Page 22 of A Season Of Sin

My reflection stares back at me in the mirror above the vanity.

Naked me.

Pale skin.

Brown hair.

Hazel eyes.

Fat.

My heavy breasts hang, and I cup them and heft the suckers up where they belong. You know how it is, whether it’s size or age, breasts start to lose their perk once you cross the mid-twenties mark. At least mine did. They’ve always been enormous. I was one of those unfortunate souls who hit puberty, and everything blew up. Thighs, boobs, butt, and stomach. Except my hands and feet. Which I’ve always found weird. Size six shoes. They’re the size of a child’s. I wish I understood how the genetic lottery works. Because my mom and dad are skinny, skinny, skinny, or they were. They’re gone now, going on five years. Not that I miss them all that much. That’s probably shitty of me to say, but it’s true.

But that’s enough about me and my body.

I’m sure you’re sick of hearing me dog on myself.

Trust me, it’s something I’m working on.

On camera, for my just over half a million followers, I’m always smiley and upbeat. I guess that’s how I am, overall, when I’m not reading crappy internet comments and letting them hurt my feelings.

Caressing the side of my breast, I stare in awe at the hickey.

Yesterday happened.

It wasn’t some fantastic dream.

It was real.

The proof is in the pudding, or in this case, the hickey.

Jace has always been fond of Wolf. I’ve heard about this elusive man for what feels like half my life, though it hasn’t been that long. After meeting him, I can see why Jace is into him. Wolf is charismatic, confident, sexy, and mature. There’s this… hell… I don’t know how to describe it… frequency? Vibe? Well, whatever it is, it drew me in like a moth to a flame. I’ve never been that bold in my life—crawling into a man’s lap that I don’t know. Even if butterflies were going crazy in my middle, I felt comfortable with him. I still do.

After the floor sex, we each washed up. Jace showed Wolf to his room, and we had dinner in the living room, watching the rest of the John Wick movies together.

Jace and Wolf?

Hot. Hot. Hot.

They couldn’t stop making out.

And while I could’ve been jealous. I wasn’t.

I couldn’t stop watching them.

Voyeurism has never been my thing, but it worked for me last night. I fingered myself as they made out beside me. Hot and heavy, shirts off, pants on.

I sigh at the memory.

When I’m eighty, lying on my deathbed, I’ll be able to look back and say, “Damn. We did that. We lived. We had fun. No regrets.”

Releasing my breasts, I use the toilet and turn on the shower.

Jace walks in just as I start scrubbing my hair, and flips open the toilet lid to relieve himself.

He groans in that husky, just-woken voice. “Morning, babe.”

“Morning, husband,” I sing.