Chapter 11
The Growing Divide
L ila didn’t need proof. She didn’t need lipstick on a collar, a strange perfume, or unfamiliar receipts.
She had silence. And silence was louder than any confession. Nate had come home just before dawn, smelling faintly of sex and guilt. He had showered before climbing into bed beside her, thinking the water would wash away the truth. But the lie lingered on his skin.
She didn’t ask where he had been. She didn’t need to. Instead, she watched him as he slept, his brow furrowed even in rest, his mouth slack in a way that made her feel like a stranger in her own bed.
She touched his wedding ring while he was unaware, staring at the glint of gold as if it belonged to someone else.
She remembered the man who had knelt before her years ago, promising forever.
The man who once looked at her like she was his entire world.
That man didn’t come home last night. And though she told herself not to spiral, the images began to form anyway—vivid, cruel fantasies of him wrapped around someone else, touching another woman the way he used to touch her.
They weren’t just images. They were possibilities. They were her intuition screaming. And it left her hollow.
That day, she barely spoke. Ava asked twice if she was okay. Caleb clung to her shirt at breakfast longer than usual. But Lila could only offer them faint smiles and forced reassurances.
She knew she was slipping. Quietly. And no one was noticing. Nate knew he should feel worse. But all he felt was addicted. He told himself it had just been that one night—that it wouldn’t happen again.
That it was a mistake. A moment of weakness. A lapse in judgment.
But Camille wasn’t done with him. And deep down, he wasn’t done with her. She knew exactly what buttons to press.
Her text came midmorning: You tasted like sin. Come back for more.
He didn’t reply. But he didn’t delete it either. By evening, he was at her apartment again. This time, she opened the door wearing nothing but one of his old shirts—one he didn’t even remember losing. It clung to her body like a second skin, taunting him.
“You came back,” she whispered, stepping close.
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“But you are. Who are you trying to convince Nate.”
She pulled him in by the collar, pressing her mouth to his jaw.
“You know you want this. You know you want me.”
And he hated how right she was.
In her presence, he was someone else—someone darker, hungrier, unbound by guilt or duty. With Camille, he didn’t have to pretend. He could be selfish. Rough. He could take without asking.
And she welcomed it.
That night, he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her neck, the gently moved his hand to the back of it.
“Take me Nate” she said as his hand moved through her hair.
He wrapped it in a fist and slightly pulled it back. He slipped his tongue into her mouth and started kissing her. Their lips moving in sync and his tongue gliding over hers. A moan escapes her mouth as he grips her tit.
Softly squeezing it. His hand slowly moves to her back and he unclips her bra. As he lays her down on the couch his mouth moves to her nipple. He gentle scrapes it with his teeth then sucks it into the heat of his mouth. Then his tongue caresses her nipple. Slow, warm and wet.
Her hand travelled to her wet pussy and start touching herself. She slid her finger up and down her wet snatch and Nate seems to like it. He groaned as she moaned and started softly squeezing her other nipple with his fingers.
Moisture started collecting between her fingers as her pussy started responding.
“Mmmh fuck” she moaned out as she slid one finger in her little pussy to test her readiness. Slow and torturous strokes as she bring herself to a climax.
Her pussy started flexing and panting, as it responded to her own torture. She put her hand in Nate’s hair as her orgasm started approaching.
“Did I give you permission to cum?” Nate said in a stern voice.
He brushed his finger across her tummy and stopped right above her thong.
“Please” she softly begged.
He slid his hand into her thong. Not preparing her for his big manly fingers, he slid two fingers into her. She burned so fucking much.
“Oh fuck” she hissed as he started slowly thrusting. His fingers threatening to push her over the edge of insanity. Slow and steady then quick and short movements.
“Ah, I can’t Nate” she moaned as he fucked her little pussy with his fingers.
“Come for me, baby. Come all over my fucking hand” he said and my vision went black. I faded into the darkness and it felt so fucking heavenly.
They fucked like they were trying to hurt each other—slamming into walls, tearing at fabric, biting and grabbing until pleasure blurred into pain.
She rode his anger, welcomed his brutality, whispered wicked things in his ear that made him dizzy with need. Afterward, she curled into his chest, smug and possessive.
“You’re mine now,” she whispered.
“You know that, don’t you?”
Nate said nothing.
But he didn’t leave either.