This isn't supposed to happen.
Really, they should not be here, and if she's honest with herself, there are so many things that should not and is not in this scenario.
Even they, themselves, should not. They should not be here, engaged in something that she would—when clarity and sanity comes back to her, and she is no longer assaulted with the passion that is running through her every vein—deny to her deathbed.
She isn't the same girl she'd been when she's fifteen, she's different now, living a different life and this, whatever this is, should not be.
But it's hard to see and hear reason when his lips are on her neck, kissing her in places he knows will cause her to react. It's even harder to ignore the pull she feels towards him, and she reckons it is the same for her. After all, it's not that easy to ignore the three years worth of intense and intimate kind of relationship that had been, still is, the greatest love affair of their lives. It's even harder to ignore the passion long since suppressed by two different lives, two very different worlds, and a track in the middle of it hat signifies more than just the division of the lands, but more of the ranks and classes.
She's tried, oh dear lord, she's tried so hard to leave all of that behind. That day she'd gone and left that side of the town, his side of the town, she'd vowed never to return, never to look back, to bury it all like it hadn't happened. For the most part, she'd been successful—after all, people are so easy to fool when she'd seemingly shed all her snake skin and donned on not only new clothes but an entirely new person.
She does not regret it, too, either, can't find it in herself to find remorse over leaving that life behind, because as far as she is concerned, that had not been a life, at all, and she had, still does, deserve so much more than a trailer in a park and scraping it out. She doesn't think she's better than any of the people in the hell hole she'd managed to escape from (she is), but she does believe that every girl deserve better than a life survived and not lived.
So, no, she doesn't regret any of it—leaving, burying it, scorning it. She does not even miss it.
But she misses him, always has, and always will. She misses the way his lips would ghost over her skin, his tongue caressing her neck, and his teeth biting down on her flesh—the very same way that he does now.
This is wrong, she thinks for the umpteenth time since she'd set foot on this stupid hole he calls his office. But no matter how many times she tells herself that it's wrong, she cannot, does not, bring herself to stop. Not when his hands grip her waist in the way he's always done, squeezing it once, twice, before he's lifting her onto the table, hiking her skirt up until it's bunched around her waist.
She should stop, though, really, really should. Someone might walk in on them and she is married, after all, but she does not. She lets his hands and lips and teeth and tongue roam wherever they please because it's been too long since she's been riled up like this. Fred Andrews isn't in Riverdale to walk in on them, the blinds are drawn, and her husband...her husband...has given her the life that she's enjoying right now, and she absolutely can not do this to him.
"Hal," she murmurs, and the man standing in front of her, busying himself with kissing he exposed flesh, pauses, stiffens, and then straightens.
He looks at her as though he's annoyed, and so is he but he shouldn't be. It isn't like he didn't know that she's married. Hell, he'd been there on her wedding day, hiding at the back, sitting next to Fred Andrews, and she knows that but will never tell him, because what good would it do.
His eyebrows are furrowed, and his face is dark. "I know I haven't fucked you in a while, Ali, but I didn't think you'd forget my name so easily," he says, and it's sarcastic and slicing, but she does not let it show on her face, instead she lifts her chin and looks away. "After all, you don't forget it quite easily when you're railing me over for whatever faults you might find on a given day."
She bites down on her lip at that. She doesn't mean to hurt him (and she can hear the sound of pain tingeing his voice because she knows that he tries, he tries very hard to get his act together, but knows how hard he is struggling), but it's easy to lash out to cover for the feelings she had, still has, for him.
"No, I meant Hal...I can't do this to him," she tells him softly as her chin drops to her chest. She still doesn't look at him because she does not want to see his eyes, doesn't want to see what's in them.
"The way I see it," he tells her as he begins to pepper kisses down her neck once more, making her breath hitch and her legs spread wide to accommodate his body sifting to lean towards her, "you aren't doing anything. Me on the other hand..." he trails away as his hands lifts and reaches out to undo the buttons on her blouse.
