The Other Woman's Second-Chance Touchdown

1. Bree

Bree

The one face you should never imagine while fucking your husband is his exe’s.

That’s one of the top rules for a healthy marital sex life, right up there with not talking dirty when you’re making love in your parents’ house.

By that point, I had been the unfortunate experiencer of both things.

As if hearing my mom say over pancakes the next morning that we’d both been pretty loud last night, and my dad going in to check whether the bed had broken from all that action wasn’t cringeworthy enough, here I was, imagining the different ways I’d smack my husband’s ex’s pretty face the next time she tried to be bitchy with me. IN THE MIDDLE OF MY ORGASM.

That was the moment I realized that ever since the doomed day Wretched Wren had walked into our lives, I’d hit a new low.

And just thinking that I was the reason this entire “other woman drama,” (as Mom called it) was happening in my life, made me want to whip my own ass.

Also because Gavin had suddenly stopped showing interest in whipping it himself.

And it just so happened to coincide with the time Wren came into his life. Was that too much of a coincidence?

Not only was she now denying me my orgasm, she was stealing my kink.

But who was I to blame but myself? I had been the one going all supportive-wife about it.

When your NFA quarterback husband himself shows doubts about his recently divorced ex re-entering his life, you’re supposed to shut up and let him marinate in his doubt, not go convincing him to hire her as his video biographer.

For all the idiocy I’d already committed, I had started to believe that maybe I didn’t even deserve that orgasm.

But Gavin didn’t seem to share that opinion with me.

His big arms wrapped around my waist, and he picked me up for round two, kissing me with a desperate, raw edge, dragging his mouth down the side of my neck.

His hands curved around my waist and he pulled me in so powerfully that I was flush against his body.

“Oh, Bree,” he groaned, his hand tangling in my hair, grabbing handfuls tightly.

He kissed the hollow of my neck, and I tipped my head back as a shudder of desire shot through my spine, carnal enough to send a jolt all the way down to my pussy.

Well, hello! Wren who?

“I want to fuck you until you come. Do you want that, baby girl?”

I nodded, panting with desire. I couldn’t have formed a sentence if you’d paid me.

He took my heavy breasts in his hands, kneading my nipples until I felt my panties soaked with arousal.

Second time’s the charm?

His mouth found my tits, sucking, and we were in a tangle, getting into position. I spread my thighs as wide as they’d go, and Gavin, sensing my desperation to get my orgasm, got me off all over again, rubbing my clit until I was a moaning mess, desperate for more.

“Oh, Gavin, I need you inside me again, please!” I moaned.

I wanted him. All of him.

Our bodies fit together like the two halves of an English muffin, and he took me the second time that night.

More feral this time. Meaner. He rose up on his knees, his cock harder, and shoved my legs back toward my chest, and I was right back at the edge, desperate all over again like the first round hadn’t even happened.

“Fuck me, Gavin,” I pleaded.

He dipped his head, pressed a kiss to my clit, and another to my pussy. “I need you so much, Bree. So fucking much.” he said as he sank his cock into my sopping wet pussy.

“Oh, Gavin,” I said as he fucked me hard. He pinned me just like I liked, and he began to hit that rough spot just perfectly as he filled me, and my orgasm finally hit as I squeezed around his cock.

And so it continued, Gavin and I, fucking on the wet bedsheet three more times, through different styles — from loving, to rough doggy, to him being my filthy daddy forcing his fingers into my naughty asshole until I was a sweaty mess, my hair unbound and plastered to my forehead, whimpering that I couldn’t take one more orgasm.

Then ten minutes later, opening my thighs for him again anyway because apparently I’m an idiot for punishment.

Multiple orgasms later, we lay tangled in each other’s arms as I smiled against his broad, solid chest. He stroked my hair gently and planted a soft kiss on my forehead.

There was silence.

Gavin would always tell me I love you, Bree, during foreplay, while making love to me, and after sex.

But now, Gavin had said I need you, Bree.

Not I love you, Bree. After-sex had never been so awkward and so full of silence.

Gavin was quiet, and it seemed like he was thinking about something.

He tugged his arm gently away — my sign to move my head off his shoulder.

