Chapter 50: The Morning After Miller
The first grey light of dawn sketched the outlines of the hotel room, turning the lavish space into a monochrome study of rumpled sheets and discarded clothing. Tom Miller’s breathing was deep and even beside her. Sandi slipped from the bed, the cool air raising gooseflesh on her skin still warm from his body. She gathered her clothes from the floor—the elegant charcoal dress, the lace panties—and held them thoughtfully before letting them fall back into a heap.
She picked up the black seamed stockings, the lace suspender belt, the vicious patent heels. Then she walked to the armchair where Tom’s long cashmere coat was draped.
“Can I borrow this?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep and spent passion.
Tom propped himself up on an elbow, squinting in the low light. “Of course. But your dress…”
“I’m not wearing it.” She stepped into the stockings, rolling them with practiced ease up her calves, her thighs, the dark seams aligning perfectly. She fastened the suspender belt around her waist, the clips snapping into place with soft, definitive clicks. She slipped her feet into the towering heels. Finally, she shrugged on the oversized coat, the fine wool swallowing her frame, the belt cinched loosely. She was covered, yet utterly exposed; the coat fell to mid-thigh, but a single shift would reveal everything.
Tom stared, comprehension dawning. “You’re going home like that? In just the coat?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll present yourself to him like that?” His voice was a mix of awe and disbelief.
Sandi turned, her heels clicking on the parquet. “Yes. And he’ll fuck my brains out in response and tell me how much he loves me.”
A slow, bewildered smile spread across Tom’s face. “He’s a lucky man.”
She leaned over the bed, her lips close to his. “It’s not luck. He made me like this. Or at least, he brought it out in me.” She kissed him, softly. “And every woman has it, Tom. Your wife included. It just needs the right key.”
He pulled her into a deeper kiss, his hands sliding inside the coat to grip her bare waist. As they broke apart by the door, his palm cupped her between her legs, his fingers pressing against her swollen, slick flesh. “Is this truly mine now?” he asked, his voice thick.
She met his gaze, her hazel eyes clear and fearless. “Yes. But not exclusively so.”
He smiled, a wicked, liberated thing, and released her. “Go on then. Shock your husband.”
She did. In the mirrored elevator, she checked her reflection: puffy lips, smudged mascara, a wild glint in her eye. The coat fell open as she walked through the hushed, marble lobby. The night porter at the reception desk looked up from his ledger. His eyes travelled down, down, past the cinched belt, past the flash of stocking top and pale thigh, and fixed on the dark, neatly shaven triangle of her pussy, glistening faintly. His mouth went slack. Slowly, his gaze dragged back up to meet hers. Sandi gave him a slow, knowing smile before pushing through the revolving door into the chilly morning.
The drive home was a blur. Her body hummed, a live wire of anticipation. She parked in the drive of their detached suburban house, the morning sun just catching the upstairs windows. She didn’t sneak. Heels clicking on the flagstones, she entered through the front door.
Caleb was in the kitchen, pouring coffee. Ian was at the table, scrolling on his phone. Both looked up as she entered.
For a second, there was absolute silence. The hum of the refrigerator. The tick of the clock.
Caleb’s mug hovered midway to his lips. Ian’s thumb froze on the screen.
Sandi didn’t say a word. She simply untied the belt of the coat and let it fall open, then shrugged it off her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. She stood before them, a vision of debauched victory. The black lace and straps of the suspender belt biting into her waist and hips. The sheer stockings with their authoritative seams. The lethal heels that made her legs tremble with the memory of being spread. Her lips were red and bruised from kissing. Her nipples, puffy and dark from being sucked, stood taut in the cool kitchen air. And between her thighs, a tell-tale glisten, a trace of moisture leaking from her used cunt down her inner thigh.
“Fuck me,” Ian breathed, the words a reverent exhale.
Caleb set his mug down with a sharp clack. His eyes, dark and hungry, devoured her. The stained, sexualized lingerie. The evidence of another man’s possession written on her body. A muscle ticked in his jaw. The quiet uncertainty, the tender rediscovery they’d envisioned in their stone cottage holiday felt like a lifetime ago. This was the new bedrock.
“Well,” Caleb said, his voice a low rumble. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
They were on her in seconds, a coordinated surge of male need. Caleb reached her first, his hand tangling in her hair, his mouth claiming hers, tasting Tom on her lips, the coffee on his tongue. Ian’s hands were on her hips, his mouth on her neck, his teeth grazing the tendon.
