Chapter 7: Oil, Anger, and a Handjob
The house was empty when she woke.
Not the kind of empty that meant David was in his study or Victor was in the kitchen making one of those protein shakes that smelled like chalk and regret. The kind of empty that pressed against her eardrums. The kind that made the silence feel deliberate.
Melissa reached for her phone before her eyes were fully open.
Three texts from Victor.
The first, sent at 11:47 PM: What do you mean
The second, at 11:52 PM: Melissa
The third, at 12:14 AM: Answer me
She smiled. Just a little. Just enough to feel it in her cheeks.
She set the phone face-down on the nightstand and stretched. Her body ached from yesterday's workout—from the wrestling, from the way Victor's hips had bucked under hers, from the memory of his cock straining against his shorts while she walked away.
She'd slept well for the first time in weeks.
The phone buzzed again. She didn't look at it.
Instead, she got up, made coffee, and stood at the kitchen window watching the morning light slide across the pool. David had texted her too—something about a delayed flight, something about tomorrow instead of tonight. She read it twice and felt nothing.
That was the thing she'd stopped admitting to herself months ago. The thing she'd buried under dinner parties and charity galas and the careful performance of a woman who had everything.
She felt nothing.
Except when she didn't.
---
The mall was crowded for a Tuesday. Melissa moved through it with the kind of purpose that made other shoppers step aside without knowing why. She knew exactly where she was going.
The boutique was tucked between a perfume store and a place that sold overpriced candles. The sign above the door said something in French. The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled the way salespeople did when they smelled money.
"Can I help you find something?"
Melissa walked to the display along the back wall. Rows of glass bottles, amber and gold and deep rose, each one filled with oil that promised something. She picked up one, uncapped it, breathed in.
Sandalwood. Cedar. Something underneath that was darker, smokier.
"I'll take this one," she said. "And that one."
She pointed at a bottle of massage oil infused with argan and something called ylang-ylang. The woman nodded and wrapped them in tissue paper.
Melissa paid. She didn't check her phone until she was back in the car.
Seven texts now. The last one just said: You can't ignore me forever.
She typed back, finally: I'm not ignoring you. I'm busy.
The response came in seconds: Busy doing what
She didn't answer.
---
She got home at four. The house was still quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet now. The kind that hummed. The kind that waited.
She dropped her bags on the kitchen counter and walked through the living room. The gym door was open. The lights were off. She kept walking.
Up the stairs. Past Victor's room. The door was closed.
She paused. Listened.
Nothing.
Her bedroom was at the end of the hall. She pushed the door open and stopped.
Victor was there.
He stood by the window, facing away from her, his hands shoved in his pockets. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but even from behind she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his spine was rigid, the way his fingers were curled into fists inside his pockets.
He turned when he heard her.
His face was a storm.
"You're home," he said. Flat.
"I live here."
He laughed. It wasn't a real laugh. "Yeah. You do."
She set her bag down on the dresser. Took off her jacket. Hung it on the back of the chair.
"You want to tell me why you're pacing in my bedroom?"
"I wasn't pacing."
"Your footsteps wore a groove in the carpet. I can see it from here."
He looked down. Then back at her. His jaw was tight.
"You sent me that text," he said. "About Elizabeth. And then you just—what? Went to bed? Turned your phone off?"
"I didn't turn it off."
"You didn't answer."
"I was tired."
"Bullshit."
The word hung between them. Raw. Honest.
Melissa crossed her arms. Leaned against the dresser.
"You're angry," she said.
"No shit."
"Because I didn't answer your texts?"
"Because you—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. Started again. "You know what you did. You sent that text and then you just left me hanging. All night. All day."
"I was busy."
"Busy doing what?"
She smiled. That smile again. The one that wasn't quite a smile.
"Errands," she said.
He stared at her. His chest was rising and falling too fast. His hands were still in his pockets, but she could see the outline of something else—something straining against the denim.
He was hard.
He'd been hard this whole time.