He leaned over, extending his long, muscular arm to reach the nightstand drawer where we kept our stash of after-sex cigarettes, and took one out.

When Gavin and I had first slept together seven years ago, during what I thought was a passing one-night stand with the up-and-coming quarterback of the New England Redcoats, I’d taken out my Virginia Slims from my bag after the most amazing sex of my life.

After all, I was sure he’d be gone by the next day, and I wanted to extend the pleasure of the evening for as long as possible.

I’d asked him if it was okay, and he’d smiled an amused smile and asked if he could share it with me.

We’d spent the rest of that night wrapped around each other, passing it back and forth as we asked each other questions and talked about ourselves well into the first light of dawn, utterly and surprisingly comfortable in our complete nakedness.

Now I watched him blow a smoke ring at the ceiling and he looked, for one horrible second, like a stranger.

Like a guy I’d matched with once and never called back.

I would still get glimpses of the old Gavin sometimes, when we were in bed together listening to the raindrops on the window, when he planted a kiss on my shoulder while I made scrambled eggs, his breath faintly smelling of toothpaste, or when we caught a glimpse of each other at a party, both silently agreeing that we wanted to leave soon.

But most of the time, Gavin seemed to be lost in another world, too out of reach for me.

He’d been on his phone for longer periods, and of course, he’d been spending most of his waking hours with Wren.

I could feel him about to say something. He’d taken a breath to fuel his next sentence.

His phone chimed.

What the fuck?

He stubbed the cigarette out and picked it up, and I watched the glow of the screen catch the green in his eyes. It was so unfair that he got to be that gorgeous while ruining my night. He smiled at whatever he was reading.

I already knew who it was.

Is that Wren? Ask him, ask him, Bree. Come on. ASK!

“Is that Wren?” I pushed the words out before I could give myself time to mull it over.

Enough of mulling. I wasn’t running a cider brewery here.

Gavin was still smiling at his phone as he typed something. “Yeah,” he said, almost snort-laughing at whatever pathetic joke Wren had written.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

Did Wren fall down the stairs and break her back?

“Nothing. Wren and I were talking earlier about any additional footage we should add that might make the documentary go viral. She says now that if we had the video of when we played Quidditch in our boxer shorts, sitting on tree branches at Noah’s party in high school, that would make the documentary fire up.

I told you about the Quidditch matches, right? ”

“Yeah, you did,” I said. “Although I don’t remember you mentioning Wren was there during the matches.”

Gavin frowned at me, thinking. “She was there sometimes. Frankly, I didn’t even remember until she mentioned it.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t remember your only girlfriend in high school cheering for you at your drunk tree Quidditch matches,” I said.

“It was all for fun, Bree,” he said. “And she wasn’t around for all of them.”

“You just said you didn’t remember her being there, and now you suddenly happen to remember clearly that she wasn’t around for all of them.”

That was petty, I know. But at that point, I was all for being petty. Why should Gavin always get the understanding, nice, sweet Bree? Oh, how I could get petty. He had no idea.

Gavin looked at me and set the phone aside. “What is this about, Bree? I hope we’re not about to start with the Wren thing again.”

“You mean you hope I’m not about to start with the Wren thing again.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Are you telling me I’m not justified in my accusations when my husband can’t wait to go back to his ex right after he fucks his wife?”

“Oh, Bree, stop that. I’m not going back to anyone. It was just a text from Wren. She was my ex, but more than that, she was my friend. And she still is.”

I was getting agitated. “If she’s just a friend, why does she text you so late at night? She knows you’re married.”

“She knows I stay up late. Maybe that’s why. How do I know?” He looked genuinely confused.

“Oh, she also knows your nightly schedule now? Does she also know our sex schedule? It sure seems like she does, and that’s why she chooses the perfect time to reach out to you.

Only tonight, she was a little late. So I won.

I guess I should be happy with that and shut my mouth then, and let the two of you continue with your ‘late nighters.’“

I air-quoted late nighters. I couldn’t believe I was air-quoting irrelevant phrases, stark naked on the bed, arguing with Gavin right after multiple amazing orgasms, like I was on some twisted adult version of Big Brother — but if this was what Wren had brought me down to, so be it.