Page 26 of The Unexpected

For a solid minute, neither of us says anything. It’s not the comforting, old-married silence you read about in lifestyle magazines, where words are unnecessary because the shared history is enough. No. This is a silence that crackles, brittle as black ice, each of us waiting for the other to break.

It’s not going to be her. Stella stares ahead, her face a marble relief illuminated by the instrument panel’s blue. She’s gorgeous with that delicate profile, and I take a second to watch the way her chest rises and falls too quick, the way her eyes never quite rest. If I took a hand off the wheel and slid it between her thighs, I’d bet a year’s revenue I’d find her soaked. In fact, I want to, but I like the tension more.

I watch the road, and the road watches back. Five blocks go by. A red light, a green. Then, finally, I give in:

“That was fucking hot.”

Her head snaps toward me so fast I expect to see her vertebrae fly through the air. The whiplash of blue eyes, raw and wide, is almost funny if you ignore the slight panic embedded in them.

She doesn’t say anything right away, but her mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—” She stops. “Was that supposed to happen?”

I let the car roll to a stop at the next red, the idle thrum matching my own. “Which part?” I ask, lazy as a wolf with a bone.

She stares me down. “The part where you bend me over the pastor’s chair, or the part where he gets down on his knees and, and—” her voice gets thin, “and licks your semen out of me.”

Now I laugh. Not loud, but real. I glance over, take in the way her hands are balled into fists in her lap. She looks so composed, so museum-perfect, but I know the nerves are stretched near snapping.

“Honestly?” I say. “No idea. This is new territory, even for me.”

She looks away, then back. “You said you’ve done things like this before.”

I nod, drifting the car through the light. “Sure, I’ve had threesomes. But always with other women. Two women, to be exact, or even three. Never another man.” I drum my fingers on the wheel, the sound dull and percussive. “Never watched another man touch what’s mine.”

Stella sucks in a breath, and I watch her tongue flick out to wet her plush pout—reflexive, nervous, and slutty as hell. She wants me to say it: that I hated it. That it was degrading, or disgusting, or a test of masculinity.

But the truth is, I didn’t. Not at all because it was fucking hot.

“I liked watching you,” I say. “I liked watching him on his knees, cleaning your sloppy pussy. Liked the way you looked at me the whole time, like you loved having his tongue on your pussy but wasn’t sure what to do about it.” I shoot her a look, and she flushes even deeper.

She tugs at the seatbelt, a nervous tic, but doesn’t let go. “You’re not mad?”

I shrug, rolling my shoulders under the tailored cut of my shirt. “Why would I be mad?” The question hangs, a challenge.

She stares out the window, then back at me. “I don’t know. It just seems wrong.”

“What does?” I prompt.

She sputters, exasperated. “All of it! This—” her hands slice through the air, “—this is not what people do when they go to therapy. I thought it was going to be, you know, talking. Some empathy. Maybe a few deep-breathing exercises. Instead I end up getting fucked by my step-uncle in front of a priest while he gives us notes.”

Her voice is sharp, but there’s an undercurrent. She’s not angry, not really. More like destabilized, or worse—turned on by the way her own boundaries are melting.

I take my time. Shift lanes, accelerate past a Volvo, then merge onto the ramp. “First, he’s not a priest, he’s a pastor. Second, do you want to stop?”

She doesn’t answer, and the silence says enough.

I look over. Her cheeks are burning, her jaw set stubborn. She’s pressing her knees together like she’s trying to fuse her bones.

“You could have said no,” I say, slow. “You can always say no, Stella. You know that. We’re pushing boundaries, but if you’re uncomfortable, one word and it’ll end.”

She meets my eyes, and for a second, I see a flicker of something wild. “You’d listen?”

“In a heartbeat,” I say. “But that’s not what you want.” I keep my gaze on the road, but I can feel her looking at me. I can almost see the way her pupils go big, the way her chest tightens under the dress.

She laughs, brittle and bright. “You sound so sure.”

“I am sure.” I let the car coast, hands easy on the wheel. “You like being watched. You like being ruined. You want to see how far this can go.”

She goes quiet again, and the car fills with the wet, animal tension of a hunting blind. I let the silence ride.