Living in Sin
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 12: When Worlds Collide
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 12: When Worlds Collide - Two single-parent sheriff’s deputies move into a wealthy, uptight neighborhood and accidentally set off a storm of paranoia, lust, and suburban meltdown. As judgmental neighbors spiral, sexually frustrated housewives come calling. Amid threesomes, gossip, and chaos, Scott and Maggie discover their friendship hides something deeper. Darkly funny, raw, and fearless, Living in Sin is a satire of morality, desire, and the lies we live behind picket fences.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa
It was 1:34 AM on Wednesday morning and the night was finally breathing again.
Maggie sat in her cruiser in the dim light of the Park & Save loading zone, the engine idling low, her side mirror reflecting the flicker of the old sodium vapor streetlamps. The family beef call was done—no violence, no arrests, just a tweaker couple arguing about who smoked the last of their stash when they were supposed to share. It had taken a solid thirty minutes of calm tones, firm voice, and full mom energy, but eventually she and Boulder had chilled them out. Maggie had handled the evidence denial dance.
They’d each blamed the other. The truth, as always, lay somewhere between their last coherent sentence and their next compulsive scratch. And as the argument had gone on, the amount of the meth that had been left over began to expand in their minds. At first it was just a little more than a single hit. Gradually, it worked its way up to almost an eightball. It was a fascinating observation of meth addict psychology.
Boulder’s unit sat driver door to driver door with hers now, angled just slightly so they could see and talk to each other through rolled-down windows.
“Still no action?” Boulder asked, sipping from a paper cup with a lid on it. “With Dover and the hoity-toity MILF, I mean.”
Maggie grinned. “You been keeping track?”
Boulder gave her a look. “I got popcorn and everything. Thought it was gonna be a full-blown suburb scandal by now.”
“Nope,” Maggie said. “Samantha’s not even around these days. Barely seen. Terrified hubby’s gonna catch wind and use the prenup against her.”
Boulder let out a low whistle and shook her head. “That’s some cold shit.”
“Yeah, well,” Maggie said, adjusting the heater vent to blow on her boots, “she knew what she was getting into. Some people just need a big house more than they need orgasms.”
Boulder chuckled, then leaned back in her seat, letting silence settle for a moment.
After a beat, Maggie added, “Speaking of cold shit ... Judith.”
“Oh Christ,” Boulder muttered. “What now?”
“She mailed out a letter,” Maggie said. “Official HOA garbage. Full-color picture of herself at the top—like she’s the fucking Queen of Holly Creek.”
Boulder squinted. “Picture?”
“Yeah. Glamour shot. Business blazer, pearls, that tight smile she does when she’s trying to look human. Printed on expensive-ass cardstock. Probably spent a couple hundred bucks of HOA money on that shit, not including the fucking postage.”
“Damn.”
“It gets better,” Maggie went on. “She’s decreeing that all holiday decorations have to include a blue light to ‘honor the brave men and women of Gardenville PD’—like she’s the patron saint of law enforcement or something. But it’s not optional. Says all displays must have one. Also says Christmas décor can ‘honor all faiths’ as long as they acknowledge the ‘birth of Christianity,’ so basically it’s gotta include a cross, a nativity, or Santa.”
Boulder raised an eyebrow. “Wait ... what?”
“Oh, and trash cans. No putting them out too early, no leaving them out past 8 PM. That one might actually be legit, buried in the fine print of the CC&Rs. But the rest? Completely made-up tyranny.”
Boulder let out a slow, amazed breath. “She really put that in writing?”
Maggie nodded. “Signed it ‘The HCHOA Board of Directors,’ like it wasn’t her alone with a laptop and a God complex.”
“Shit,” Boulder said, shaking her head. “And people just ... go along with that?”
“That’s the worst part. They do. It’s got enough polish to look official, and nobody wants to be the one who pushes back and ends up on Judith’s naughty list.”
“You gonna push back?”
“Oh, I’m not pushing,” Maggie said. “I’m gonna dig in. I’m gonna find the cracks. And then I’m gonna pull the whole fucking façade down in front of everybody.”
Boulder grinned. “Now that’s the Winslow I know.”
Maggie gave a tight nod. “It’s not just annoying anymore. It’s unconstitutional. And it’s expensive. That portrait bullshit cost money—and I guarantee it wasn’t from her wallet. It was from that $146.50 that Dover and I pay with the mortgage every fuckin’ month.”
