff the instant I heard her voice, but by the time I moved her skirt over her hips and pulled her thong down to her knees, I was so hard it hurt.

I should warn her that I’ve been drinking. I should warn her that I’m angry.

Instead, I pulled my shorts down to expose my cock, nothing in my mind but fucking that pussy, but the moment I notched my head against her cleft, my jealousy got the better of me. My jealousy and perhaps my conscience, which was beaten and gagged, but still not ready to let me fuck a woman drunk and in anger.

So I withdrew and instead of having sex with her, I fisted my cock, staring at her ass as I stroked myself. It was not quiet—I grunted every time my hand slid back up over my glans, and my hand and my dick made the distinctive sound of jacking off—and Poppy cried out, starting to turn back to me.

“That’s not fair!” she protested. “Don’t do this, Tyler—fuck me. I want you to fuck me!”

“Turn around.”

“You’re not even going to let me watch?” she said, and she sounded hurt, shut out.

Well, boo fucking hoo, Macallan Tyler thought and Good Guy Tyler winced. But no. No, she should atone. Somehow.

I smacked her ass and she jerked against my hand, letting out a low groan that told me she wanted more, and I wanted to give it to her, but part of me also didn’t want to give her anything, not until I knew that she wasn’t back together with Sterling, but then fuck it, it could be part of her atonement, and I spanked her again and again, the flat of my palm landing on her ass, alternating cheeks, until it glowed pink.

I could see her getting wetter, her cunt practically weeping for me, and I didn’t care, let it weep, and then it was there like a vicious riptide, and I shot all over her day-old clothes, a climax that was powerful, but harsh and nasty and short, because she wasn’t there with me. She wasn’t satisfied, and so I wasn’t either, although it hadn’t been about satisfaction, it had been about some kind of revenge, and God, I was a fucking asshole.

I sat back on my heels, my cheeks flushed with shame. I should touch her; I should spread her legs and lick her until she came. What kind of bastard did this to a woman—while drunk and jealous—and didn’t return the favor? But how could I touch her now, when I felt so disgusting with all of my sins and failures, when I was still so suspicious and upset that I couldn’t trust myself to be in control of her body?

I couldn’t. It was a dick move, but it was even worse to touch her with the kind of feelings I had inside of me.

After stuffing myself in my pants, I grabbed her a towel and wiped my semen off her clothes as best as I could.

“Are you…are we not…” She turned around and faced me, not bothering to fix her clothes, and the sight of her bare cunt sent a jolt straight to my dick. I’d be hard again in a minute.

I forced myself to look away. “Let me help you up. And then I think you should go home.”

She stood and pressed herself against me. “You’ve been drinking,” she said, looking up into my face. “You look like shit.”

She reached up to caress my cheek and I caught her hand, holding it in the air as I wrestled back the thousands of dark temptations, the feeling that if I fucked her hard enough, I’d pound the memory of Sterling right out of her.

I let go of her hand.

“Go home,” I said tiredly. “Please, Poppy.”

Her eyes hardened, huge agate stones of determination. “No,” she said, and there was that senatorial voice, that Chairwoman of the Fed voice. “Upstairs. Now.”

I wasn’t going to argue, because of the voice and also because upstairs was the way she needed to go if she was going to leave, but once we got to my living room, she put her hands on my shoulders and guided me to the bathroom instead of going to the door, and I was way drunker than I’d originally thought because I could barely make it without weaving into the wall, and crap, it was still daylight outside. I’d managed to get shit-faced and fuck over the world’s most perfect woman all before four p.m.

Tyler Bell: American Hero.

I let Poppy guide me to the edge of the bathtub, where I sat.

“Why won’t you go home?” I asked plaintively. “Please go home.”

She knelt and unlaced my sneakers, tugging impatiently on the strings. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

“I don’t need taken care of, dammit.”

“Why? Because you feel too vulnerable? Is that why you wouldn’t fuck me? Or touch me? Or even look me in the eye?”

“No,” I spluttered, even though it was the truth and we both knew it.

“Stand up,” she ordered, again in her Madame Secretary voice, and I obeyed, not enjoying the submission, but enjoying the interaction, the way she was fussing over me like she cared about me. Like she loved me.