Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
FALLON
"Something smells good."
Daniel's voice makes me jump, the wooden spoon clattering against the side of the pot. I recover quickly, forcing my shoulders to relax as I stir the sauce again. Turn. Smile. Perform.
"Spaghetti and meatballs." The words come out steady despite my racing heart.
He leans against the doorway, tumbler of amber liquid in hand. Scotch, probably. The good stuff he keeps in his office. My smile stays fixed even as dread pools in my stomach. Alcohol means unpredictability. Means I need to be more careful.
"Great."
I plate enthusiasm into my voice like I'm serving it alongside dinner. "I wanted to make something you love this weekend since I can't cook big meals during the week."
"That's really sweet of you, baby."
He crosses the kitchen and kisses my cheek. The contact makes my skin crawl, but I hold still. Accept the affection. This is what good wives do.
"So how was your first full week at the new school?"
I turn off the burner and move to the sink, lifting the heavy pot of pasta. Steam rises as water rushes through the colander. "It was really good." Keep it simple. Don't give him ammunition. "How was your week?"
He launches into something about depositions and witness testimony, legal jargon that used to fascinate me back when I thought his career was noble. Now I just hear the space between his words where corruption lives.
But I'm not listening. Not really.
Because all I can think about is how much shorter Daniel is than Kade. Smaller. When Daniel stands close, I don't feel protected—I feel trapped. But yesterday, when Kade crowded into my space, when his hand found my hip and bunched my skirt upward—
When you fuck your husband this weekend, I want you to imagine it's me.
Heat floods through me at the memory. The way Kade's voice dropped to gravel. The way his fingers felt against bare skin. The way he stopped the instant I asked, no hesitation, no argument—like my 'no' actually meant something.
Like I had a choice.
"—and then Henderson tried to claim the evidence was inadmissible, can you believe that?"
I snap back to the present, realizing Daniel's been talking and I haven't heard a word. "That's ridiculous," I say, hoping it's the right response.
"Oh shit, that reminds me." He takes another sip of scotch. "There's a gala next weekend we need to attend. You'll need to get a new dress this week. Something dark and sexy."
My stomach tightens. "Okay. What's the charity?"
"Who cares?" He waves his hand dismissively. "It's about being seen and talking to the right people."
I care. I want to care. But the words die in my throat because arguing over charity functions is a stupid hill to die on. I'll find out when we get there, I guess. Read the program while Daniel works the room like the politician he wishes he was.
How did I ever fall for him?
The question hits me with surprising force as I plate spaghetti—four big meatballs for him, two smaller ones for me.
I carry his plate to his spot at the head of the table, then return for mine.
Garlic bread goes on a third plate, and I grab a water glass for myself before joining him in the dining room.
"This is really good," he says through a mouthful of pasta.
"Thanks."
We eat in mostly silence. I cut my meatballs into smaller pieces, chew carefully, keep my eyes on my plate. The quiet should be comfortable—it's not tense or angry—but my shoulders stay tight anyway, waiting for the moment the peace shatters.
It doesn't. Daniel finishes his plate, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and stands. "I need to finish up some work on a big case, but thanks for dinner."
He disappears down the hall toward his office.
I breathe easier.
The dishes come next—rinsing, loading, the familiar rhythm of cleaning up. Leftovers go into a container and into the fridge. Pots and pans get scrubbed until my hands ache. The dishwasher hums to life. I wipe down the counters twice, making sure every surface gleams.
Eventually there's nothing left to clean, and I head to the bedroom. The shower runs hot, steam fogging the mirror as I stand under the spray and try not to think. Try not to remember Kade's hand on my thigh. Try not to imagine what would have happened if I hadn't stopped him.
Try not to wonder if I even wanted to stop him at all.
I towel off quickly, pull on an oversized t-shirt and pajama pants—nothing remotely appealing. Armor against intimacy I don't want. Then I slip between cold sheets and close my eyes, praying sleep comes fast.
Praying Daniel stays in his office until I'm too unconscious to notice him sliding into bed beside me.
Praying tomorrow never comes.
I yelp as Kade picks me up, sitting me on my desk.
My legs wrap around him automatically and he presses into me—God, he's so damn hard and big.
The feeling of him against me, separated only by layers of clothing, makes rational thought impossible.
I can't stop myself from grinding against his length, desperate for friction, for relief, for more.
He kisses his way down my neck, lips blazing a trail of fire against my skin.
"Fuck, Peaches. You taste so sweet." His voice is gravel against my skin, rough and wanting, and I whimper at the sound. The way he says my nickname—like it's a prayer and a curse all at once—makes something low in my belly tighten with need.
He keeps moving lower, lips trailing fire across my collarbone, down toward the neckline of my blouse.
Then he pushes my shirt down roughly, freeing my breast. I moan when he licks my nipple, the sensation electric, overwhelming.
I've never felt anything like this with Daniel.
Never felt wanted like this—like I'm something precious and profound all at once.
"Oh shit," I whisper as he sucks it into his mouth, tongue working magic while his hand moves up my thigh with deliberate slowness.