He is giving her a leeway, is giving her an excuse, and though it is poor and flimsy, it works, she lets it work anyway, as she lifts her arms and wraps it around his neck, resting down her shoulders. She kisses him, kisses him with all the passion that has been missing in her life for so long because she misses this, misses him, misses the passion that burned through her veins and had set her aflame in her youth.
She's never really felt truly alive without him.
She cannot do this again, she knows she can't, her brain tells her she cannot, but her heart and her body aren't catching up. She had been the one to walk away from him, thinking she'd had more future with Hal, and that had been and still is true, and he recognizes and appreciates the fact, which had been the only reason he'd willingly let her go.
He'd told her once that he cannot live without her, and she'd admitted pretty much the same, but when they'd been faced with the future in a two-forked road, they'd swallowed the promise they'd made so she can be happy and him free.
They hadn't been successful, neither one of them, and here they are now, wrapped around each other, his mouth trailing sucking kisses down her neck to her tits, and he's licking and nipping in that way he knows she loves, and she's moaning—something guttural at the back of her throat—and her hand is slipping behind her so she can unhook her bra.
He swipes his tongue on her pebbled peak the moment the lace falls away between them and then somewhere down on the floor. His tongue circles around her hardened nipples, and she threads her fingers on is hair, holding on to him, not quite pulling, but holding on so that he'd know where to put that mouth.
He knows, still is accustomed to every moan and every shiver, knows what she needs without her saying it, and with a smirk that she feels against her skin, he sucks hard, then licks, and then sucks again, alternating between licking, sucking, and nipping until she is panting hard and she's sopping wet, she's seeping through her skirt.
God, she wants him, wants him s badly, she's ready to screw everything and throw away five years worth of a healthy, normal if not perfect relationship with her husband for this one more moment with him—for in this moment, she's never felt more alive.
He doesn't say anymore, only makes growling sound when his trailing fingers find her cunt, finds it wet and slippery as soap.
"Fuck, Ali," he mutters, half growling, "You're so wet."
And she is, fucking hell, she is. He makes her wet like that, only he does, and she cannot help it, she moans (something loud and damn near pornographic) when she feels his finger flick against the hardened bundle of nerves.
"I want you, FP," she murmurs against his cheek, because damn it, damn it all to hell, she does, she wants him, needs him, so much, so bad. "Fuck me."
He doesn't make her ask twice, knows he doesn't have that will power either, considering how hard he is right now—his cock is bulging and straining against his pants, and she'd put him in her mouth and suck him for all he is worth if only she isn't feeling so damn aroused.
Fuck, she's not even sure what's happening anymore, but she's so hyperaware of every sensation and every tingle of pleasure that's reverberating through her body in waves and tremors.
She doesn't really remember why she'd been here in the first place, only remembers that she wants to see Fred Andrews but had been surprised, but quietly pleased and hurt, to find FP Jones the second here instead. She'd heard they're working together (nothing really passes Alice in this small town), but had not anticipated seeing him here, and now here they are.
"Oh Ali," he mutters as he positions himself in front of her, his cock aligning against her sex, and god damn, it doesn't, didn't even, take them much to get this point of arousal. It's the point of no return, and they both know it, and it's also why he's not pushing inside her yet, even when she can see him twitching, his cock seemingly aching to push inside her wet, hot cunt.
And fuck, she needs him there, too. So she nods once, almost imperceptibly, but he is watching her closely, watching every expression on her face, and so he pushes in, pushes deep inside her until he's seated deep inside her, hard and ready. They don't speak, they don't even look at each other, because they're both afraid to make this mean more than it should, but they don't stop either, not until one and then both of them comes apart.
She should say no, really, should. She should push him away, tell him to get lost and run back to her husband and forget any of this happened. She should go back to her new life of scorning and forgetting her old one.
But she cannot.
She does not.
She will not, she knows, because she misses him, and though she tries to deny it, she still loves him, loves him with all of her heart and all of her soul, and that though she'd been quick and it'd been easy for her to bury the past life she'd lived, it isn't as easy or quick to bury the life they—she and him—had created.
And, she admits to herself, after all these years, she still cannot live without him.
And she thinks, believes, that maybe for one moment, for one split second in an eternity of misery, she could live again, and they could be just as they were.