Boulder raised a brow. “So ... you finally got a plan?”
“I’ve got the beginning of one,” Maggie said. “Still firming it up. But I’m gonna take that bitch down. Carefully. Publicly. And ideally with a fraud investigation attached.”
Boulder smirked. “Damn. You sound like a woman with purpose.”
“I am,” Maggie said. “I’m just not rushing. Gonna do it clean.”
They both sat for a second longer, the hiss of their heaters the only sound between them.
Maggie had been the primary on the call so she filed her little one paragraph call summary on the tweakers. They then both pushed their AVAILABLE IN DISTRICT tabs on the touchscreens.
A second later, the dispatcher crackled on the radio: “Units 16-Adam and 11-Adam, you’re both clear. No District 1 calls pending.”
Boulder reached for the mic. “Eleven-Adam and Sixteen-Adam copies. We’re clear.”
She looked back over at Maggie. “I’m gonna go score a coffee at the Watson Starbucks. They’re twenty-four again.”
Maggie nodded. “I’m gonna cruise the residentials. Maybe catch a tweaker trying to dig a hole to Narnia or looking for gold in someone’s catalytic converter.”
“Text me if you get bored.”
“Always do.”
They gave each other a little wave, then eased their units into motion, tires crunching on gravel and exhaust puffing in the cold. Boulder turned north, headed for caffeine. Maggie rolled south, toward the quiet grid of sleeping semi-respectable duplexes and fourplexes.
She had just turned off Riverside and was cruising the edge of the duplex grid when dispatch crackled again—tight and clipped, but with an edge.
“District One units, 14-Adam and 11-Adam, respond Code 2 to assist EMS at Northwood Park, rear parking lot. Male subject uncooperative in a vehicle. Medics are on scene requesting law enforcement.”
There was a pause. Then:
“14-Adam, you’re primary.”
A second later, Mendez came over the air. “14-Adam, I’m responding from Arcade Creek. It’s gonna be fifteen minutes.”
Maggie was already flipping her turn signal.
“12-Adam, I’ll take primary on that. I’m five out. Have 11-Adam cover.”
“Copy, 12-Adam taking primary, 11-Adam cover, 14-Adam disregard.”
She banked left at the next intersection and accelerated, lights off, watching the dark street roll beneath her tires. Highland Park was never a good time. Especially not after midnight. And especially not alone. But you didn’t dick around when EMS was asking for help. If they were already there and asking for backup, that meant something had already gone sideways.
She rolled into the north end of the park off Manzanita, cutting through the main lot and toward the rear where she could already see the boxy silhouette of a county ambulance angled across two spaces. They’d positioned their rig to block the nose of a black Mustang—parked face-out toward the rear fence like it was getting ready to bolt.
Smart.
She spotted Carson and Jayden standing just off the driver’s side, both with their hands free but their stances tight. Watching the car. Staying ready. Maggie had worked scenes with both of them before—solid medics, calm under pressure, not prone to panic calls. That made her even more curious.
She pulled up slow behind the ambulance and angled slightly off-line so she could use her unit for cover if needed. No lights. Just the idle of her engine and the subtle hiss of the rig’s diesel exhaust.
She keyed up quickly: “12-Adam on scene. Subject is in the vehicle still. Continue the cover unit.”
Then she stepped out, glancing once toward the Mustang as she approached the medics.
Jayden gave a nod. “Hey, Winslow.”
“What’ve we got?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Male driver, twenties. Slumped in the seat when we rolled up. Car’s running. Doors are unlocked. We tried to check on him, but he woke up swinging.”
“Swinging?”
Carson nodded. “We didn’t get hit, but he was flailing. Shouting something about being fine, not needing fuckin’ medics, and then he locked the doors.”
Maggie gave a slow exhale and turned to the car.
A 2002 Mustang, black, aftermarket wheels, lightly tinted windows—definitely higher-end than anything else you’d find in Highland Park at 2AM. It idled softly, nose practically kissing the bumper of the ambulance. And from where she stood, she could see movement inside—just a shape, shifting in the driver’s seat.
Maggie paused near the driver’s side quarter panel, keeping the Mustang in her peripheral as she reached for her lapel mic.
“12-Adam to main, can you run a plate for me?”
“Go ahead.”
She read it off, slow and clear.
A few seconds ticked by.
Then: “Comes back to a 2002 Ford Mustang, black in color. Registered owner is Bartholomew Winthrop the Third, eighteen years old. Address in Gardenville—on Leander Court, just off Oak Glen. RO has a suspended license. Three moving violations, several parking citations—all paid.”