"I'm going to ask you something," she said. "And I want you to be honest."
He didn't answer. Just waited.
"Did you think about me last night? After I sent that text?"
His throat moved. A swallow.
"Yes."
"What did you think about?"
He didn't answer.
"Victor."
"You know what I thought about."
"Tell me."
He closed his eyes. Opened them. His voice was rough when he spoke.
"I thought about you. In the gym. On top of me. The way you felt. The way you looked at me."
"And?"
"And I thought about what would have happened if you hadn't walked away."
"What would have happened?"
"Something we can't take back."
Melissa pushed off the dresser. Walked toward him. Stopped a foot away.
"You're still hard," she said.
He didn't look down. Didn't deny it.
"Yeah."
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes."
She reached out. Touched his chest. Just her fingertips. Just enough to feel his heartbeat through the cotton.
"I bought something today," she said. "For you."
His eyes flickered. Confusion. Hunger.
"What?"
"A massage. You look tense."
He laughed. Short. Sharp. "You're going to give me a massage."
"Unless you don't want one."
He stared at her. She could see the war behind his eyes—the part of him that wanted to grab her, the part that wanted to run, the part that wanted to pretend this wasn't happening.
"Take off your shirt," she said.
"Melissa—"
"Take off your shirt and lie down."
---
He did it.
She watched him pull the t-shirt over his head, revealing the body she'd felt under her hands a dozen times in the gym. The broad shoulders. The defined chest. The abs that flexed when he moved. He kept his jeans on but kicked off his shoes, and when he lay face-down on her bed—her bed, with David's pillows and David's sheets—she felt something twist in her chest.
She poured oil into her palm. It was warm from the bottle, silky between her fingers.
She started at his shoulders.
His skin was hot. Taut. She pressed her thumbs into the muscle, found the knots, and worked them with slow, deliberate pressure. Victor exhaled. Long and slow. His hands were flat on the mattress, fingers splayed.
"Relax," she said.
"I am relaxed."
"You're not."
She moved lower. Traced the lines of his spine. Pressed into the space between his shoulder blades, where the tension lived like a coiled snake.
His breath hitched.
"Tell me about Elizabeth," she said.
His whole body went still.
"What?"
"Elizabeth Harper. The professor." She poured more oil on her hands. Worked it into his lower back, the dip above his waistband. "I saw the video."
"You—"
"Don't act surprised." Her fingers dug into the muscle above his hips. "You wanted me to see it. That's why you posted it while you were here. In my house. Using my internet."
He didn't answer.
"So tell me about her."
Victor's voice was muffled by the pillow. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
She worked her thumbs into the base of his spine. He groaned. Not a sex groan—a real one. The kind that came from release.
"She was my professor," he said. "Freshman year. Ethics."
"Ethics."
"Yeah. Ironic."
"What did she look like?"
"Blonde. Tall. She wore these skirts that were always just a little too short."
"And?"
"And I stayed after class one day. Asked her a question about Kant."
"What was the question?"
"I don't remember. I just wanted to be alone with her."
Melissa's hands moved up his back. She straddled his hips, settling onto the back of his thighs. He tensed beneath her.
"What happened?"
"She told me to come to her office hours. I did. Every week."
"For how long?"
"A semester."
"That's a long time."
"She was married." He shifted beneath her. "I didn't care."
Melissa leaned forward. Pressed her palms flat against his shoulder blades. Her lips were close to his ear.
"Did you fuck her in her office?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Her desk. The chair. Once against the door."
"Did she like it?"
"She loved it. She used to beg me to come to her office. She'd lock the door and get on her knees before I could even say hello."
Melissa's hands slid down his sides. Over his ribs. To the waistband of his jeans.
"What about the girl in the last video? The one with the phone call?"
His breathing had changed. Faster. Shallower.
"Emma."
"Emma. She's your friend's girlfriend."
"Yeah."
"And you fucked her while she was on the phone with him."
"Yes."
"Did you plan that?"
