CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I locked the doors after our phone call with a series of loud, frantic clicks, as if to physically bar him from entry, to erect an impenetrable shield. Then I turned out every light in the living room and kitchen, plunging the space into near darkness, hoping to erase his lingering presence, to make myself invisible.
The house is finally silent now as I lie in bed and wait for Shephard.
His nightly routine is as familiar and predictable as the rising sun: a long, efficient shower, the vigorous brushing of his teeth, the final, obligatory check of his work email, scrolling through his phone one last time before settling in for the night. I hear the water shut off, the sudden cessation of the spray, and then the soft shuffle of his feet as he walks across the cold bathroom tiles.
The bedsheets are cool against my skin, and I’m wrapping them around me at the exact same moment Shephard walks out of the bathroom, a towel tied around his waist. He plugs his phone into the charger on the nightstand with a soft click and pulls back the covers on his side. We don’t verbalize, the words hanging unspoken in the air, but we both know how things will end up.
We play our familiar marital game of winding down the night on our phones, each of us lying on our respective side of the bed, separated by an invisible wall of technology. He’ll show me a TikTok he thinks is funny, a silly video that elicits a polite chuckle. I’ll show him a meme I found, forcing a smile. Then, eventually, he’ll reach over, grab my phone, and toss it behind me onto the bed, a subtle signal that the night is about to take its predictable turn. He’ll pull me to him. We’ll fuck. He’ll put his headphones on and fall asleep immediately.
I feel Shephard’s presence beside me, the warmth of his leg brushing against mine under the covers. It should feel intimate, connecting, but instead, it feels mechanical, a practiced proximity. We’re both just going through the motions, like every other night. A quiet, familiar dance of habit and assumption.
Eventually, he does what he always does. His hand reaches over, firm and familiar, takes my phone out of my hand, and drops it behind me onto the bed, his subtle, established way of signaling that the winding down of the night is over, and the real intimacy is about to begin. He pulls me close, his body warm against mine, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck. I close my eyes, trying desperately to relax, to surrender to the familiar, but my thoughts drift elsewhere, stubbornly refusing to obey.
Shephard always starts out kissing me. Gentle, exploratory kisses.
Touching me, his hands tracing familiar paths. Then he’ll move on top of me and inside me. It’s predictable with us, a well-worn path. I always feared it was predictable, but being with Saint and experiencing his raw, untamed intensity has proved it, cementing the uncomfortable truth.
I love Shephard. I always have. He is my steadfast rock, my quiet anchor. But sometimes, lately, it’s just so . . . boring. The word echoes in my mind, a shameful, damning confession.
My mind flashes, unbidden, to Saint—his hands, his mouth, the fierce, unapologetic way he commands the space around him, the way he just takes. I shouldn’t be thinking about him now, not here, not with Shephard beside me, but I can’t help it. The more I try to block him out, to force his image from my mind, the more vivid the memories become, sharper, more insistent. The phantom taste of him lingers on my lips, hot and metallic, even though he isn’t here, not really.
I recall the words Saint said to me earlier tonight, the taunting whisper that still vibrates in my ears. “. . . get on top and pretend you’re fucking me.” The command is so clear, so precise, so utterly irresistible in its audacity.
I wait a couple of minutes, giving myself a moment to gather my nerve, to steel myself. Then, slowly, deliberately, I roll Shephard over onto his back, his body shifting beneath mine with a surprised groan. I straddle Shephard, the movement practiced, familiar, and he groans again, a deep, satisfied sound, when I take him inside me, the familiar fullness. He grips my thighs with his hands, strong and possessive, and I begin to move up and down in a slow, deliberate rhythm. I lean my head back and close my eyes, picturing the cabin ceiling, then Saint’s face, imagining, with a desperate, shameful intensity, that it isn’t Shephard beneath me right now, but him.
My mind races with everything Saint said, every single provocative word. I know I shouldn’t, but I follow through on his instructions, his silent dare, feeling the thrilling current of it course through me, igniting every nerve ending.
Shephard has no idea. He thinks this is for him. He thinks this is us.
When Shephard’s hand finds its way between my legs, a warm, familiar press against me, he begins to rub me. The pressure slowly builds as I pretend it’s Saint’s hand there, bringing me closer. I move with him, matching his rhythm, pushing faster, harder, and just before I’m about to come, just as the pleasure becomes too intense to bear, I open my eyes.