Maggie gave a soft snort under her breath.
Leander Court wasn’t far from her own neighborhood. Definitely not a Highland Park address. Not even close.
“Copy,” she replied. “Still waiting on cover before contact.”
She glanced back toward the street. No headlights yet. Boulder was probably three minutes out.
She turned back toward the Mustang and angled her flashlight toward the driver’s window, holding it low and loose so she could raise it quickly if needed.
Inside, the figure in the driver’s seat stirred slightly under the light but didn’t wake. His head was tilted back against the headrest, mouth slightly open, eyes shut.
Asleep, by all appearances.
But Maggie didn’t relax.
Just because someone looked asleep didn’t mean they weren’t armed. Or high. Or both.
She swept the light across the front cabin, noting what she could from the outside: no passengers, no obvious weapons in plain view, no movement other than the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest.
Still, she kept her voice low and calm as she keyed up again.
“12-Adam, subject appears unconscious in the driver’s seat. Vehicle is still running. No visible weapons. Holding for cover before attempt to make contact.”
“Copy,” came the dispatcher’s reply. “11-Adam still en route.”
Maggie took one step back from the window and let her eyes scan the lot again. Still quiet. Still just her, the medics, and a sleeping rich kid—assuming the driver was Bartholomew Winthrop the Third and not someone who’d borrowed—or stolen—the car.
She tilted her head, considering.
Eighteen years old, suspended license, multiple violations.
What the hell are you doing in Highland Park, Bartholomew?
And why are you passed out behind the wheel at 1:45 in the morning?
She didn’t know yet.
But she’d find out soon.
Boulder’s headlights finally swept into the lot two minutes later, cutting across the Mustang and painting the far fence in yellow-white before dipping as her cruiser rolled to a stop beside Maggie’s unit.
She stepped out a moment later, closing her door with a soft thunk and walking straight over, her flashlight already in hand, posture loose but alert.
“Highland Park,” she muttered as she came up beside Maggie. “Because of course.”
Maggie nodded once toward the Mustang. “EMS got here first. Called for us after he woke up, started yelling, then locked the doors. Vehicle’s registered to one Bartholomew Winthrop the Third. Eighteen. Suspended license. Gardenville address.”
“Nice neighborhood.”
“Very. Not exactly local clientele.”
“Could be boosted.”
“Could be,” Maggie said. “Or it could be a one-man field trip to see how the other half parties.”
Boulder gave a quiet grunt, then looked at the car.
The Mustang idled like it was posing for a commercial—sleek and calm and absolutely out of place.
“Let’s do it,” Maggie said.
They split, silent and practiced, Boulder circling wide to the passenger side while Maggie moved in on the driver’s. Her flashlight stayed low and steady in her left hand. Her right stayed gripped on the butt of her gun, ready.
Twin beams cut across the interior, and Maggie caught it immediately—just a sliver of glass wedged between the seat and the center console. Lip end of a pipe, most likely. Certainly enough probable cause to search the vehicle.
Then the light swept upward.
The kid looked like a model someone had left in the sun too long—handsome, symmetrical, and completely out of it. Good jawline. Soft features. Pale skin. Just enough aristocratic arrogance left in the cheekbones to suggest a private school education.
And drool.
A fat line of it, shiny and slow-moving, trailed from the corner of his mouth to his chin.
Maggie raised her flashlight and knocked hard on the glass with the butt.
No response.
She did it again—louder.
Thunk thunk thunk.
The kid flinched, barely. His eyes opened halfway, glassy and unfocused.
“Sheriff’s Department,” Maggie said firmly. “Open the door.”
The kid squinted into the light, groaning like he’d just been asked to mow a lawn for minimum wage.
“I’m fine,” he slurred, waving a limp hand toward her like she was a mosquito. “Just need ... sleep, okay? Go away.”
Maggie didn’t blink. Her voice stayed calm. Even. Professional.
“I’m not asking,” she said. “I’m telling you. Open the door.”
Her right hand stayed near her gun. Her flashlight never wavered. She was aware, as always, that everything she said and did was being recorded—her body cam, Boulder’s body cam, and the dash cam from her unit behind her. There was no room for escalation, no room for attitude. Just clarity. Command presence.
The kid didn’t get it.
He groaned again, turned his head away from the light.