“Who’s first?” Ian growled against her skin.
“I have to go to work,” Sandi panted, breaking from Caleb’s kiss. “But today… today I want you to come in me. Both of you. I want you to add your spunk to his.” She looked from one to the other, her eyes blazing. “Ryan’s going to question me. I know he is. And I want to be able to ask him to check. I want to be so full of it I’m leaking all day.”
Caleb’s nostrils flared. He looked at Ian. “I go first.”
Ian’s grip tightened. “Shouldn’t we ask Sandi?”
Caleb’s eyes never left Sandi’s body. “She’s an irrelevance right now. All she wants is cock. Isn’t that right, darling?”
“Yes,” she moaned, the word ripped from her core.
Caleb pulled rank. He turned her roughly, bending her over the cool granite of the kitchen island. Her cheek pressed against the stone, her ass raised, the heels making her balance precarious, erotic. He didn’t bother to remove the suspender belt, just pushed the lace aside. He freed himself from his jeans, his cock already brutally hard. He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and drove into her with a single, searing thrust.
“Christ, you’re loose,” he grunted, his hands gripping her stocking-clad hips. “So fucking wet and used.” He fucked her with a furious, possessive pace, each slam of his hips a punctuation mark on his ownership. “His spunk’s still in here,” he muttered, pounding into her. “I can feel it. I’m mixing mine with his. Filling his CEO’s wife with contractor’s come.”
The degradation was a sacrament. The adoration in his rough hands, his ragged breath, his absolute claim on her even as he shared her—it unmoored her. Her orgasm took her by surprise, a violent, clenching wave that made her cry out against the cold stone. Caleb followed with a roar, his body slamming into her one last time as he emptied himself deep inside her, his heat joining the residue of Tom’s.
He pulled out, his semen already beginning to seep from her. She stayed bent over, breathless, dripping. Ian was there immediately, his hands guiding her to the kitchen table, pushing aside a placemat. He laid her back on the wood, her head hanging off one edge, her legs over his shoulders. He looked down at her ravished cunt, glistening and messy, and groaned with pure hunger.
“You are the most beautiful, filthy thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, before lowering his mouth to her. He licked her clean, lapping at the combined spill of two men, his tongue thrusting inside her to taste it all. She writhed, oversensitive, another orgasm building from the sheer obscenity of it. When he finally rose, his mouth wet, and positioned himself, she was begging, a raw, needy chant.
Ian entered her with a slow, deep stroke, filling her anew. His pace was different—not claiming, but worshipping. He fucked her with a desperate, grateful intensity, his eyes locked on hers. “You glorious slut,” he breathed, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. “You perfect, wicked creature.” He came with a shuddering gasp, pulsing inside her, adding his own load to the soup within her.
They left her there, bent over the kitchen table, feeling like a well-used rag doll. Her legs wouldn’t hold her. Spunk trickled down her thighs, onto the stockings. Caleb kissed her shoulder, his hand tender on her back. “Have a good day at work, darling.” Ian winked, adjusting his clothes, before they grabbed their bags and left.
The house was silent. She slid to the floor, leaning against a cupboard, and laughed—a breathless, giddy sound. In that moment, she was absolutely certain. The elation, the pure animal rightness of it, the love in their hungry fucking—no, this couldn’t be wrong. How could something that made every part of her sing with such profound happiness be wrong? The thought of her alienated children was a small, cold stone in her gut, but it was buried under the warm, fluid proof of her liberation.
Eventually, she pulled herself up. She ate a piece of toast standing at the counter, the taste of salt and sex still on her lips. Then she went upstairs, her heels loud on the steps.
The shower was a ritual of careful preservation. She stood under the hot spray, letting it sluice over her shoulders and back, washing away the sweat and the dried salt from her skin. She soaped her arms, her breasts, her stomach, but when her hand moved between her legs, she merely smoothed the water over the outer curves of her labia. She did not part them, did not let the stream penetrate. She wanted the mixed cocktail of Caleb’s and Ian’s and Tom’s semen to remain inside her, a slick, living proof of the morning’s debauchery for Ryan to discover.Drying off, she examined her naked body in the full-length mirror. There were faint red marks on her hips from Caleb’s grip, a love bite on her neck from Ian.She smiled at them, these badges of honor, before turning to her wardrobe.
