Chapter 7: Cheating
The estate held its breath for a week. A week of Dre’s smiling, possessive touches across the breakfast table. A week of Rex’s averted eyes and gruff, one-word answers. A week of Trey’s imposing silence, his presence a thundercloud contained within the walls of his study. The distance was a physical ache in Yumi’s bones, a hollow echo in the space between her legs that Dre’s loving, singular attentions could not fill.
The memory of it—the weight, the fullness, the shameful, perfect wreckage—itched beneath her skin.
On the seventh day, Dre left before dawn for a logging survey up the northern ridge, a trip that would keep him out until past dark. The house felt cavernous, empty of his protective energy. She listened to the grandfather clock in the hall tick through the morning, each click a nail driving into her resolve. By midday, the itch had become a throb. A demand.
She found herself outside the heavy oak door to the master suite, her heart a frantic bird in her throat. She didn’t knock. The handle turned silently under her trembling fingers.
The room was dim, dominated by a massive bed, the air smelling of leather and male sweat and old whiskey. From the en suite bathroom, she heard the hiss of a shower. The sound pulsed in time with the wet heat between her thighs.
Her clothes fell to the floor in a soft heap—her wool sweater, her leggings, her simple cotton underwear. The cold air pebbled her skin, tightened her nipples into sharp points. She was a ghost in her own home, padding naked across the ornate rug toward the steam curling from the half-open bathroom door.
The bathroom was a vault of white marble and dark wood. The mirror was fogged, the air thick and humid. Through the crystalline glass of the shower enclosure, she saw him—Trey, his back to her, head bowed under the torrent of water. His shoulders were slabs of muscle, his back tapered to a narrow waist, the powerful lines of his body telling a story of hard labor and harder living. Water sluiced over the tight curve of his ass, down the heavy, thick columns of his legs.
He moved, turning to reach for a bar of soap, and she saw his cock hanging semi-hard, thick and long even in its dormant state. A tremor, sharp and urgent, shot through her core.
She opened the shower door. The steam billowed out, engulfing her.
The sound of the water changed, hitting her body. Trey froze, then slowly turned. Water ran in rivulets down the hard planes of his chest, over the gray-flecked hair. His eyes, the color of flint, locked onto hers. There was no surprise in them. Only a deep, banked fire that made her breath catch.
“Get out.” The voice was low, graveled, final.
Yumi didn’t move. The spray soaked her hair, plastered it to her cheeks, ran between her breasts. She saw his gaze drop, saw the brutal hunger flash across his face before he masked it.
“I said get out, Yumi.” He took a step back, as if her nakedness was a physical force.
She had practiced no words. There were none. Instead, she turned her back to him, presenting herself. She bent forward slightly, placing her hands on the cool marble bench inside the shower. She arched her back, spreading her stance just enough. The water beat down on the small of her back, dripped onto the pale, perfect globes of her ass, and trickled into the cleft between them.
Her voice, when she found it, was a shy, thin thing, almost lost in the drumming water. “Don’t you miss it?”
A beat of silence, filled only by the shower’s roar.
“Don’t you miss my pussy?”
The growl that ripped from him was animal, a sound of chains snapping. In an instant, his hand was fisted in her wet hair, yanking her head back. His body pressed against her from behind, his thick, rapidly hardening cock a brand against the swell of her ass.
“You brazen little cunt,” he hissed into her ear, his breath scalding. “You come in here, dripping and naked, parading that used little hole in my face.” He ground himself against her, the ridge of his shaft catching against her slit, already slick with her own need. “After I told myself to stay the hell away. After I told your brother-in-law the same.”
He released her hair only to grip her hip, his fingers biting into her flesh. His other hand slid around her front, palm flat and punishing on her lower belly, holding her in place, pulling her back onto him.
“Is that what you are?” he snarled, his mouth at her nape. “A greedy little whore who can’t be satisfied with one man? Who needs her father-in-law’s dirty cock?”
“Yes,” she moaned, the admission tearing itself from her, honest and raw.
That single word shattered his last pretense of control. He spat a filthy curse, and without any further preparation, without a hint of tenderness, he guided the broad, weeping head of his cock to her entrance and shoved forward.
Yumi screamed.
It was a searing, brutal invasion. Fourteen inches of thick, rigid flesh forcing its way into her, stretching her beyond what she remembered, beyond what she thought she could take. He was bigger than Dre, bigger than Rex, and he was fucking her with a raw, unadorned fury that owned her completely. There was no love here, only a voracious, consuming lust.
“That’s it,” he grunted, pounding into her, each thrust jolting her whole body forward on the bench. “Take it. You wanted it, you little slut. You begged for it.” His hand slid from her belly down, his thumb finding her clit and pressing hard, circling with a rough, punishing rhythm. “This what you dream about while my son sleeps next to you? Dreaming of his old man splitting you open?”
“Yes! God, yes!” she cried, the pain blurring into a pleasure so intense it felt like dying. Her nails scrabbled for purchase on the smooth marble. Her world narrowed to the savage pistoning of his hips, the slap of wet skin, the guttural sounds tearing from his throat.
He fucked her like he was punishing them both, like he was trying to exorcise the memory of her from his own mind by hammering it deeper into her body. His pace was relentless, a deep, pounding rhythm that stole the breath from her lungs. The water cascaded over them, mixing with the sweat sheening his back, dripping from her chin.
“You come on this cock,” he commanded, his voice raw. “You come on your husband’s father’s cock, you filthy girl. Do it.”
His thumb worked her clit, his thrusts hitting a spot so deep inside her it felt like her cervix was being battered. The coil, wound tight for a week, snapped. A violent, shattering orgasm ripped through her, her cunt clamping around his invading shaft in frantic, milking spasms. Her scream was swallowed by the steam and the water.
Feeling her convulse around him tipped him over the edge. With a final, bone-deep drive, he buried himself to the hilt, his body rigid against hers. A hot, rough shout was torn from his chest as he emptied himself, pulse after pulse of hot seed filling her, spilling out around where they were joined as he kept pumping, drawing out his own release.
He stayed like that for a long moment, slumped over her, his weight pressing her into the bench, his breath ragged in her ear. The water began to run cold.
Slowly, he pulled out of her. She felt obscenely open, dripping both his release and the shower water. A profound, trembling emptiness followed the overwhelming fullness.
He turned her around, his hands rough on her shoulders. His eyes scanned her face, her battered lips, her dazed eyes. There was no tenderness in his gaze, only a dark, satiated possession.
“You get what you came for?” His voice was flat.
Yumi could only nod, her body still singing with the echoes of him.
“Then get out,” he said, turning back to the now-cold spray, as if she were already forgotten. “And don’t come back here unless you’re ready for more. This doesn’t make you anything but a convenient hole. Understood?”
She stumbled out of the shower, her legs barely holding her. She didn’t look back. As she gathered her clothes with numb fingers, the emptiness inside her began to whisper again, louder now, accompanied by a new, chilling truth. It had been brutal. It had been shameful. It had been exactly what she needed.
And it would never, ever be enough.