me and inside of me. It’s predictable with us. I’ve always feared it was, but being with Saint has proved it.
I wait a couple of minutes before I roll Michael over and do what Saint told me to do. I straddle Michael, and he groans when I take him inside of me. He grips my thighs with his hands and I begin to move up and down. I lean my head back and close my eyes, imagining it isn’t Michael beneath me right now.
When Michael’s hand finds its way between my legs and he begins to rub me, I pretend it’s Saint’s hand there.
I move with him, and just before I’m about to come, I open my eyes.
I immediately gasp and can feel all the color rush from my face.
Saint is standing outside our bedroom window.
The light from the full moon shines bright around him, and part of his shadow falls over Michael’s face.
I’m so startled by his presence, I stop moving.
Michael assumes it’s because he’s about to make me come, so I do my best to convince him that’s what has me reacting this way. The last thing I need is for Michael to lift his head and look behind him, out the window.
I keep my eyes trained on Saint, nervous he’s about to do something. He’s staring at me with a fierce intensity, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s turned on or angry or jealous.
Saint raises an eyebrow when he notices I’ve frozen in place—on top of my husband—unmoving. He grins a little, then lifts an intimidating brow, indicating I should resume what I was doing before I noticed him standing there.
My lips begin to quiver, but it’s not because of how Michael is touching me. It’s because I’m scared. And as fucked up as this is—I’m a little bit turned on by it all.
I start moving on top of Michael again—slowly.
Saint’s gaze scrolls longingly over my body, and seeing that need in his eyes makes me move on top of Michael even faster.
I don’t want Michael touching me, so I remove his hand from between my legs and I press it against my hip. When I come, I want it to be because of Saint’s stare. Not because of Michael’s hand.
I glance away from Saint and down at Michael. His eyes are closed, so I lock eyes with Saint again and slide my hand up my stomach, to my breast. Saint pulls his bottom lip in and bites it. That move sends a rush of heat through me, and it proves harder to keep my gaze locked on his. Michael is groaning beneath me, indicating he’s about to finish, so I put my own hand between my legs so I can finish with him.
Almost immediately, I let out a scream because the feeling that slides over me is like nothing I’ve ever felt from Michael alone. I can’t keep my eyes open a second longer. I continue to move on top of Michael with my hand between my legs, even after I know he’s finished. My legs tremble as the sensation rolls through me. It lasts so long and it’s so intense, I can’t hold myself up any longer. I collapse on top of Michael in a whimper.
He slides his hands up my back and kisses my shoulder.
I roll onto my side and inconspicuously lift my head to look out the window.
Saint is gone.
I close my eyes and tuck my head against my husband’s. I can feel tears attempting to form, and I’m not even sure why. I feel guilty, but not sad.
This is so fucked up.
That was probably the most fucked up thing I’ve ever done.
But what’s worse is I would probably do it all over again if given the chance. It felt that good.
“You’ve been deprived,” Michael says. “That was…mind-blowing.”
I want to laugh at the word deprived, but I don’t. I try to say something an innocent wife and mother would say in this moment. “I think I was too loud. I hope I didn’t wake the girls.”
“They’re heavy sleepers.” Michael kisses me and then I roll off of him.
He grabs a towel and wipes it between my legs.
That’s something I’ve always appreciated about him—that he cleans me after sex. But last night when I was with Saint, he didn’t clean me at all. We were sticky and messy and he seemed to like that. Surprisingly, I liked it, too.
Saint is everything Michael isn’t, and that’s both good and bad.