Chapter Fifteen #2
Slowly, deliberately, I slide my hand up my stomach to my breast, tracing the curves of my body as if trying to mimic Saint’s imagined touch, his unspoken desire.
His reaction is immediate—he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, his jaw clenching, his eyes darkening further.
That move sends a fresh rush of heat through me, a current so strong it nearly makes me falter, makes my body convulse.
It’s like he’s controlling me, commanding my movements without a word, a puppet master pulling my strings from the darkness.
My hand trembles slightly as I continue to caress myself, his gaze a burning brand on my skin, and it proves harder to keep my eyes locked on his.
Every time I look at him, it’s like a challenge—an unspoken dare to give in, to let go, to utterly shatter.
Shephard groans beneath me, his voice low and rough, the familiar sound indicating he’s close to finishing, his body tensing with effort.
The sound barely registers. All I can think about is Saint, his unwavering stare, the way his lips part slightly as if he’s imagining being here with me instead of Shephard, as if he’s mentally consuming me.
It’s overwhelming, this insidious power he holds over me, this complete, utter domination. My heart pounds, a frantic drum, and I put my own hand between my legs, desperate to finish with Shephard, to end this agonizing, exhilarating torment, but needing, desperately, to make it about Saint.
Almost immediately, the sensation hits me—a rush so fierce, so profound, so utterly consuming that I let out a scream before I can stop myself, a raw, primal sound torn from my throat.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt from Shephard alone, nothing even close.
My entire body seizes with pleasure, convulsing, and I can’t keep my eyes open a second longer.
I do everything in my power not to collapse onto Shephard, my body trembling uncontrollably, my legs quaking as the feeling pulses through me in wave after wave, an endless, shattering crescendo.
It’s as if Saint’s stare is fueling this orgasm, as though he’s the one reaching into my body, commanding every surge of pleasure, every shattering ripple.
I continue to move on top of Shephard, my hand still between my legs, even after I know he’s finished and I’ve finished, our bodies both spent.
But I don’t want it to be over. My body hasn’t caught up yet, the sensation still rippling through me like a shock wave, a lingering tremor.
My legs shake, and I feel a soft whimper escape my lips as I collapse fully onto him, unable to hold myself up any longer, burying my face against his neck.
Shephard’s hands slide up my back, gentle and comforting, tracing soft patterns, as though he thinks this is something he’s done for me, something he’s given me. His lips brush against my shoulder in a soft kiss, but the touch feels distant and muted.
I roll off Shephard, my eyes darting toward the window, the space where he stood.
I lift my head slightly, heart pounding, hoping to see him still standing there, but .
. . Saint is gone. The moonlight filters in through the gap in the curtains, illuminating nothing but an empty yard, the stillness of the night.
The sudden absence of his presence leaves me cold, like I’ve been abandoned mid-thought, mid-pleasure, mid-orgasm, a sudden, jarring emptiness.
I close my eyes and tuck my head against Shephard’s chest, as if seeking comfort, burrowing into his familiar warmth, but it’s hollow, a feigned gesture.
I can feel the tears threatening to form, hot and stinging, hovering just behind my eyelids, pricking them.
And the worst part is, I’m not even sure why I’m crying.
I feel guilty, profoundly so, sure—but not sad. Not even close.
This is so fucked up.
That was probably the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, crossing so many lines.
But what’s worse is the undeniable truth gnawing at me, one I can’t ignore no matter how hard I try to suppress it. I would do it all over again if given the chance. It felt that good. That dangerously, thrillingly good.
“You’ve been deprived,” Shephard says, his voice thick with satisfaction, completely oblivious to the devastating reality of my experience. “That was . . . mind blowing.”
I want to laugh, a harsh, brittle sound, at the word deprived, at his utter lack of comprehension, but I hold it back, biting my lip hard to keep the sound in, to prevent the truth from escaping.
Deprived? If only he knew how deep my deprivation goes, how long it’s been festering beneath the surface, a silent, aching void, waiting for something—someone—like Saint to bring it to life, to tear open the dam.
But I don’t say that. I try to say something an innocent wife and mother would say in this moment to maintain the fragile peace.
“I think I was too loud. I hope I didn’t wake the girls.” My voice is muffled against his chest.
Shephard chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead, his breath warm against my skin.
“They’re heavy sleepers,” he murmurs, his voice laced with contentment, before pulling away from me to grab a towel from the nightstand.
I watch as he wipes it between my legs, careful and considerate.
It’s a small gesture, but one I’ve always appreciated about him—that he takes care of me, even in these intimate, vulnerable moments.
It’s one of the things that makes him a good husband, one of the things that used to make me feel so safe, so cherished with him.
But in the times I’ve been with Saint, there was no cleaning. There was no neatness. We were sticky and messy, and he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he seemed to like it, a primal, animalistic acceptance. And surprisingly, terrifyingly, I liked it too.
Saint is everything Shephard isn’t, and that’s both good and bad. It’s a chasm, a thrilling divide.
Shephard adjusts the blanket to cover us, his body warm and familiar beside mine. He rolls over onto his side, his back to me, the ultimate gesture of postcoital comfort and trust. He murmurs, “Good night.”
I roll away from him, pulling the covers tighter, hugging my pillow tightly as I stare into the darkness, the faint moonlight painting shadows on the wall. “Good night,” I whisper, but the word feels hollow, like it’s meant for someone else.
Someone who’s no longer standing outside my window.
I need to mentally buckle up, because the ride Saint is taking me on is getting way too unstable.