Page 57 of The Bad Husband

Pursing his lips into a smile, he stares at his fingers as they slide into me.

I glance down at the bulge straining against his fly.

He’d probably unzip his fly, take his cock out, and push it into me, if he could.

“We’ll see about that,” he says. “Now come for me, baby. And do it fast. I need to go back to the club.”

He pushes me into the door and crashes me under his weight, his erection pressing onto me through his fancy pants as he takes me up and up.

Within moments, he breathes hot over my mouth, smelling like mint and aftershave, not kissing me, only taunting me, making me come.

Moaning quietly, I sink my nails into his neck and bite his lip.

He locks my mouth to stop me from doing that again, and when I finally begin to move less and less, he breaks away from me.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, adjusting his big erection and snatching up his shirt from the vanity. “Put your clothes on,” he orders.

Still shaking, I collect my pajamas, slide my shorts and top on, and put on my robe.

I’m barely breathing, and I hate that it has to happen like this.

“Damon?”

Henrietta’s voice sounds closer this time, and he looks in the mirror, runs a hand through his hair, checks his fastened belt and fly, brings his forefinger to his lips––for me––quietly unlocks the door, and steps out.

He closes the door behind him before I press my ear to the door.

“Give it to me,” he says and starts talking to someone on the phone.

I listen to a brief conversation before he hangs up.

“What’s that on your face?” she asks, and my breath catches.

“I cut myself when I shaved,” he says dryly, and Henrietta doesn’t follow up.

That’s it?

Their steps move along the corridor.

I don’t know how much longer to wait, but once the house turns silent, I open the door, make sure no one’s out there, and slip out.

Minutes later, I exit my room, wearing my new swimsuit.

Following his instructions, I sneak into the backyard and step into the pool, not making the slightest noise.

Within moments, the noise of a car wafts through the air.

He pulls away from the driveway, while a dimly lit room on the other side of the house catches my attention.

I expect to see a silhouette by the window.

I even expect Henrietta to climb the stairs, approach me, and question me.

None of that happens.

After an hour, I emerge from the pool, toss a towel around my shoulders and walk up the stairs.

I go to sleep around five.