“Fuck off,” he said. “You have no right to bother me.”
Maggie kept her voice level. “I have every right in the world to bother you, and I’m not leaving until you open that door and I can confirm you’re okay.”
The kid’s head snapped back toward her, features scrunching in entitled fury.
“Fuck you!” he shouted. “You’re harassing me! My dad’s gonna have your fuckin’ job! You hear me? You think you can do this? I know my fucking rights! I’m in a public place!”
Maggie exhaled softly through her nose.
“Open the door,” she said again. “Or I’m going to break your window and open it for you.”
He flipped her off with both hands. “Go ahead and break it, bitch. My dad’s gonna make you pay for that shit after you’re fired. You hear me? Fired!”
She didn’t respond.
She just reached calmly into her belt pouch and pulled out a slim, pen-sized tactical window punch—black aluminum, spring-loaded, built for one purpose only. The kind they all carried. The kind that broke passenger windows in under a second when negotiations failed.
She extended it in her left hand and placed the blunt end gently against the lower right corner of the glass.
Her voice was perfectly calm. “You have ten seconds.”
The kid leaned toward the glass. “Do it. I fuckin’ dare you.”
Maggie counted, slow and even. “Ten ... nine ... eight...”
Boulder stood still on the other side, flashlight up, body silent.
“ ... three ... two...”
“YOU’RE GONNA PAY FOR THIS, CUNT!”
“ ... one...”
Maggie pushed the actuator.
Pop.
The steel plunger inside the device shot forward with compressed force, striking the safety glass with pinpoint pressure.
The result was instant.
The driver’s side window, like every tempered auto side window made since the early 1980s, shattered into thousands of tiny dull-edged cubes, crumbling inward and outward in a soft, controlled cascade.
A few fragments bounced off Maggie’s pants. Most fell into the kid’s lap.
The second the glass fell, the kid came unglued.
“You fucking BITCH!” he screamed, spraying spittle across the shattered edge of the window. “You stupid cunt! You fucking NAZI WHORE! You’re DEAD! You hear me? You just fucking assaulted me! I’m calling my lawyer, I’m calling my dad, you’re going to lose your fucking pension, you dyke piece of shit!”
Boulder appeared silently beside her, having circled around the back of the Mustang during the tantrum. She stood quietly next to Maggie now, one eyebrow barely raised.
Maggie reached forward with her left hand and pulled the door handle from the inside, unlocking it and letting it swing open. More glass fell to the pavement. Her voice stayed steady. Controlled.
“Get out of the car.”
“Fuck you!” he bellowed. “I’m not getting out of anything. I’m fine. You had no right to do this. This is unlawful detention!”
“Get out of the car,” Maggie said again, “or we’re going to take you out of the car.”
The kid laughed—an ugly, nasal bark of disbelief.
“There’s no way a couple of lesbian cunts can take me out of a car.”
And that was it.
Maggie reached in, calm as a sunrise, and clamped her hand around his left wrist.
He tried to yank it back—but she had him. Her grip locked and her right hand came up fast, twisting his wrist into a textbook wrist lock. She began to pull, slow and controlled.
The pain got to him instantly.
“AH—fuck—OW—”
He came out of the seat like a fish on a line, his body twisting as she used the wristlock to lever him up and out.
Boulder stepped in clean, grabbing his right arm and pinning it. Together, they moved him back two steps from the car.
He started to thrash.
“GET OFF ME! I’LL SUE THE SHIT OUT OF YOU! LET GO!”
Maggie didn’t raise her voice. “Stop resisting or we’re taking you to the ground.”
He didn’t stop.
“FUCK YOU! I’LL HAVE YOUR BADGE ON A FUCKIN’ WALL!”
Maggie and Boulder pulled him clear—and Boulder kicked his feet out clean from beneath him.
The kid went down hard, face-first into the damp parking lot. A sharp grunt left him as the wind shot from his lungs. Blood began to ooze from a cut on his lower lip.
Maggie knelt instantly, dropping a knee onto his left shoulder, controlling his upper body.
Boulder mirrored her on his legs, pinning him expertly, no wasted motion.
Together, they grabbed his arms and wrenched them back. The struggle went out of him fast.
“Wait!” he gasped. “Time out! TIME OUT!”
“There’s no fuckin’ time out here,” Maggie said coldly, snapping the cuffs around his wrists. “This is the real world you’re dealing with, sunshine.”
They stood together, leaving him facedown and sputtering on the pavement.