She chose a skirt of deep navy wool, its hem sitting a full five inches above her knee. The blouse was ivory silk, sheer enough to render the lace of her bra beneath it a visible, textured shadow. Her nipples, darkened and sensitized, were only faintly visible as soft, dusky smudges behind the floral lace. She stepped into her usual black hold-up stockings, the lace tops a familiar embrace on her thighs, and finished with sharp, black stiletto heels. The outfit was a statement of both corporate ambition and blatant availability.
She ate a swift breakfast of yogurt and fruit standing at the kitchen island, the same granite that had recently supported her weight. A low, warm ache pulsed between her legs with every shift of her body. She grabbed her briefcase and drove to the office, the subtle seep of fluid onto her stockings a constant, thrilling reminder.
The corporate lobby was all cool marble and muted light.Maya, the young receptionist, looked up from her monitor. Her eyes, a vivid green, widened just a fraction as she took in Sandi’s shorter skirt, the sheer blouse.“Mr. Thorne asked to see you the moment you arrived, Sandi,” Maya said, her voice professionally neutral. But a sly, approving smile played at the corner of her mouth, and her gaze dipped for a microsecond to the hint of stocking top visible as Sandi shifted her weight.Sandi met that look and held it, her own smile spreading slowly. She let her eyes confirm the unspoken question, the shared secret: Yes, I’m going to be fucked before I even get to my desk. Maya’s breath hitched in a tiny, involuntary gasp of envy, her cheeks flushing pink.She looked momentarily flustered by her own reaction.
Sandi smiled understandingly, a silent communion passing between them. She took in Maya’s youth, the full lips and generous curves barely contained by her sensible sweater, the simmering sexuality she was clearly taught to suppress. As Sandi turned toward the elevators, she felt Maya’s eyes on her back, studying the faint outline of her nipples through the silk. Sandi pictured Maya imagining herself kissing them, and the thought sent a fresh pulse of wetness to join the existing mess. She, in turn, imagined pushing Maya’s blouse aside, lowering a strap.
Ryan’s pentoffice door was ajar. She entered without knocking, setting her coat and bag on a sleek armchair.He was behind his vast desk, the Thames a silvery glide behind him. As she approached, she sensed his expectation; he didn’t want her seated across from him in a client-chair posture.She stood beside his chair, where he liked her when he wanted access. He swivelelled eagerly to face her, his eyes immediately cataloguing the shorter skirt, the sheer blouse.The professional mask was there, but beneath it thrummed a keen, predatory interest.
“How did it go with Miller?” he asked, his voice low.
In answer, Sandi reached down and gripped the hem of her navy skirt. Slowly, she drew it up, over her thighs, past the lacy tops of her hold-ups, revealing the naked, shaven skin of her inner legs. She pulled it up high, exposing her glistening, swollen cunt to the cool office air.It was obviously, aggressively ready.“Feel,” she told him, her voice steady.
Ryan didn’t hesitate. He slipped the flat of his hand between her legs, his palm pressing against her slick outer lips.He exhaled sharply. Then he slid two fingers inside her, curling them, gathering the proof.He pulled them out, holding them up in the morning light. They were wet, glistening with a viscous, opalescent fluid that dripped onto his immaculate desk.He brought his fingers to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Miller’s?”
“I’m full of it,” she said, watching his face. “Want some more?”
He looked from his soaked fingers to her defiant, hungry eyes.He gave a single, solemn nod.
He unfastened his trousers, his cock springing out already hard and thick. He didn’t guide her to the desk or the sofa. He simply pulled her onto his lap as he sat back in his executive chair, her skirt rucked up around her waist. She guided him inside, sinking down onto him with a gasp that echoed in the quiet room. He filled her, another distinct presence amidst the existing spend.
He fucked up into her with slow, deep, penetrating strokes, his hands gripping her waist through the silk blouse. “You’re a fucking marvel,” he grunted into her neck, his breath hot against her skin. “You come here from another man’s bed, full of his spunk, and you present your used cunt to me like a business proposal.” Each thrust was a claim, a ratification. “And you’re so goddamn tight around me even with all that slop inside you.”
