Chapter 3: The Morning After
The other side of the bed was cool and smooth, the sheets taut where Mark had already risen. The note on his pillow was a simple square of cream-colored paper, his handwriting a neat, impersonal block. Gone to work early. We’ll talk tonight. Jacinta stared at the words until they blurred. No ‘love,’ no ‘x.’ Just the pronouncement of a postponed reckoning.
A hollow feeling opened in her chest, but beneath it, coiling and hot, was something else. A defiant pulse. She got up, the silk of her nightshirt clinging to her thighs. In the ensuite, she avoided her own eyes in the mirror. She dressed slowly in denim shorts and a simple white tank top, her movements deliberate, as if preparing for a battle only she knew was coming.
The morning air in the backyard was already warm, thick with the scent of wet earth and cut grass. And then she saw him. Spiro was at the far end of the pool, his back to her, shirtless. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexed and rolled as he drove a steel pry bar into the soil, anchoring the final section of fencing. A sheen of sweat glistened on his tan skin, tracing the deep groove of his spine. The memory of her own voice—I want him so bad—echoed in her skull, not as a shameful whisper now, but as a demand.
As if feeling the weight of her gaze, he turned. He didn’t startle. He simply stopped, straightened up, and looked right at her. His green eyes were unreadable from this distance. Then, slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted. Not a full smile. A knowing, acknowledging tilt. It was a bolt of pure electricity straight to her core.
Her feet moved before her mind could formulate a plan. The cool grass gave way to the warm stone of the patio. She walked toward the fence line, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. He watched her approach, didn’t move. Just set the pry bar down with a soft thud and wiped his hands on his work pants.
She stopped a foot from the new fence, the raw wood between them like a last, feeble barrier. Her mouth was dry. “I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice barely above the hum of the distant traffic.
He closed the distance to the fence in two slow strides. He was so close now she could see the individual droplets of sweat on his collarbone, smell the clean, sharp scent of his soap mingling with the salt of his skin. He rested his forearms on the top rail, leaning in. The proximity was dizzying.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’ve been thinking about you, too. All night.”
The confirmation shattered any last pretense. There was no point in asking how or why. It was just fact, hanging in the air between them, as solid as the fence.
“Last night…” she began, but couldn’t finish.
“What about last night?” he prompted, his eyes scanning her face, missing nothing.
“I… I can’t stop.” The admission was a desperate exhale. “I can’t stop thinking about… in the pool. Your hands.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, to where the thin cotton of her tank top clung to her chest. His own breath seemed to deepen. “My hands want to be on you again,” he said, the words crude and direct. “Not through a fucking fence.”
She looked toward the house, a gesture of pure habit. It was empty. Silent. Mark’s note was a distant abstraction. Here was heat, and solidity, and a hunger that mirrored her own.
“The gate’s around the side,” she heard herself say. Her voice sounded foreign. “It’s unlocked.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just studied her, as if weighing the truth of her. Then, with a single, decisive nod, he pushed off the fence and walked, not with haste, but with a deliberate, prowling certainty, toward the side gate. Jacinta turned and walked back to the patio doors, her legs unsteady. She slid them open and stepped into the cool dimness of the living room.
She heard the metallic click of the gate latch. Heard his heavy work boots on the flagstones. Then he was in the doorway, blocking the light, filling the space. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a soft, final click.
The quiet of the house was profound. They stood there, feet apart on the cool tiles, just looking at each other. The air crackled.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, but it was a token protest, devoid of conviction.
“The worst,” he agreed, his voice gravelly. He took a step forward. Then another. He didn’t reach for her face. His hands went to her hips, his fingers curling into the denim, pulling her against him in one strong, effortless motion.
The feel of him—the solid, unyielding wall of his chest, the hard ridge of his erection already pressing against her stomach through his work pants—unmoored her completely. A ragged gasp tore from her throat. He dipped his head, his mouth finding hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. Hot, insistent, all tongue and teeth and desperate hunger. She kissed him back with equal ferocity, her hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the hard, sweat-damp muscle.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Upstairs. Now.”
He didn’t ask. He took her hand and led her, and she followed, a silent, willing conspirator. They didn’t speak as they climbed the stairs, their footsteps loud in the hush. He followed her into the master bedroom, his eyes taking in the ordered calm, the king-sized bed, the view of his own handiwork below.