When he reaches my panties, he doesn't bother with patience—just rips them in one swift movement, exposing me to him completely.
The sound of fabric tearing echoes through the empty classroom.
He pulls back to look down at me and groans, the sound so hungry it makes me clench. Then he sinks to his knees, shoulders forcing my thighs wider, opening me up on the desk like an offering.
The first lick of his tongue against my pussy makes me arch off the desk, back bowing, hands scrambling for purchase.
"Stay still." His hands push me back down, grip firm and commanding on my hips, spreading my knees wider, opening me up for him even more. And then he dips back down and devours me like I’m his last meal, like he's been starving for the taste of me.
I'm moaning so loud. Can't help it. Can't stop. Don't want to. The orgasm comes on strong—so strong my vision starts to blur, everything narrowing to the heat of his mouth and the pressure building inside me like a tidal wave about to break—
"Baby."
The voice is all wrong. That's not Kade. The tone is different—impatient, entitled—wrong.
"Baby."
It's Daniel. I hate when he calls me that. Hate the false endearment, the ownership hidden in something meant to sound affectionate.
"Baby." He pulls me from the bliss I almost had, dragging me back to reality I don't want. His hand shakes my shoulder, insistent, refusing to let me stay in the dream.
"Hmm?" The sound comes out confused, disoriented. I'm still caught between worlds—the classroom with Kade and the bedroom with Daniel. Still feeling phantom touches on skin that's rapidly going cold.
And then I feel him—hard, pressing against my ass through the thin fabric of my pajamas.
Fuck.
I sober instantly, the dream dissolving like smoke. I just had a dream about my student. About Kade. And God, it was a good dream. The best dream I've had in years. My body is still thrumming with need, aching for a release that was right there before Daniel's voice ripped it away.
"You were moaning," Daniel says, already pulling my pants and panties down.
"I was?" I try to play dumb, heart hammering against my ribs.
No no no. I don't want this. Don't want him.
But he's already rubbing himself against my ass and I close my eyes again, desperate to get back to the dream. Back to Kade.
Fuck, Peaches. I need to be inside of you.
I hear Kade's voice in my head and I have to hold back a moan. Remembering his words from yesterday: When you fuck your husband this weekend, I want you to imagine it's me.
Can I do it? Can I fuck my husband if I think of him?
Daniel pulls me to my back, starts getting on top of me.
"Wait." I press my hand to his chest, pushing him down.
I'm getting this whether I want it or not. At least I can try to enjoy it. Try to make it bearable by pretending it's someone else. Someone who makes my body come alive instead of going numb.
I reach under the covers, pulling my bottoms the rest of the way off. Then I close my eyes, imagining Kade beside me as I climb on top of Daniel clumsily, eyes squeezed shut because I only want to see Kade.
Only want to feel Kade.
"Damn," Daniel breathes, surprised. I never initiate. Never take control. But I need this—need to be the one moving, the one setting the pace. Need to pretend I have a choice.
I position myself over him, still refusing to open my eyes. In the darkness behind my eyelids, it's not Daniel's body beneath me. It's broader. Harder. Covered in ink and muscle and—
"You're so wet," Daniel says, and I flinch at his voice shattering the illusion.
Don't talk. Please don't talk.
I sink down slowly, taking him in. My mind scrambles to rebuild the fantasy. Kade's hands would grip my hips differently—rougher, more demanding. Kade's breath would come faster. Kade would say my name like—
Peaches.
Yes. There. I find the image again and hold it tight.
I start to move, rolling my hips. Daniel's hands come up to my breasts and I bite my lip hard, forcing myself not to recoil. In my head, they're Kade's hands. Bigger. More confident. Knowing exactly how to touch me because he pays attention.
"Fuck, baby." Daniel's voice again, ruining everything.
I move faster, chasing the fantasy, desperate to get back to that edge I'd been on in the dream. But it's not working. Can't work. Because Daniel's hands feel wrong. His body feels wrong. The sounds he makes are wrong.
Everything is wrong.
I'm fucking my husband while thinking about my eighteen-year-old student and I can't even make myself come because reality keeps crashing through the illusion.
This is my life now. This is what I've become.
A woman who has to fantasize about someone else just to survive her own marriage.
When you fuck your husband this weekend, I want you to imagine it's me.
I'm trying, Kade. God, I'm trying.
But imagination isn't enough when the real thing is still just a memory of lips on my thigh and a hand bunching my skirt upward and the question: How far can I go?
Not far enough.
Never far enough.
Daniel finishes with a groan. I keep moving for a few seconds longer, pretending I'm close too, then collapse against his chest with a fake breathless sound.
"That was different," he says, sounding pleased with himself.
I roll off him immediately, grabbing tissues from the nightstand. Clean up quickly. Pull my pajama pants back on.
"Yeah." I don't know what else to say.
He's already drifting back toward sleep, satisfied.
I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, still aching with an orgasm that never came.
Still thinking about a boy I shouldn't want.
Still trapped in a marriage I can't escape.
Still wondering if Monday will ever come.