I immediately gasp, a sharp, choked sound, and can feel all the color rush from my face, draining away, leaving me cold and bloodless.
Saint is standing outside our bedroom window.
He’s there, a tall, dark silhouette against the backdrop of the full moon, which shines unnaturally bright around him, casting his form in a silver halo. Part of his shadow, long and distorted, falls over Shephard’s face, a chilling, dark stain on his unsuspecting features.
I’m so startled by his presence that I stop moving mid-thrust, frozen, my body seized up, my breath caught in my throat.
Shephard assumes it’s because he’s about to make me come, his body stiffening beneath me, his breath hitching slightly. “Almost there, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. I do my best to convince him that’s what has me reacting this way, forcing a small, desperate groan. The last thing I need is for Shephard to lift his head and look behind him, out the window. My gaze is locked on Saint, a silent scream building in my chest.
I keep my eyes trained on Saint, unable to tear them away, nervous he’s about to do something, to shatter the glass, to reveal himself. Is he going to bang on the window? Break the glass to get to Shephard? To me?
What the fuck is he doing here? His presence is a terrifying, electrifying violation.
He’s staring at me with a fierce intensity, his eyes like twin points of burning coal, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s turned on or angry or jealous, or some terrifying combination of all three.
Saint raises an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate arch, when he notices I’ve frozen in place—on top of my husband—unmoving, utterly transfixed by him. He grins a little, a dark, knowing curve of his lips, then lifts an intimidating brow, gives a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, indicating I
should resume what I was doing before I noticed him standing there, his silent command unwavering.
My lips begin to quiver, but it’s not because of how Shephard is touching me, not from the building pleasure. It’s because I’m scared. And as fucked up as this is—as perverse and wrong as it feels—I’m also, undeniably, turned on by it all. The forbidden thrill, the dangerous audacity, the sheer, breathtaking risk.
I start moving on top of Shephard again—slowly at first, then picking up speed, a frantic, desperate rhythm.
Saint’s gaze scrolls longingly over my body, a possessive, hungry sweep from my hair to my hips, and seeing that raw, unapologetic need in his eyes, the feral hunger, makes me move on top of Shephard even faster, a wild, frenzied pace, responding to him, not Shephard.
I don’t want Shephard touching me, not there, not now. His touch feels wrong right now, almost intrusive, as if it’s not meant for me, not meant for this moment. So, almost without thinking, I remove his hand from between my legs, and I press it against my hip, a silent, firm dismissal. His fingers twitch slightly in protest, a faint, questioning squeeze, but he doesn’t resist, simply shifting his grip to my hip bone.
When I come, I want it to be because of Saint’s unblinking stare, because of his silent command, not because of Shephard’s familiar hand.
I glance away from Saint for a split second, looking down at Shephard.
His eyes are closed, his face relaxed in a way that tells me he’s utterly oblivious to what’s happening outside, to the predatory shadow falling across him, to the fact that another man is watching, claiming this intimate moment. His peaceful ignorance is both a blessing and a fresh stab of guilt.
I lock eyes with Saint again, my breath catching in my throat, a ragged gasp. His gaze feels like it’s burning through me, unraveling every part of my body, dissecting me, consuming me. There’s no need for him to be inside the room; his presence alone dominates everything, filling the space between us, suffocating all other thoughts.
Slowly, deliberately, I slide my hand up my stomach to my breast, tracing the curves of my body as if trying to mimic Saint’s imagined touch, his unspoken desire. His reaction is immediate—he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, his jaw clenching, his eyes darkening further. That move sends a fresh rush of heat through me, a current so strong it nearly makes me falter, makes my body convulse. It’s
like he’s controlling me, commanding my movements without a word, a puppet master pulling my strings from the darkness. My hand trembles slightly as I continue to caress myself, his gaze a burning brand on my skin, and it proves harder to keep my eyes locked on his. Every time I look at him, it’s like a challenge—an unspoken dare to give in, to let go, to utterly shatter.
Shephard groans beneath me, his voice low and rough, the familiar sound indicating he’s close to finishing, his body tensing with effort. The sound barely registers. All I can think about is Saint, his unwavering stare, the way his lips part slightly as if he’s imagining being here with me instead of Shephard, as if he’s mentally consuming me.
