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Biting my lip, I tilt my head, examining him, thinking out my next move very closely.
“What was that? What was he doing, Gideon?” I challenge. The way he controls the car is forceful and delicious, his expensive watch glimmering under the streetlights when we pass each one. He has one hand on the wheel, and the other elbow is perched on the windowsill, his fingers at his lips in deep thought. He doesn’t answer, and I ask again, imploring further, “Gideon?”
Just then, he pulls over to the side of the road, slamming on the brakes and throwing the Range Rover into Park. “He was thinking about you under him. Listening to you fucking scream your pleasure. He was thinking of those nails you dig into my back when you can’t take anymore but don’t want me to stop.” His eyes are piercing, digging under my skin and taking control of me.
“Gideon,” I pant. He always does this. Speaks, controls me, takes action, and turns me into putty in his skilled hands. I unbuckle the seatbelt, and in seconds, I’m straddling him. I wrap my hands around the back of his neck, and he cups my cheeks, his palms nearly engulfing my entire face. “What you don’t realize is I want them to think about that. And I want them to know I’m giving that to you. Giving you something they can never have.” Reaching between us, I work at his belt and the button of his perfectly fitted jeans.
“Yeah, and what’s that Scarlett?”
“They can never have what’s yours. I belong to you.”
These words are the hands that rip the pin from the grenade. Reaching between us in a hurry as I finally get his cock free, he moves my panties aside, such an erotic, primal thing that I absolutely crave.
“Ride my cock. Prove that you belong to me.”
“Anything you want, I would do. I love you.” I try to do it by myself, but the position and his girthy length make it impossible without assistance. “Please help me, Gideon,” I cry out, beyond needy and aching for him to be inside me.
“You sound so good begging for my cock, baby. You love it, don’t you? You love the pleasure only I give you.”
“Mm-hmm,” I moan.
His hard grip takes hold of my hips, and he lifts then impales me.
Throwing my head back, I scream, “Oh, Gideon!”
…
The car next to me locks, pulling me from my daydream, and suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with the need to see my husband. Regardless of my insecurities, I want to get to him and simply just be in his presence. Grabbing his new suit and my purse, I climb out of my car and look myself over in the reflection of the window. I’m wearing a deep V-neck tee with a black bralette underneath that has lace trim peeking out my neckline. My skinny jeans are like a second skin with a slit in the knee, and I went with white Chucks.
My hair is long and curled, and my makeup is light. I don’t look fancy, but there is a surge of confidence in my expression thanks to my flashback down memory lane. I plan to walk in there and tell my husband that I miss him and want to work on us. Get us back to the way things were in the beginning.
Walking through the doors of the same office I’ve come to the past eight years, nothing could wipe the smile off my face right now, I swear to myself, but how idiotic and wrong I am.
I stop in my tracks.
Gideon is leaning over the front counter, laughing with a woman who sits behind it in Mom’s old chair. A woman I’ve never seen before. Long, shiny brunette hair, straight as can be, not a strand out of place. Fake lips, breasts, and everything else, from her lashes all the way down to the fake laugh she gives Gideon when he says something to her.
He laughs along with her, and suddenly the arousal I felt only moments before turns green with jealousy and confusion. Who is this woman, and why does my husband look like he is enjoying her company far too much? The lobby is empty, and he never comes out into the waiting room unless absolutely necessary.
I watch her, taking in her every move, and as a woman, I know the body language. I count her touch my husband’s arm three times before I clear my throat. “Gideon?” My voice comes out weak, and I hate myself for it. Rule number one: Never let another woman see you feel threatened by her.
“Baby, you’re here. I wasn’t expecting you for a little bit. I was sure the kids’ teachers were going to keep you chatting per usual.”
Not expecting me this soon? That sticks to me like glue. It sounds guilty, though he doesn’t show an ounce of remorse or fear of getting caught. Maybe he’s just good at hiding it, knowing how jealous he and I both can be.
