14. Halle
HALLE
The house feels too quiet after I get home. The kind of silence that seeps into your bones and fills you with anxiety.
Me:
What the fuck was I thinking? I’m thirty-two, not some horny teenager.
I flip on the lights, kick off my boots by the door, and stare at the mostly-rearranged living room as if it might somehow offer answers.
It doesn’t.
If anything, the sight of mostly-finished projects and displaced furniture only sends another wave of anxiety rolling through me. Cash cannot walk into this house and see it in its current state.
Thought you didn’t care about this man? I think to myself. The truth is, I shouldn’t—I don’t. But still I spring into motion.
I’ve been procrastinating getting these photos hung up on the wall, so I do that first, stepping back every few minutes to make sure they’re straight.
Then I wrestle the new rug I bought last week into place, smoothing out the stubborn corners underneath the couch, until it finally sits exactly where I want it.
Once everything is finished, I gather the discarded packaging, fluff the couch pillows, and wipe down every visible surface.
By the time I’m done, the room looks intentional instead of chaotic, the furniture actually matches, and the artwork fills the empty wall space.
For the first time in weeks, it feels like a place someone might actually live in.
Taking it all in, a small spark of satisfaction cuts through my nerves.
It isn’t perfect, but it’s done, and that’s good enough.
After the living room, I hurry down to my bedroom and tidy that up. There are still clothes I haven’t put away from unpacking—I throw some in my closet, others in my new armoire. By that time, I’m buzzing.
If I’m going to get fucked, I’m doing it looking like a goddamn meal.
After several minutes of changing my mind—and my outfit, more than once—I finally slip into something a little sexier.
Not over-the-top, just enough to make me feel confident when I catch my reflection in the mirror.
I smooth my hands down the fabric of the slip dress, take a steadying breath, and try to ignore the nervous flutter building in my chest.
I’ve seen the tight little things the girls in town wear for him. But this soft slip dress is shorter, silkier. I want him feral when he sees it on me.
I head into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
Halfway through filling it, I hear the low rumble of a motorcycle pulling up, and my stomach drops.
I move to the window and peek through the curtain just in time to see Cash kill the bike under the porch light, swinging a leg off and pulling his helmet free.
His red hair is messy, and even from here, that cocky set to his shoulders is unmistakable.
“Shit,” I mutter, heart hammering. What the hell is he thinking? If people see his bike at my house the whole damn town will be talking about us by noon tomorrow.
Grabbing my garage opener, I hit the button and step outside before he can even knock. “Cash, what the fuck are you thinking? Move your bike into the garage before anyone sees it!”
He grins, eyeing me up and down. “Did you dress up just for me, Darlin’?”
My face flames. “Move the fucking bike into the garage—now.”
His brow lifts as he gives me that smug look, but he doesn’t argue, just pushes his bike inside next to mine. I close the door fast, plunging us into the dim garage light. Then Cash grabs his backpack and heads inside behind me.
I step into the kitchen and welcome Cash inside, and he takes it as an invitation to walk directly in my living room and begin snooping, hands in his pockets.
“Nice place. Colt said you were doing some redecorating. It looks good—the living room is finally coming together from last time I was here.”
“Yeah, it’s coming along. Do you want something to drink?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed tight like I can hold myself together that way.
“Sure, that would be nice,” he says, still looking at my knickknacks on the mantle.
I grab two beers out of the fridge and open them, then turn around to find Cash no longer in my living room. A small panic settles in. “Cash …”
Too late. I follow after him and find him standing by the dresser, holding up a piece of white lace lingerie I’d buried in the back of a drawer.
It’s a white lacy set that Zach had gifted me for our honeymoon.
I haven’t worn it since then, and I’m not really even sure why I packed it when I moved out.
Maybe I was planning on burning it. Who the fuck knows.
But now, seeing it Cash’s hands, my face burns.
He turns it over, a wicked little smile tugging at his mouth. “This yours, Darlin’?”
“Put it back.” My voice is sharp, but he doesn’t listen.
He looks at me with it in his hands. “Why don’t you change into this instead so I can fuck his pretty little wife.”
Heat floods my cheeks and core at the same time. “Soon to be ex wife, thank you,” I say, trying to snatch the lingerie back from him.
He holds it out of reach. “Yeah, let me ruin every memory you have of him.”
