Chapter 16- Zane
The inside of my house felt cold when I walked in after a week, and it was not the temperature. I didn’t want to be there.
I dropped my bag by the front door and stood there a minute. Just… looking. Everything was exactly how I left it. It looked lived-in. It looked like love. But it didn’t feel like home anymore.
I walked toward the kitchen on muscle memory, my footsteps echoing against tile that Mark said would “last forever.” Mark had let me pick the house I wanted. Gave me money to buy whatever I wanted. Said I deserved everything.
I thought about calling Sam. Just to hear his voice. But I didn’t. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I needed space for a minute to think everything through. Now that this fine man wasn’t in my face, tempting me, I could see how maybe I’d been acting on emotions.
My hands rested on my stomach. What if I was pregnant?
I had wanted to ask Sam what we’d do if I was.
That moment I was wrapped around him, begging him to cum inside me, flashed in my head.
I had to exhale,as my nipples tightened.
I could feel the space between my thighs get wet.
I didn’t even want to unpack why I felt so desperate and needy around him…
why I felt desperate and needy away from him.
But what if I made a mistake? A reckless mistake—and he went back to his wife, and I left Mark and ended up with a baby who didn’t even have a daddy. But then, I was getting ahead of myself. He hadn’t promised me anything.
Tomorrow, I’d figure it out. Right now, I had to figure out how to explain to my husband why I hadn’t answered his calls in a week—when everything in me wanted to ransack his shit and burn it. But I’d promised Sam I’d give him time.
I sighed again. I decided I’d make Mark’s favorite—honey garlic chicken, stir-fried vegetables and risotto, which needed prep and time to marinate. Then I’d bake a cake and cookies for the women’s shelter to keep my mind off what had become of my life.
I grabbed vegetables for the stir-fry from the cutting board. Chop. Chop. Chop.
The house was too quiet—but I left it that way. I didn’t want music or a podcast or the TV.
I scraped the vegetables into a bowl and wiped my hands on a towel. The quiet might’ve been a bad idea because my mind drifted to Sam.
And suddenly I wanted to feel his hands on my waist. I needed to feel his hands anywhere on me, and it was pissing me off that I couldn’t.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and went to the fridge to grab the leftover dough from a week ago. When I baked, my mind went blank.
Press. Fold. Turn.
But baking wasn’t helping. Not this time. I was thinking about how Sam listened to me. Even when I was rambling or saying something dumb. He’d tilt his head like every word mattered. He remembered what I said.
And God, the way he touched me. The man fucked me like he had superpowers.
It was just sex though. Though… the sex was more than sex.
My stomach flipped.
The way he pulled me close at night, like he needed to feel me there to rest prove that. The way he looked at me when I was doing the most mundane shit proved that. The way he made me feel like I was a blessing that dropped in his lap proved it too.
I pressed the heel of my hand into the dough harder. Why couldn’t I get him out of my head? Why couldn’t I forget the way he said sweetheart , or the way he kissed my forehead like he was grateful I existed?
I felt my throat tighten.
Mark had never looked at me like Sam did. Not even in the beginning. He gave me things. Paid for things. Took me places. But he never saw me. Not like Sam did.
The dough stuck to my fingers, but I didn’t stop. I kept kneading, tears brimming in my eyes, threatening to drop into the mix of flour and butter and grief.
It was ironic—one of my favorite books was Like Water for Chocolate .
I used to love how her emotions flavored the food. Could my sorrow turn the dough bitter? Would my longing make it sweet? Was there magic in my grief—enough to make something rise.
I blinked hard, erasing my stupid question from my head, I wiped my cheek with the back of my wrist, and kept kneading.
What if I never saw Sam again? Was he really going to give me a job? How would that work?
I felt myself getting mad.
I closed my eyes and there was a flash—me on top of Sam, his hands gripping my thighs, his voice ragged when he called my name as he came.
The memory lit me up again. Made me ache. I was standing there—mad, horny, with tears in my eyes.
I finished cooking in that state. Then I packaged everything I had baked. I’d take it to the shelter the next day.
I took a shower. Dressed in a nice dress because Mark liked formal dinner.
The food was cold when I finally stood up from the table a few hours later. I moved on autopilot—scraping uneaten food from the plates, rinsing them, wiping down the counter.
Then I went and sat in the living room in the dark. It was past midnight when the front door creaked open.
Mark walked in like nothing was wrong, dropping his keys in the bowl, loosening his tie. His cologne hit the air and made my lip curl. I wanted to hit him so bad.
I clicked on the light and he looked startled but recovered, immediately going on the defense—like he hadn’t just walked in hours after he said he’d be home.
“You didn’t call,” he said casually.
I didn’t respond.
“And you didn’t answer when I called you,” he added, his tone tight now.
“I didn’t feel like it,” I said, still not looking at him.
There was a pause, like he didn’t know what to do with that.
Then he laughed. “You’re mad again because you’re not getting your way. You can’t want a baby that badly.”
I stood and looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes. “No. I don’t even want your baby anymore.”
His whole face changed. He stepped toward me, grabbed my arm, digging his nails in..
I tensed for a second.
“What does that even mean?” he asked, voice rising. His face was red—even the tips of his ears. He understood my tone. And if he didn’t, I wasn’t going to explain it.
“Nothing,” I muttered, shaking him off. “I don’t feel well. I’m going to lie down.”
His voice followed me as I walked away. “My parents are coming to visit tomorrow.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say fuck him and his parents . But I’d promised Sam. And suddenly, I was mad at him , too. He asked me to stay in this situation to benefit him—and he hadn’t even called me all day.
I didn’t say anything to Mark. Just clenched my teeth.
I headed straight for the guest room and closed the door with a quiet click when what I wanted to do was slam it so hard the hinges cracked.
But I didn’t want to give him that. The satisfaction of thinking I was mad about his fucking baby.
I didn’t even know why I thought it would be a good idea to have children with him—just for him to neglect.
Once inside, I finally let go—threw the decorative pillows off the bed, kicked off my shoes, screamed into a pillow. Beat the mattress.
Then I lay down in the dark, staring at the ceiling. When I finally closed my eyes, he popped into my head again.
Sam. His mouth on my neck. His fingers trailing down my spine. I could feel the slow rotation of his hips… His voice, low and rough in my ear, talking me through it— “Cum for me. Gimme what’s mine…”
I let my hand drift down my body. Slowly. I was sure I was making myself worse. But I didn’t stop.
I imagined my hand was Sam’s big, callused, warm hand sliding down my stomach, his fingers parting my folds, massaging my clit.
He had a way of touching me that made me feel like I was something precious and filthy all at once.
Massaging my clit in tiny circles I gasped, my back arching—one hand between my thighs, the other gripping the pillow like it might anchor me.
I wasn’t even trying to cum. I just wanted to feel something that didn’t ache.
But my orgasm still crept up—tight and desperate.
I imagined him saying. “Let me see how pretty you look when you fall apart.” I could hear his voice in my ear.
Feel his breath on my skin. “You like this dick, don’t you?
” I felt his mouth brushing my neck in my mind.
“Let me get deeper, baby.” When I came, it was with tears slipping out the corners of my eyes.
I was crying. Crying while masturbating and I could still hear Sams voice in my head. Cooing to me, coaxing me.
“Say my name while you cum. Don’t hold back, baby. I want all of it.”
This couldn’t be healthy.