The crude words, the clinical setting, the absolute misuse of her body for pure corporate leverage—it ignited her. Her orgasm crashed over her, a sharp, contracting wave that made her clench violently around his invading shaft. He followed seconds after, his hips jerking upwards as he emptied another load deep into her already overflowing channel.
They stayed like that for a moment, joined, breathing heavily. When he softened and she rose, a thick trickle of combined semen immediately escaped down her thigh, staining her stocking.
She looked down at the mess, then at him. “I might have to start wearing panties,” she lamented, a wry smile on her lips. “To save ruining all my skirts and dresses.”
Ryan leaned back, tucking himself away, his gaze contemplative. “Their absence was proof of your eagerness,” he said.“But now… now it’s the look in your eyes. The way you dress and comport yourself.The aura of total eroticism you radiate. That’s the proof now.”
“Really?” she asked, excitement quickening her voice. “You don’t mind?”
“Because I was warning you,” he said, steepling his clean fingers under his chin. “Of the reputation you’re gathering.The attention you’re receiving within the circles I mix in. Both competitors and partners. They talk.”
“I don’t mind if you don’t mind,” Sandi stated, wiping her thigh with a tissue from his desk.
“Would you mind if I used it?” he asked, his eyes sharp and calculating. “For my own business ends?”
“No,” she told him, her pulse quickening. “I’d love it.”
“Then I’d like you to service a visiting client,” Ryan said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.“A gruff German industrialist named Klaus. For the sole purpose of securing a deal.A big one.”
Sandi didn’t blink. “Of course.”
“He’s blunt.All business. And he has a particular… appreciation for a certain type of woman.” Ryan pushed a thin file across the desk toward her.“Spend an hour or so studying this. Then present him with the options straight after lunch. In here.”
She took the file, feeling its weight.“And my presentation?” she asked, her head tilting. “Will you sanction me dressing even more daringly, given the explicit nature of the… negotiation?”
She watched his internal conflict—the raised professional eyebrow warring with the gleam of sheer sexual opportunism in his eyes. The need to close the deal won.He gave a single, decisive nod.
“Make the impression undeniable,” he said.
“Make the impression undeniable,” he said.
The words were a key turning in a lock. Sandi left his office, the file tucked under her arm, and went directly to the sleek, private bathroom attached to her new office. She turned on the shower, stripping off the clothes still faintly stained from the morning’s accumulations. She stepped under the hot spray, letting it run over her face and body in a swift, efficient cascade. She washed superficially, just as she had at home, avoiding any deep intrusion between her legs, preserving the layered evidence within her.
She towelled off, her skin flushed. At her closet, she selected a new outfit: a skirt of charcoal grey, even shorter than the navy one, and a blouse of pale lavender silk so thin it was nearly translucent. She pulled on fresh hold-ups, stepped into her heels, and looked at the lace bra laid out on the shelf. She left it there. She slipped the blouse on over her bare skin, the soft fabric whispering against her nipples, which hardened immediately into stark, dark peaks clearly visible through the material. She buttoned it, leaving the top two buttons open.
She sat at her desk, the dossier on Klaus Heinrich open before her. She absorbed the details: his steel conglomerate, his notoriously gruff negotiating style, his divorce two years prior. Ryan had scribbled a single, telling note in the margin: Appreciates directness. And spectacle. She studied financial projections, merger synergies, until the numbers and strategy were solid in her mind.
An hour later, she stood. She gathered her tablet and the printed proposal. The walk to Ryan’s office was a performance. In the corridor, she passed Maya, who was carrying a stack of files. The younger woman’s eyes locked onto Sandi’s, a flicker of shock and fascination flashing in them. Maya’s gaze didn’t drop, but Sandi saw the subtle shift in her periphery, the tracking of her bouncing, unencumbered breasts beneath the sheer silk. A faint, pink blush crept up Maya’s neck before she hurried on.
Sandi pushed through the glass doors into the open-plan office. The click-clack of her heels on the hardwood floor snapped heads up from monitors. The sound was a stark, commanding rhythm in the hum of quiet work. She felt dozens of eyes land on her. The sheer blouse did its work, her nipples grazing the material with each step, creating visible friction. The men she passed openly stared, their conversations dying. The women’s looks were more covert, assessing, some disdainful, some envious. The short skirt revealed a dramatic length of leg, the sway of her hips and the curve of her arse holding their lingering gazes until she disappeared into the executive corridor.