Then his focus snapped back to her. He reached for the hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head in one swift motion. Her shorts and underwear followed, tangled around her ankles until she kicked them free. She stood naked before him, the morning light painting her skin, and she didn’t feel exposed. She felt powerful. Seen.
A low growl escaped him. “Fuck. You are even more perfect than I imagined.” His hands were on her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, making her arch and cry out. He bent his head and took one into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the sensitive peak. The sensation was so intense, so raw compared to the routine she was used to, that her knees buckled. He held her up, one arm locking around her back.
He walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of the mattress. He laid her down, his eyes drinking her in as he unbuckled his belt, the leather rasping loudly. He shoved his pants and boxers down, kicking them away.
Her eyes widened. Mark’s whispered taunt—that big Greek dick—hadn’t been fantasy. It was a thick, heavy weight of flesh, rigid and jutting from a thatch of dark curls. A primal thrill, edged with a flicker of fear, shot through her.
He came over her, bracing himself on his powerful arms, his body hovering above hers. He didn’t enter her. Not yet. He rubbed the broad, silky head of his cock through her wetness, coating himself in her, his eyes locked on hers.
“You tell me,” he commanded, his voice strained. “You tell me you want this.”
“I want it,” she moaned, her hips lifting, seeking him. “God, Spiro, please. I need to feel you. I’ve been going crazy…”
It was all the permission he needed. He guided himself to her entrance and pushed forward, not with a slow, teasing inch, but with a single, deep, relentless thrust that stretched her to a breathtaking, burning fullness.
She screamed. A short, sharp sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure. He was buried inside her, deeper than she’d ever felt, a complete and brutal occupancy. He stilled, letting her adjust, his body trembling with the effort of control.
“Okay?” he gritted out, a vein standing out on his temple.
She could only nod, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”
He began to move. It was nothing like the familiar, predictable rhythm of her marriage. This was raw, piston-like power. Each drive of his hips slammed her body up the bed, a punishing, glorious rhythm that stole the air from her lungs. The slapping sound of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, their grunts and choked curses—it was a symphony of obscene, beautiful noise.
“You like that?” he growled, his breath hot on her neck. “You like taking all of me?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes!” she sobbed, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. The pressure was building, a coil tightening in her belly with terrifying speed.
He shifted his angle, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made her vision whiten. A sharp, keening cry ripped from her throat. He did it again. And again.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his rhythm beginning to fracture.
“Inside me,” she begged, the words filthy and perfect. “Do it. Fill me up.”
With a final, guttural roar that was pure animal triumph, he drove home and held, pulsing deep within her as his release flooded her in hot, endless waves. The feeling of it, the utter wrongness and perfection, triggered her own climax. It detonated through her, wave after vicious wave, shaking her apart, her cries muffled against the sweat-slick muscle of his shoulder.
He collapsed onto her, his full weight a crushing, welcome anchor. They lay tangled, slick with sweat, the only sound their ragged, slowing breaths. The room smelled of sex and jasmine.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He rolled to the side, pulling her with him, keeping her tight against his body. His hand stroked her hair, her back, as if calming a wild thing.
They lay in silence for a long time. The sun climbed higher, painting a bright rectangle across the rumpled sheets. The real world, with its notes and promised talks, began to seep back in at the edges.
Finally, he spoke, his lips against her forehead. “He’s coming home tonight.”
It wasn’t a question. She nodded, the movement small against his chest.
“What happens now?” she whispered, dreading the answer.
He was quiet for a moment. “Now,” he said, his voice quiet but sure, “I finish the fence.” He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. They were calm, resolved. “And then we see what happens next.”
He kissed her, softer this time, and then slid out of bed. He dressed with the same efficient movements, buckling his belt, pulling on his shirt. He looked at her once more, a long, lingering look that promised nothing and everything, and then he was gone.
She heard his boots descend the stairs. Heard the patio door slide open and shut. A minute later, from the window, she saw him back at the fence, driving the pry bar into the earth, as if he’d never left.
She lay in the wreckage of their bed, his scent and his release still on her skin, and felt the terrifying, exhilarating fracture of her old life. The talk with Mark tonight was a storm on the horizon. But for now, there was only this: the vivid, aching echo of being utterly, brutally known.