It’s overwhelming, this insidious power he holds over me, this complete, utter domination. My heart pounds, a frantic drum, and I put my own hand between my legs, desperate to finish with Shephard, to end this agonizing, exhilarating torment, but needing, desperately, to make it about Saint.
Almost immediately, the sensation hits me—a rush so fierce, so profound, so utterly consuming that I let out a scream before I can stop myself, a raw, primal sound torn from my throat. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt from Shephard alone, nothing even close. My entire body seizes with pleasure, convulsing, and I can’t keep my eyes open a second longer. I do everything in my power not to collapse onto Shephard, my body trembling uncontrollably, my legs quaking as the feeling pulses through me in wave after wave, an endless, shattering crescendo. It’s as if Saint’s stare is fueling this orgasm, as though he’s the one reaching into my body, commanding every surge of pleasure, every shattering ripple.
I continue to move on top of Shephard, my hand still between my legs, even after I know he’s finished and I’ve finished, our bodies both spent. But I don’t want it to be over. My body hasn’t caught up yet, the sensation still rippling through me like a shock wave, a lingering tremor. My legs shake, and I feel a soft whimper escape my lips as I collapse fully onto him, unable to hold myself up any longer, burying my face against his neck.
Shephard’s hands slide up my back, gentle and comforting, tracing soft patterns, as though he thinks this is something he’s done for me, something he’s given me. His lips brush against my shoulder in a soft kiss, but the touch feels distant and muted.
I roll off Shephard, my eyes darting toward the window, the space where he stood. I lift my head slightly, heart pounding, hoping to see him still standing there, but . . . Saint is gone. The moonlight filters in through the gap in the curtains, illuminating nothing but an empty yard, the stillness of the night. The sudden absence of his presence leaves me cold, like I’ve been abandoned mid-thought, mid-pleasure, mid-orgasm, a sudden, jarring emptiness.
I close my eyes and tuck my head against Shephard’s chest, as if seeking comfort, burrowing into his familiar warmth, but it’s hollow, a feigned gesture. I can feel the tears threatening to form, hot and stinging, hovering just behind my eyelids, pricking them. And the worst part is, I’m not even sure why I’m crying. I feel guilty, profoundly so, sure—but not
sad. Not even close.
This is so fucked up.
That was probably the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, crossing so many lines.
But what’s worse is the undeniable truth gnawing at me, one I can’t ignore no matter how hard I try to suppress it. I would do it all over again if given the chance. It felt that good. That dangerously, thrillingly good.
“You’ve been deprived,” Shephard says, his voice thick with satisfaction, completely oblivious to the devastating reality of my experience. “That was . . . mind blowing.”
I want to laugh, a harsh, brittle sound, at the word deprived, at his utter lack of comprehension, but I hold it back, biting my lip hard to keep the sound in, to prevent the truth from escaping.
Deprived? If only he knew how deep my deprivation goes, how long it’s been festering beneath the surface, a silent, aching void, waiting for something—someone—like Saint to bring it to life, to tear open the dam.
But I don’t say that. I try to say something an innocent wife and mother would say in this moment to maintain the fragile peace.
“I think I was too loud. I hope I didn’t wake the girls.” My voice is muffled against his chest.
Shephard chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead, his breath warm against my skin. “They’re heavy sleepers,” he murmurs, his voice laced with contentment, before pulling away from me to grab a towel from the nightstand. I watch as he wipes it between my legs, careful and considerate. It’s a small gesture, but one I’ve always appreciated about him
—that he takes care of me, even in these intimate, vulnerable moments. It’s one of the things that makes him a good husband, one of the things that used to make me feel so safe, so cherished with him.
But in the times I’ve been with Saint, there was no cleaning. There was no neatness. We were sticky and messy, and he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he seemed to like it, a primal, animalistic acceptance. And surprisingly, terrifyingly, I liked it too.
Saint is everything Shephard isn’t, and that’s both good and bad. It’s a chasm, a thrilling divide.
Shephard adjusts the blanket to cover us, his body warm and familiar beside mine. He rolls over onto his side, his back to me, the ultimate gesture of postcoital comfort and trust. He murmurs, “Good night.”
I roll away from him, pulling the covers tighter, hugging my pillow tightly as I stare into the darkness, the faint moonlight painting shadows on the wall. “Good night,” I whisper, but the word feels hollow, like it’s meant for someone else.
Someone who’s no longer standing outside my window.
I need to mentally buckle up, because the ride Saint is taking me on is getting way too unstable.