"No. The phone rang. I told her to answer it."
"And she did."
"She always does what I say."
Melissa's fingers found the button of his jeans. Popped it open. Slid the zipper down.
"Turn over," she said.
He did.
---
His cock was beautiful.
She'd seen it in the videos—flushed and thick, curved slightly upward, the head slick and swollen. But seeing it in person was different. It was real. It was his. It was pointing at her like a threat and a promise.
His boxers were still on, but they were useless. They couldn't hide anything.
Precum had soaked through the cotton. A dark Spot that spread as she watched.
"Take these off," she said.
He lifted his hips. Shimmed out of the boxers. Kicked them onto the floor.
His cock slapped against his stomach. Heavy. Full.
Melissa poured more oil into her hand. Rubbed it between her palms.
Then she wrapped her fingers around him.
Victor gasped.
She stroked him slowly. Base to tip. Tip to base. Her grip was firm but not punishing. Just enough pressure to make his hips twitch, to make his breath come in short, sharp bursts.
"Tell me about the married woman," she said. "The one in the video before Emma."
His eyes were closed. His jaw was tight.
"Which one?"
"You know which one."
"Karen."
"Karen."
"She was—fuck—she was lonely. Her husband traveled a lot."
"Like mine."
"Yeah." He opened his eyes. Looked at her. "Like yours."
She twisted her wrist at the top of his cock. A little harder than necessary.
He groaned.
"Did you fuck her in her house?"
"Yes."
"In her bed?"
"Every room. Kitchen. Living room. Once on the stairs."
"Did she beg you?"
"She didn't have to. She was already wet when I got there. She'd text me all day about what she wanted me to do to her."
Melissa's hand moved faster. Steady. Rhythmic.
"What did she want?"
"Everything. She wanted me to use her. To fuck her like she was nothing."
"And did you?"
"Yes."
Her thumb circled the head of his cock. Spread the precum around.
"You like that," she said. "Using women."
His hips bucked. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because they want it. Because they need it."
"And what do you need?"
He didn't answer.
"Victor."
"You."
The word hung in the air. A confession. A surrender.
She slowed her hand. Stopped.
He opened his eyes.
"Please," he said.
"Please what?"
"Don't stop."
She smiled. Slow. Deliberate.
"I want you to tell me something else first."
"What?"
"When you posted those videos. The ones you made. In my house. Were you thinking about me?"
His throat moved. A swallow.
"Yes."
"When you fucked Emma while she was on the phone. When you made her beg. Were you pretending she was me?"
He closed his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Yes."
"And when you came. When you filled her up. Were you imagining it was my pussy?"
"Yes."
She started moving her hand again. Faster this time. Firmer. His breath caught. His hips lifted off the bed.
"Good," she said. "That's what I wanted to hear."
He was close. She could feel it in the way his cock swelled, the way his balls tightened, the way his whole body went rigid beneath her.
"Look at me," she said.
He did.
"I want to see your face when you come."
His lips parted. His eyes were black. His breath was coming in short, desperate bursts.
"Please," he said again.
"Please what?"
"Let me come. Please. I can't—"
"Can't what?"
"Can't hold it. Please, Melissa."
She leaned forward. Her hair fell around her face, and she was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"Come for me," she said.
He did.
His back arched. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His cock pulsed in her hand, thick ropes of cum spilling over her fingers, his stomach, his chest. He was shaking. Trembling. Making sounds she'd never heard from him before—raw and broken and beautiful.
She stroked him through it. Slow. Gentle. Until the last shudder passed and he collapsed against the mattress.
His eyes were closed. His chest was heaving. His whole body glistened with sweat and oil and his own release.
Melissa looked at him.
Then she leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear, and whispered:
"Now it's my turn."
His eyes flew open.
She sat up. Wiped her hands on the sheet. Stood.
"I'll be in the shower," she said. "You can join me if you want."
She walked toward the bathroom. She didn't look back.
But she heard him move.
And she smiled.