I went to the living room and sat on the couch with a thriller novel I’d been meaning to start. I read the same paragraph fourtimes without absorbing a single word. My eyes kept drifting to the dark screen of the television.
What would it show? Would Stacy’s husband prepare her the way Jacob had prepared Grace—with lubricant and gentle fingers? Or would it be something rougher, more punishing? Would Stacy cry? Would she beg?
Would she come?
I squeezed the book so hard the spine creaked.
Chris won’t be home until late, whispered the treacherous voice inside me.He’ll never know.
But he’d known last time. He’d walked in and caught me red-handed, my fingers between my legs, the television blazing with another woman’s submission. The memory should have been enough to stop me. Instead, it sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through my core.
I set the book down. My hands were shaking.
“Just to see what it is,” I whispered to the empty room. “I won’t touch myself. I’ll just… look.”
