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“There’s some things I need to tell you, but not over the phone.” Her trembling tone fucked me up right along with her words.
I’d already dealt with a heaping pile of horseshit in the last year, and I couldn’t take much more. “You’re going to give me a heart attack. Talk to me.”
“I can’t. When you’re home, we’ll talk.”
“Why would you do this to me? Make me wonder while I’m over here working.” I closed my eyes, trying to calm down.
“You brought it up. Asked me what’s going on.” Her accusation bit into my nerve endings, my fist tightening around the phone as every muscle in my body tensed preparing for the next strike.
It was too late for me to backpedal from this conversation now. “Is it someone else? Another man? Did something happen again with . . .” I couldn’t finish that line of thought. Not that she’d ever told me his name—too afraid of what I’d do with that information—but the memory of that faceless fucker transported me back to the moment a year ago when she’d laid the news on me. She’d cheated in 2015, waiting years to confess. 2015: the same year she’d tossed the word divorce at me.
I barely heard Rebecca’s apology over the phone. I was too far inside my head, back in her office at the penthouse in New York when she’d cut my heart out with her admission.
“I can’t live with the guilt anymore. She said not to tell you, but I need you to know,” Rebecca had blurted after having too much scotch one night. I’d later learned the “she” advising her had been Susan Mackenzie, but that did nothing to ease the anger, the pain, the frustration I’d felt toward her confidant. “I made a mistake a few years ago. Got drunk with a friend, and we kissed. But I stopped it before we . . . I didn’t sleep with him.”
My back had been to her. Eyes on the New York skyline. I could still hear the dull thud made by the glass in my hand when it’d fallen to the floor, the crystal so thick it didn’t even break. I remembered watching it roll a few feet away, staring at it in a daze.
“Say something.” At the feel of her hand on me, I’d slowly shifted toward her, the words stuck in my throat in disbelief.
“Details. I need them,” I’d uttered.
“That won’t help.”
“Explicit. Fucking. Details.” My mind and heart had sprinted in a competition toward a finish line in a race I knew I’d lose.
She’d let go of me and backed up. “Too much to drink. He had his driver bring me home. We were in his limo, and he kissed me. I let him.”
I’d closed my eyes. “And?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re lying.” I’d swallowed. Waited to be further destroyed.
“He touched me. A little.” Her small voice had been just as much of a punch to the gut as her words.
“Where?” My eyes had opened and journeyed down her body, taking in the sight of her in the nearly see-through cream-colored silk blouse tucked into her black skirt. When she’d kept quiet, I’d breached the bit of space between us and undid a few buttons to cup her breast. “Here?” Staring into my eyes, she’d nodded. Her trembling lip hadn’t stopped me from squeezing her tit. Then I’d let go of her breast to bunch her skirt up to her waist while backing her against the window. Hand to the glass over her shoulder, I’d moved the barrier created by her panties to the side and thumbed her clit. “Here?” I’d gritted out, on the brink of insanity.
She’d squeezed her eyes closed as her answer, a few tears spilling over her cheeks. Each one a dagger to my heart.
“You let him touch you here. Put his tongue in your mouth and . . .” I’d shaken my head in anger at how wet she was. “Why are you so turned on? Does thinking about him?—”
“No,” she’d cried, eyes flashing open. “It’s you. The way you’re talking to me. It’s turning me on. The darkness in your voice and . . .” She’d started moving against my hand, searching for relief.
“Who touched you?”
She’d taken hold of my wrist, breathing harder, urging me to keep pushing my fingers inside her. All I could do was stare at her, my eye twitching. “I can’t tell you any more. Please, just forgive me.”
I’d borderline snarled, “Stop fucking my hand.”
“Want me to beg? On my knees?” She’d pushed my hand away and ducked under my arm, and I’d slowly turned, finding her on the other side of the office, stripping. Taking her time.
Then she’d shocked me by kneeling. One thing my wife wasn’t was submissive. Seeing her on her hands and knees, crawling to me, had me forgetting why she was doing it. But only for a moment.
She’d made it halfway to me before I lifted my palm, demanding, “Get up.”
When she’d sat back on her heels, I’d stalked her way, hauled her from the floor, and set her on the desk, my sense of control out the window. My sanity, too.
“This what you want?” Placing my hands behind her knees, I’d pulled her to the edge of the desk, the momentum flinging her shoulders back, her spine arching, tits in the air, as she braced her palms on each side of her. I’d pushed two fingers deep into her cunt and worked her arousal over her pussy. The memory of the fact some other man had touched my wife had me rasping, “Is this what he did to you? Did you like it? Did you like some other man fingering you?”
