Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Good,” Saint says. “But if we’re going to continue this, then I need a favor from you.”
I close my eyes and whisper, “What?”
“When your husband fucks you tonight, get on top and pretend you’re fucking me.”
The call ends after he says that. My mouth is agape. I pull my phone from my ear and stare at it. Then I quickly peek through the window again, not wanting Shephard to see the look that’s spread over my face right now.
The audacity.
The disrespect.
I like it.
I can’t ignore the heat pooling in my stomach. Hearing him talk like that—just like Cam would talk to Reya—makes me want to go straight to my laptop and write another scene.
But it also makes me want to crawl in bed with Shephard and do exactly what Saint said. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t mentally lock Saint out.
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.