She entered Ryan’s office without knocking. Two men were seated at the round meeting table by the window. Ryan, in his customary crisp suit, and a larger, older man with a stern, lined face and close-cropped iron-grey hair: Klaus Heinrich. Both men turned as she entered.
Their reactions were instantaneous and profound. Klaus’s eyes, a cool blue, widened slightly before narrowing, travelling from her face down her body with a slow, hungry intensity that was devoid of subtlety. It was the look of a man appraising a sudden, unexpected feast. Ryan’s expression was one of shocked awe, quickly morphing into a mask of pride and sheer, triumphant kudos. He had offered a tantalizing possibility, and she had manifested a breathtaking reality.
“Gentlemen,” Sandi said, her voice calm and professional. She ignored the electric charge of Klaus’s stare and set her materials on the table. “Shall we begin?”
For the next forty minutes, she guided them through the proposal. Her voice was steady, her grasp of the complex figures absolute. She anticipated Klaus’s grunted questions, addressed his sullen objections about supply chain vulnerabilities with clear, concise solutions. She impressed him. She could see it in the gradual loosening of his shoulders, the slight, grudging nods. The gruff German was being won over by her mind, even as his eyes kept drifting to the dark shadows of her nipples, the shift of silk over her breasts as she gestured.
The business concluded, the terms largely agreed pending final sign-off. Ryan leaned back in his leather chair, a silent spectator now, a faint smile on his lips. Sandi stood at the head of the table, her hands resting on the back of a chair. She stared directly at Klaus.
“Do you have any further questions?” she asked. Her tone was polite, but the implication beneath it was a physical thing in the room, clear as glass: The business is done. We can now drop down to a much lower level.
Klaus leaned back, his chair creaking. He steepled his fingers, his gaze locked on hers. “There is the matter of the liability clause,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “The cap is too low. My board will not accept it.”
Sandi glanced at Ryan, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. She had authority to yield on certain points. “We can adjust the cap,” she said. “By fifteen percent.”
“Thirty,” Klaus countered.
“Twenty,” Sandi said, her voice firm.
Klaus was silent for a long moment, his eyes roaming her body again, lingering on the open V of her blouse. “I will concede on the major obstacle,” he said finally, his words deliberate. “For twenty. But only if you will unbutton your blouse. And reveal your tits. Properly. No more of this… teasing.”
The air left the room. Ryan went very still. Sandi held Klaus’s challenging stare. Without a word, without breaking eye contact, her fingers went to the remaining buttons. She undid them one by one, the silk parting. She then shrugged the blouse off her shoulders completely, letting it slither down her arms to fall on the floor behind her. She stood before them, naked from the waist up, her breasts full and high, her nipples dark and taut in the conditioned air.
“I’m no tease,” Sandi stated, her voice even.
Klaus nodded, a slow, knowing dip of his chin. He understood precisely what was being offered, and the terms were accepted. He looked at Ryan. “I will sign.”
Then he pushed his chair back and stood. He walked around the table to her. His hands were large, calloused. He turned her roughly to face the table, bending her over the polished wood. He gathered the short skirt in his fists and yanked it up around her waist, exposing her bare arse and the hold-ups beneath.
He froze.
Sandi, her cheek pressed to the cool table, looked across at Ryan. His earlier pride was gone, replaced by a flicker of genuine anxiety. Klaus was staring at the shocking, obscene state of her. The glistening, swollen lips of her cunt, visibly puffy and used. The sticky, pearlescent traces of multiple loads of semen that had seeped out and dried along her inner thighs, mingling with fresh, slick arousal. The distinct, musky scent of intense, repeated sex rose unmistakably from her. For a long, terrible second, both she and Ryan feared his reaction. Many men would be disgusted.
Klaus’s hand came down hard on her arse in a sharp slap. The sound cracked through the room. But it told them nothing; it could have been a sign of anger, of punishment, of anything.
Then he dropped to his knees behind her.
They heard a wet, guttural sound. He was burying his face between her spread cheeks, his tongue lapping broadly at her soaked folds. He wasn’t kissing; he was devouring. He slurped at the combined juices, licking up the evidence of Ryan, of Caleb, of Ian, of Tom. He groaned into her flesh, a sound of pure, avid pleasure. “Mein Gott,” he muttered, his voice muffled against her. “You are a busy little Hure.”
