Madge pried his hand away, her eyes burning with resentment.
"She's just being dramatic."
"It's a little bit of depressive hormones. She throws herself off ledges and slits her wrists every other day, and she still hasn't managed to die."
"If she wasn't squatting in the seat of Mrs. Delgado, would we even need to sneak around like this?"
Inside the room, I opened my eyes slowly. My fingers twisted into the sheets.
Outside the door, Madge nestled into Everard's arms, her voice dripping with honeyed petulance.
"Everard, I don't care. I want you with me right now. Knowing she's lying in there makes me sick."
He was quiet for a moment. Then his tone softened, caving.
"Fine. But you have to promise to keep it down. Tonight, I'm all yours..."
The two of them fell onto the couch in a tangle of lips and limbs.
It didn't take long.
Madge's moans spilled out, rising and falling in shameless rhythm.
Everard kept craning his neck toward the bedroom door, freeing one hand to cover her mouth.
"You little temptress. You're going to be the death of me."
"Not a sound."
Madge's eyes were glazed, her face smug.