He twisted his head to the side and screamed up at them.
“UNNECESSARY FORCE! I’M CALLING MY LAWYER! YOU’RE DONE! BOTH OF YOU! I’LL SEE YOU IN PRISON! YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?!”
Maggie just looked at him—silent, composed.
Then keyed her mic.
“12-Adam. One in custody.”
It turned out the kid really was Bartholomew Winthrop the Third.
And that really was a pipe wedged between the seat and the console.
And what he’d been smoking inside it was fentanyl—likely scored from one of Northwood’s many known 24 hour hotspots. The little baggie had been in his jeans pocket when they searched him incident to arrest. He hadn’t even made it halfway home before the urge got too strong. He pulled into the park, figured he’d take a hit and then go home to his nice upper middle class Gardenville home and take a few more. A good plan, but he just couldn’t resist that second hit in the park and ended up passed out cold behind the wheel of the sports car Daddy had bought for him on his eighteenth birthday.
He was lucky he hadn’t stopped breathing.
Maggie had him checked out at the hospital and then booked for possession of a controlled substance, possession of drug paraphernalia, driving on a suspended license, and resisting arrest. His car was towed. The window he swore she’d pay for was swept up and thrown into a park garbage can.
As for his dad—Bartholomew Winthrop the Second—he did, in fact, have money. A lot of it. He owned a regional plumbing contractor outfit that specialized in entire subdivision installs. Pipes, lines, mains—solid work. Lucrative, too.
But not the kind of gig that made judges tremble or district attorneys start returning favors.
No political pull. No magic wand. Certainly no power to remove badges from chests.
Maggie had written the report by 0545 and got off work on time.
BW III had already been purged from her emotions as she drove home—nothing but a brief story to tell at this point. The stars were still out and it was cold outside. Not just nippy, but fucking cold. At least for the Sacramento Valley of California. The temperature gauge in her car told her it was 45 degrees out there. Her phone had told her that a southwest wind was blowing at 10-15 miles per hour. Just enough to put a little bite on that 45 degrees.
She pulled into the driveway at 6:55 AM and parked in the garage.
The house was already awake. She could hear the muffled chaos through the interior door as soon as she killed the engine—shouting voices, footsteps pounding down the hallway, and a distant yell of, “You used it all, dumbass!” followed by something about water pressure and a missing math book.
She smiled faintly.
The sounds of home.
Maggie stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She made her way to the kitchen where the warm smell of breakfast hit her immediately—eggs, sausage, peppers, and the unmistakable scent of buttered toast. Coffee was brewing in the corner, gurgling like an old friend waking up slow.
Scott stood at the stove in jeans and a gray sweater, stirring an egg scramble in a cast iron pan. His hair was damp from a recent shower. He looked relaxed. Grounded. The kind of calm that came from sleeping through the night and waking up with enough time to make breakfast on purpose. Maggie didn’t resent it—she appreciated it. One of them had to be fresh for the morning chaos.
“Morning,” he said without turning. “You’re just in time for food.”
“It smells great.”
“Good shift last night?”
Maggie dropped her water bottle by the kitchen bench and slid onto a stool.
“I got to watch an eighteen year old son of a rich prick run head first into the real world for the first time in his life. That was kinda cool.”
Scott glanced over, intrigued. “Do tell.”
“Pulled him out of a Mustang in the park. Passed out. Running the engine. Pipe between the seats. Fentanyl in the pocket. His name on the registration—a birthday gift from Daddy Warbucks, of course. And quite the potty mouth.”
Scott snorted.
“Kid tried to tell me I had no right to bother him. Told me I’d be working a whorehouse in Detroit this time next week. Claimed we were violating his civil rights by ... checking if he was alive. Then he called us—wait for it—’lesbian cunts.’”
“Wow,” Scott said, flipping the eggs. “How imaginative to call female cops something like that.”
“Oh yeah. And when I told him to get out of the car, he told me, and I quote, ‘There’s no way a couple of lesbian cunts can take me out of a car.’”
Scott gave a low whistle. “A challenge to authority,” he said. “That cannot be allowed to stand.”
“Fuckin’ A. Boulder and I took him out of the car.”
“He went the hard way, huh”
“We treated him with kid gloves for the most part,” she said. “Wristlock, extraction, ground control. Boulder kicked his feet out and he hit the pavement like a sack of privilege. Got a little owie on his lip from smoking asphalt. We cuffed him while he was—this is the best fuckin’ part—he was trying to call a timeout.”