He closes the distance between us, crowding me as I snatch it from him, telling myself it’s just to get it out of his hands.
I’m a fucking liar.
Taking it with me, I slip into the bathroom, stripping quickly before my nerves get the better of me, the cool air raising goosebumps across my skin as I pull the delicate lace over my curves.
It still fits—barely. The fabric clings tighter now, hugging fuller breasts and wider hips that feel foreign after everything.
The white teddy barely covers my ass, the sheer panels leaving nothing to the imagination.
When I step back out, Cash’s green eyes darken instantly, dragging over every inch of me like he’s memorizing me for later.
“Fuck me.” He breathes, green eyes black with hunger. “Look at you … That’s what you wore for him?”
He closes the distance in two strides, big hands gripping my waist hard enough to bruise. His mouth crashes into mine and I kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers twisting in his red hair, tongues sliding, messy and desperate.
We don’t make it to the bed. Instead, he pins me against the bedroom wall, the cool plaster pressing into my shoulders as his mouth attacks my neck.
“Been dying to taste this pussy all fucking day,” he growls as he yanks the lace aside while his other hand pins my hip. “Bet you’re soaked already, aren’t you, baby?” he says.
I can’t answer, only whimper as his fingers brush through my already soaked lips.
He drops to his knees right there, shoving my thighs apart.
The first long, filthy drag of his tongue from my entrance to my clit rips a loud, embarrassing gasp out of me.
He doesn’t tease, or take his time, he devours.
Mouth hot and greedy, tongue fucking into me before circling my swollen clit with relentless pressure.
One thick arm hooks under my thigh, holding me open while his other hand presses low on my belly, keeping me pinned to the wall as I squirm.
“Cash—fuck—” My hands fist tight in his hair.
It’s overwhelming—too good, too sudden. Pleasure coils tight and fast in my core, but my mind betrays me.
Thoughts of Zach flicker in. He used to hate when I would take too long to come.
Self-doubt creeps in as Cash eats my pussy, and my face burns with shame at the pleasure building up in my core, albeit too slowly.
I should just fake it, give him the orgasm he’s desperately working for. I look down and see his green eyes looking back up at me then lazily closing as he laps up everything.
Fuck me.
The pressure builds more, but I’m not there yet. I moan a little louder for him, putting on the show I know men like, and he chases after that, adding in a couple fingers to curl at my G-spot. After another minute, I make my thighs tremble and my breath quickens as I fake an orgasm.
“I’m coming!” I scream, grabbing onto Cash’s hair and holding him there as I grind against his face.
After I “come down” from my fake orgasm, he pulls back just enough, lips shiny with my juices, eyes sharp and furious. “Don’t. Fucking. Do that.”
I blink, chest heaving. “Do what?”
“Really?” He nips my inner thigh hard, making me jolt and yelp.
“You think I can’t tell the difference? That was pathetic compared to how your cunt was just throbbing on my tongue the other night.
Try that fake shit again and I stop everything.
I want the real Halle screaming for me, not whatever bullshit performance you just gave me. Understand?”
There’s no way this twenty-two-year-old man just figured out a woman’s greatest play.
I nod shakily, breath ragged. “Sure … Are you ready to work for it, Thornwood?”
He doesn’t dive back in. Instead, he stands slowly, towering over me, his cock straining hard against his jeans. “Oh, you’re going to be the one putting in work for me. Be a good girl and strip. Now.”
I peel the lingerie off with trembling fingers until I’m completely naked, and the look on his face tells me now’s not the time to deny him.
Cash grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the bed, but he doesn’t throw me down.
Instead, he lets me go. Leaning down he pulls soft black ropes from his backpack. My stomach flips with dark heat.
“On the bed. Hands above your head.”
I obey, lying back as he kneels over me. He takes his time, the rope rubbing against my skin as he binds my wrists together causing goose bumps to pebble all over my skin.
Then he loops the rope through the headboard slats, pulling it tight enough that I can’t pull free, but not enough to hurt.
He tests the knots with a satisfied hum, then does the same to my ankles—spreading my legs wide and tying each to the bottom corners of the bed.
I’m completely open, exposed, helpless, and my pussy throbs visibly under his gaze, slick glistening on my thighs.
Looking up at him, fully dressed, cock straining against his jeans, I’m practically salivating.