Chapter 4: The Performance
The click of the bathroom door latch was unnaturally loud in the silence Pete had been sitting in. He hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the empty space on the mirrors where Stacy had been pinned. Joey didn’t look at him as he passed, just put a firm hand on Stacy’s bare shoulder and guided her, still trailing the torn silk of her blouse, from the bedroom.
Pete heard the bathroom light flick on, a brighter slice of illumination cutting into the dim bedroom. Then, the distinct sound of the shower hissing to life.
His feet were moving before his mind had fully decided. He stopped in the doorway, a spectator again.
The bathroom was a cavern of cream marble and chrome. Steam was already beginning to fog the massive glass enclosure. Joey had stripped off his own shirt, his fit torso a testament to a lifetime of discipline Stacy had never needed. He was adjusting the water temperature with one hand, the other still holding Stacy’s arm, as if she might float away.
She stood passively, her head bowed, her hair hiding her face. Water droplets beaded on her shoulders and back.
“In you go,” Joey said, his voice not unkind, just directive. He guided her into the shower stall.
She stepped under the spray with a slight flinch, then lifted her face to the water, letting it sluice through her hair and over her body. The steam thickened, softening her edges, making her look like a phantom in the glass box.
Joey kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his jeans, and stepped in after her, still in his pants. The dark fabric soaked through instantly, clinging to his legs. He reached for a bottle of shampoo, the expensive kind Stacy liked, and poured a generous amount into his palm.
“C’mere,” he said.
She turned, obedient, her back to Pete’s view in the doorway. Joey worked the lather into her long hair, his fingers massaging her scalp. Her shoulders, tight at first, began to loosen. She leaned into his hands, a soft sigh escaping her, audible even over the drumming water. It was an intimate, domestic scene, and it felt more violating to Pete than anything that had happened against the mirrors.
Joey’s eyes found Pete’s through the steam-fogged glass. He didn’t stop his ministrations. “You just gonna stand there all night, Pete?” he called out, his voice echoing off the tiles. “Door’s open. You’re letting the cold in.”
Pete didn’t move. He watched Joey rinse her hair, the strawberry blond strands dark and heavy with water, clinging to her skin like seaweed. Joey’s hands slid from her hair down her neck, over her shoulders, soaping her back, her arms. Every touch was proprietary.
Then Joey turned her around, pressing her back against the cool tile wall, just as he had with the mirrors. The water cascaded over her front now, highlighting every curve, every dip. Her eyes were closed.
“Look at him, Stacy,” Joey said, his voice a low command that cut through the shower’s white noise.
Her blue eyes opened, searching through the steam until they locked with Pete’s. There was no apology in them now, no silent question. Just a deep, sated weariness, and something else lurking beneath it—a spark of something that had been awakened and wasn’t ready to sleep again.
Joey’s hand moved between her legs, not with the frantic energy of before, but with a slow, circular pressure. He was watching Pete, a small, knowing smirk on his face as he watched Pete watch them.
Stacy’s breath hitched. Her head tilted back against the tile, but her eyes stayed on Pete, wide and unblinking. A faint pink flush spread across her chest. Her lips parted.
Pete’s own breath felt stuck in his chest. This was different. This was slower, more deliberate. This wasn't about a screaming climax; it was about ownership. It was about Joey showing him how easily he could draw this response from her, even now, even after everything.
He saw her hands come up, not to push Joey away, but to grip his wet, fabric-covered hips, holding on.
Pete took a step back. Then another. The connection broke. He turned away from the doorway, from the image of his good girl gripping another man for support as she was pushed toward another peak.
He walked back into the bedroom, the steam from the bathroom licking at his heels like a ghost. The sound of the shower and Stacy’s soft, muffled cries followed him. He stood there, in the middle of the opulent room, completely alone, and for the first time all night, he felt the chilling weight of what he had set in motion. He had opened a door, and Joey had not only walked through it, he was now remodeling the whole damn house.