Scott chuckled. “A timeout?”
“Yelled ‘Time out!’ like he thought we were playing lacrosse or some shit.”
Scott slid the eggs onto four plates and grabbed the toast from the warmer.
Maggie leaned forward, grinning now.
“I hope he makes a formal complaint. I hope they subpoena the footage. I want to be in the room when his daddy and his lawyer hear him say ‘lesbian cunts’ on body cam video after being repeatedly told to open the door of a running vehicle where he had a pipe full of fentanyl between the seats.”
Scott handed her a plate and poured her some coffee.
“Sounds like you had a productive night.”
She picked up her fork, still smiling. “It had its moments.”
Scott leaned back against the counter, eyeing her over the rim of his coffee mug.
“So,” he said, voice casual, “you go-mission for the clambake?”
Maggie fixed him with a slow, deliberate glare.
“You know, Dover ... I would kick the ass of anyone else who said that to me. But somehow you get away with it. Why is that?”
Scott shrugged mildly. “Might be an extension of roommate privileges.”
Maggie took a sip of her coffee, still giving him side-eye. “Maybe,” she allowed.
Then she set the mug down and leaned forward on her elbows. “Anyway, the plan’s set. We’re meeting at the Cypress Starbucks after you drop our offspring at school and she does the same with hers.”
“Where’s the baby going to be?” Scott wondered. Surely they weren’t going to do it with a baby in the house, were they?
They were not. “Mikul is going to be at her mother’s for the afternoon because Stacy is going to the spa.”
“Is she now?”
“She is,” Maggie said with a smile. “A very special spa.”
Scott nodded. “And then I go off to ‘training.’ A good tactical plan.”
“Where are you going to go, anyway?” Maggie said. “You need some funds? I can Venmo you fifty bucks.”
He shook his head. “Nah. I’ll catch a movie or something. Find a way to kill a few hours. Maybe go to a civilian bar and see how the normal people do it. You’ll text me when you’re done?”
“Of course,” she said.
She’d just finished the last of her eggs when the thump of approaching feet signaled the end of the calm. The kids barreled down the stairs, backpacks dragging, already mid-argument about something no one would remember by the time they got to school.
Maggie stood, stretched once, and gave Scott a quick tap on the shoulder as she passed behind him.
Upstairs, she unclipped her holstered off-duty Glock from her waistband and set it gently on the dresser. No ceremony, just habit. Then she stepped out of her jeans and sweater, tossing them onto the chair by the window. She stripped the rest of the way down, pausing only to glance at her reflection in the mirror. No bruises, no scrapes. Just muscle, skin, and the faint flush of a long night followed by too little sleep.
The hot water in the shower brought her back to life.
She scrubbed herself clean, slow and thorough, then reached for the razor and shaved everything—armpits, legs, and groin. She liked the smoothness. Always had. Clean was efficient. Clean was sexy.
When she stepped out, she took her time drying off, then dressed with quiet precision: lavender panties and matching bra—feminine, but not overly delicate. A pair of clean jeans. A snug sweater that showed just enough and concealed the Glock, now holstered once again at her right hip.
She dabbed on a bit of perfume—nothing overpowering. Just a hint of something warm and floral. Hair tied back. Shoes on. One last look in the mirror.
Ready.
She still had time to get her drink before Stacy arrived. Caramel macchiato, extra whip. Something sweet to balance the buzz that had started to build in her chest.
She grabbed her keys and headed out the door.
Stacy Foxx drove with both hands on the wheel and her heart thudding like a drumline in her chest. She was nervous. Of course she was. But it wasn’t fear—it was something else. Something hotter. Wilder. She felt like a power line humming in the dark.
The days since that first, brief encounter with Maggie Winslow in the gym parking lot had crawled by in a kind of delicious agony. She’d been polite and composed on the outside—packing lunches, folding laundry, fielding PTA emails—but inside, her mind had been a slideshow of sweat and fingers and mouth and heat.
She hadn’t just thought about Maggie. She’d obsessed.
She’d masturbated six times since that morning in the van. Six very intense, very wet sessions, every one of them starring Maggie Winslow and that perfectly filthy, shockingly competent hand. It had been like someone kicked open a door in her soul and let in a kind of light she hadn’t even known existed.
And what was revealed by that light was nothing more or less than what she really was. And what she really was, was a woman who wanted to have hot, steamy, nasty sex with another woman.