Page 38 of The Bad Husband

I know it so well that I’d teleport myself to a different planet if I could.

“I won’t do anything to you…” says the man with a pulsing erection under my rear.

The man who slips his hand inside my dress and grabs and kneads my bare chest, making me arch, tense up, and bite my lip to push back a moan.

Then, squeeze my thighs and keep his hand hostage. Knead his shoulders.

This is so wrong.

My fingers splay over his muscular neck and slide into his hair. Perhaps it's my quiet signal of approval of what he’s doing to me, hinting at the fact that I don’t want him to stop.

Or maybe it’s what his body and mine want.

Whatever it is, he puts his mouth on my skin again and draws a trail of kisses to the top of my chest.

Smoothly, he removes the strap of my dress and recaptures my boob, this time his mouth moving in tandem with his hand.

I shift on his lap so he can have access to my chest and I can feel his teeth on my breast. He sucks on my nipple and my legs tense around his hand.

I’m so wet that I’d like nothing more than to have his hand travel up my thighs.

He lifts his head from my chest as he does just that.

Watching me go through the pains of pleasure mixed with guilt, he moves his fingers up.

A small explosion of delight happens when his fingers reach their destination and press onto my swollen sex.

The band of fabric is wet.

A few seconds is all it takes.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says, moving his fingers through my wetness, not even attempting to finger me, and my body jolts, my arms locking around his neck.

I have his head pressed against my chest when firm footsteps ring outside.

A hard rap on the door makes my pleasure flounder, fall, find its way back up, and get cut out again.

I’m panting already.

“What the fuck is this?”

Frankly, it sounded like the police.

I’m so frightened and turned on that I can’t think straight.

“Don’t worry. I called them.”

I still hope it’s not the police.

“Give me a minute,” he thunders over his shoulder to the people outside the door before the corridor becomes quiet and his finger pushes into my center.

A last spike of remorse moves through me and quickly vanishes in the first shudders of stolen pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck…” I grunt quietly, so damn torn, so damn hot. “I need to leave.”

“Not yet,” he says, tense.

He bites into my boob, roughly pushing two fingers into me. And I come with so much force that I shake against him, coating his touch with my juices.