He rose, unfastening his trousers. His cock, thick and veined, sprang out. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and positioned the blunt head at her entrance. He drove into her with one powerful, unforgiving thrust, filling her utterly. There was no tenderness, no preamble, just the brutal efficiency of a claim being staked.
He fucked her over the conference table with a steady, pounding rhythm. Each thrust jolted her body, making her breasts sway. His grunts, guttural and rhythmic, filled the sun-drenched room. Ryan, watching from his chair, slowly unzipped his own trousers, his hand moving over his erection, his eyes glued to the spectacle.
The raw, unvarnished use of her, the sheer transactional carnality of it, ignited Sandi’s nerves. Her third orgasm of the day ripped through her, a convulsive, clenching wave that made her cry out, her juices spilling out around Klaus’s driving cock, adding fresh wetness to the mess on her thighs. With a final, deep snarl, Klaus buried himself to the hilt and pulsed, pumping another hot flood of semen into her already overfilled channel.
He pulled out, tucking himself away, breathing heavily. Ryan was already moving. Turned on beyond restraint by the performance, he took Klaus’s place, his cock sliding easily into her well-fucked, dripping cunt. He took his time, fucking her with a possessive, leisurely pace, his hands gripping her hips, his eyes on Klaus, who now watched with renewed interest. When Ryan finished, groaning his release inside her, he slowly withdrew.
Klaus approached again, his cock already hard once more. Without a word, he pushed Ryan aside and re-entered her. This time his pace was slower, more experimental, savoring the slick, ruined feel of her. He fucked her for a long time, until she came again, a weaker, shuddering climax, and he followed with a second, deeper, more leisurely deposit.
Afterwards, she could barely stand. Ryan helped her up, holding her shaky form against him. He took her in his arms, her bare back against his suited chest. He whispered into her hair, his voice thick with awe and calculation. “You’re invaluable. I’ll have someone drive you home. You’re in no fit state to drive yourself.”
“No, no, no,” Sandi protested weakly, her mind fogged with exhaustion and satiation. “I’m fine. I can drive.”
“I was thinking of Maya,” Ryan said softly.
Sandi caught his meaning instantly. He wanted to draw the younger woman deeper into the orbit, to initiate her into the blurred lines between their professional and sexual realms. To tie her to them. Sandi, after a moment, nodded against his chest. “Okay.”
Maya drove Sandi’s car with a focused silence, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She stole glances at Sandi, who leaned against the window, her blouse still off, covered only by her coat, her body humming with spent energy. They arrived at Sandi and Caleb’s modern house, not the secluded cottage of their holiday. The familiar space felt like a different planet.
Inside, Sandi sighed. “I need to shower. Properly this time.”
Maya nodded, understanding perfectly. “Can I…?” she asked, the question trailing off.
“Yes,” Sandi said.
They went upstairs. In the large, tiled shower, they washed each other. Maya’s hands were tentative at first, then more confident, soaping Sandi’s back, her breasts, rinsing the final remnants of the day’s transgressions from her skin. They dried each other with big, fluffy towels, the silence intimate and charged.
In the bedroom, they slid under the cool duvet. In the dark, Maya whispered, “How old are you, Sandi?”
“Thirty-seven.”
A pause. “I’m twenty-three.”
Sandi smiled in the darkness, a memory surfacing. “I had four-year-old twins when I was your age.”
Maya shifted, turning onto her side to face Sandi’s silhouette. “How do I become a woman like you?” Her voice was earnest, young. “And I don’t mean career woman. I mean woman in the proper sense of the word. Feminine. Sexy. Confident.”
“Promiscuous, you mean,” Sandi said, her tone gentle, factual.
Maya nodded in the dark. “You carry it off,” she whispered, a hint of desperation in her admission. “All the girls are in awe of you. And all the guys lust after you. It’s like… power.”
Sandi laughed softly, the sound tired but warm. She reached out, finding Maya’s hand under the covers. “But seriously,” she said, her voice dropping to a maternal, confessional murmur. “My husband is my rock. So the key is to find the right man. One who will, in the fulness of time, when he’s certain of your love and loyalty, allow you the freedom to reach your full potential. With freedom being not so much what he grants you, because no man should limit you, but what he’s happy to share with you. As part of your loving, forever, relationship with him.”