Chapter 10: The Apartment
The metallic taste lingered, a phantom salt on her tongue as she stirred the pot of spaghetti. Malik’s cum. Malik’s words. At home tonight! The command vibrated in her skull, a base rhythm undercutting the ordinary sounds of her kitchen—the children bickering over markers, the news anchor droning from the living room TV. She loved her husband. She was a mother. The SUV had been a catastrophic, singular lapse. A thing that could be buried.
Yet her lower abdomen clenched, a warm, treacherous pulse that spread liquid heat between her thighs every time she remembered the feeling of being utterly filled, the brutal grip in her hair, the animal sounds he’d torn from her throat. It was a craving, shameful and absolute.
When her husband’s key turned in the lock, her decision was already a solid, cold weight in her chest.
“God, long day,” he sighed, dropping his briefcase. He kissed her cheek, a dry, absent peck.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Marie blurted, the lie smooth and rehearsed on her tongue. “I completely forgot to tell you. The girls—from the library—we planned a dinner weeks ago. A girls’ night. It’s tonight.”
He blinked, surprised. “Tonight?”
“I know, it’s terrible timing.” She poured him a glass of wine, her hand steady. “But you had your poker night last week, and I… I really need this. We might go for drinks after, so don’t wait up.”
He studied her face for a moment, then shrugged, a slight smile touching his lips.“Sure. Of course. You deserve a night out.”
The guilt was a sharp stone, but it was buried under a torrent of anticipation so intense it made her fingers tremble as she plated his food.
Upstairs, she stood before her closet. The sensible blouses and tailored trousers hung like ghosts of her other life. Her hand went past them, to the back. The little black dress was short, sinfully so, the neckline a deep plunge that showcased the swell of her breasts. She put it on, applied a darker shade of lipstick, and didn’t look at the woman in the mirror as she left.
Forty-five minutes later, the taste of betrayal was richer than the lingering pasta sauce. She stood before his apartment door, the industrial metal cold and imposing. She rang the bell.
The door opened instantly, as if he’d been waiting right there. He filled the frame, a monument of muscle and intention in a simple white tank top and low-slung sweatpants. The scent of him—soap, clean sweat, pure male—washed over her.
His dark eyes travelled down her body, slow and appraising. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. “Damn.Look at you. Dressed like a fucking snack.” He adjusted himself blatantly, his hand palming the formidable bulge in his sweats. “Got me hard as a rock already. Gonna wreck this pretty little dress, Marie. Gonna wreck what’s underneath it worse.”
He stepped aside, a silent command. She entered, the click of the closing door a final, definitive sound. There was no going back. The cavernous loft spread before her, all harsh lines and shadow.
He followed her into the living room, his presence a pressure at her back. A large hand settled on her hip, burning through the thin fabric. She had to tilt her head far back to meet his gaze.
“You know why you’re here,” he stated, his voice a low rumble.
She could only nod, her throat tight.
“Say it.”
“I’m here for you,” she whispered.
“Louder.”
“I’m here for you, Malik.”
That seemed to satisfy him. In one fluid motion, he spun her and pushed her back against the cool concrete wall, his body pinning hers. She gasped as she felt it—the insistent, thick ridge of his cock, already fully hard, pressing against her lower stomach through their clothes. She knew its size, its weight, the stretch it promised. Her breath hitched.
His big hands gripped her ass, kneading the flesh roughly through the dress. “This ass,” he grunted, his mouth close to her ear. “All that quiet librarian bullshit, hiding this fucking perfect, juicy ass. Been thinking about grabbing it since I first saw you shelving philosophy.”
Before she could process the words, his hands were under her thighs. He lifted her as if she were weightless, a gasp torn from her lips. Instinctively, her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. Suspended, dominated completely by his size and strength, she was carried to the massive leather sofa. He didn’t throw her down; he placed her on the edge, a doll before its owner, and remained standing over her.
With deliberate, slow fingers, he began unbuttoning the front of her dress. Each pop of a button was a gunshot in the quiet room. The fabric parted, revealing her lace bra, her breasts spilling from the cups. He said nothing, his eyes dark and hungry.
Then he knelt.
Even on his knees, he was immense, his face level with her chest. He didn’t touch her there. Instead, his hands shoved her thighs apart, the rough material of her dress riding up. “Gonna eat this married pussy,” he declared, his words crude and hot against her inner thigh. “Make you scream on my tongue. Let’s see what you taste like when you come here begging for it.”
His fingers hooked into the sides of her panties. There was a sharp rrrip of silk, and the ruined garment was tossed aside. He didn’t kiss her, didn’t tease. He buried his face between her legs with a single-minded intensity.
The first flat stroke of his tongue made her back arch off the couch. “Ohgod—!”
It was not gentle. It was conquest. His mouth was voracious, his tongue licking broad, demanding stripes through her soaked folds before circling her clit with ruthless precision. He groaned against her, the vibration shooting through her core. “Fuck, you’re drenched. This cunt’s crying for it. Isn’t it?”
“Y-yes,” she sobbed, her fingers tangling in his tight curls.
“Yes, what?” He sucked her clit into his mouth, hard.“Ah! Nnngh—yes, it’s crying for it!”
He drove two thick fingers into her without warning, crooking them up, stretching her. His mouth never stopped its assault. The dual sensation was too much—the deep, filling penetration and the exquisite, rough suction. The coil in her belly wound tight, unbearably fast.
“Gonna come already?” he taunted, his voice muffled against her flesh. “Such a desperate little slut.Come on my face. Do it.”
The permission, the crude command, shattered her. A raw, guttural cry ripped from her throat as the orgasm detonated, wave after wave of blinding pleasure seizing her muscles, making her thighs clamp around his head. “M-Malik! Ah!Ah, fuck! FUUUUCK!”
He rode it out, his tongue lapping at her tirelessly, drawing every last shudder and spasm from her until she was a boneless, whimpering wreck against the leather.
He pulled back, his chin glistening with her wetness. He looked up at her, his eyes blazing with triumph. “That was just the appetizer, Marie.”
He rose to his full height, towering over her again. His hands went to the waistband of his sweatpants.
“Now,” he said, his voice a promise of ruin. “We get to the main event.”