My wife—my blackmailed, reluctant, furious wife—was pleasuring herself in my bathtub.
Blood rushed south so fast I felt lightheaded as my cock hardened painfully against the confines of my slacks. I should have left. Should have backed away, given her privacy, pretended I'd never seen this.
Instead, I stood transfixed, watching as her free hand rose to her breast and her fingers pinched and rolled her nipple until it peaked visibly above the waterline. A soft curse escaped her lips, and her movements beneath the water grew more deliberate.
“Fuck,” I whispered, the word barely audible even to my own ears. The pressure inside my pants was unbearable, and the need to touch overwhelming.
Before I could stop myself, I undid my belt and lowered my zipper with painstaking slowness to avoid making noise. My cock sprang free, already fully hard and leaking at the tip. I wrapped my hand around it, giving myself one slow stroke as I watched her through the gap.
Her breathing had quickened, her chest rising and falling more rapidly. My hand moved faster, matching her rhythm stroke for stroke as I imagined what I'd do if I pushed that door open right now.
I'd haul her from that tub, press her against the counter, and fuck her from behind while she watched in that same mirror thatwas giving me this view. I'd make her say my name, make her admit how badly she wanted me.
Or I'd set her on the counter, spread those long legs wide, and bury my face between them until she came screaming on my tongue. I'd taste her, devour her, make her forget anyone else who'd ever touched her.
The fantasy was so vivid I had to bite my lip to keep from groaning out loud. My hand moved faster, twisting slightly at the head of my cock. I pressed the sensitive tip against my stomach to create more friction as my hips made small, involuntary thrusts into my fist.
A soft moan from the bathroom dragged me back to reality. Cecelia's movements had grown more frantic, her hips rising slightly from the water to meet her hand. Her other arm braced against the side of the tub for leverage while her back arched in a perfect curve that showcased the pale globes of her breasts, and the taut peaks of her nipples.
“Oh,” she breathed, so quiet I almost missed it.
Who was she thinking about? The faceless sender of those flowers? Someone from her past? The thought should have angered me, but in that moment, it only made me harder, and so much more desperate.
My strokes grew rougher, more urgent, as I watched her chase her pleasure. Her leg trembled where it hung over the edge of the tub. Her lips parted wider, and her breathing grew ragged.
She was close. So was I. The pressure built at the base of my spine, my balls drawing up tight as I fought to hold back just a little longer, to time my release with hers.
Then her body suddenly went rigid and a strangled sound escaped her—not quite a cry, more like a gasp cut short by her own restraint. The sight of her coming undid me completely. I pressed my forehead against the doorframe, my hand working furiously as heat surged through me. My release hit withunexpected force, spurting over my fingers and onto my shirt in hot, thick pulses.
For several heartbeats, I stood there, my mind blissfully, terrifyingly blank. Then reality crashed back in like a bucket of ice water.
I'd just jerked off watching my unwilling wife touch herself, without her knowledge or consent. I was no better than the voyeurs at Santiago's club.
Shame washed over me, quickly followed by panic as I heard water sloshing—she was getting out of the tub. I tucked myself back into my pants with clumsy movements and retreated to the walk-in closet. I slipped inside just as the bathroom door swung fully open.
“Could've sworn I closed that,” Cecelia's voice drifted through the bedroom. “Fucking drafty penthouse.”
Pressed against the wall of designer suits, I was painfully aware of the mess on my shirt and the lingering scent of sex that clung to me. If she came in here now, there'd be no explaining this away.
But her footsteps moved toward the bed instead. I heard the rustle of sheets and the creak of the mattress as she settled. Only then did I allow myself to exhale. Sliding down the wall until I sat on the floor of my own closet, I hid like a teenager caught with porn.
I waited until her breathing evened out before I finally dared to emerge. She was curled on her side of the bed, her back to the middle, phone clutched in her hand.
She didn't look up as I grabbed clean clothes and retreated to the bathroom, where I quickly scrubbed away the evidence of what I'd done but not the memory of it. That, I suspected, would be seared into my brain for a very long time.
When I returned to the bedroom, Cecelia appeared to be asleep, though I doubted she actually was. The pillow wall hadbeen rebuilt, a fortress down the center of our king-sized bed. The sight of it—this physical manifestation of the divide between us—sent a pang through my chest that had everything to do with the mess I'd made of this whole situation.
Should I say something? Try to talk about what had happened in the kitchen?
No. She'd been clear about needing space, and after what I'd just done... Shit, I owed her that much at least.
Backing away from the bed, I was careful not to make noise as I exited the room and pulled the door shut behind me. My footsteps were silent as I moved through the penthouse, drawn toward the one place I always ended up when I couldn't sleep, couldn't think, couldn't breathe.
The music room.
The piano sat in the corner, its sleek black surface gleaming under the city lights that filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the dim glow, I could almost see ghosts—my younger self seated at the bench, fingers flying over the keys while my father's voice cut through the music like a knife.
“This is what you waste your time on? This... frivolity?”
