Page 40 of Mr. Risky

“You can’t.”

His arms still around my throat, he knocked the door open behind him, and to my horror I realized we were in Pippa and Granger’s room.

There was evidence of my best friend all over and the whole room smelled like her jasmine perfume, pictures of her and Granger framed everywhere I looked.

In one they had just gotten married on the beach and Pippa looked radiant, effervescent. The sun was in Granger’s eyes and he was squinting against it, but he still looked unbearably tall and gorgeous. Like a movie star.

I struggled against his hold. “Let me go! You really think I’m going to let you fuck me after I heard you fucking her this morning?”

“Yeah, but I don’t love her. I love you.”

“Did you come?”

He bit my exposed shoulder, his big hand coming down over my heaving breasts.

“Every damn time, songbird.”

Then as I squealed in rage, he threw me down on the bed, still fully dressed in my totally wet Sirens gown.

“I’m gonna get the bed all soaked,” I whimpered.

“And?” he snarled, hands on the first button of his jeans.

The window was open, and the breeze carried in the sounds of the party, still in full swing.

Out the corner of my eye, I could even see Pippa herself, her red dress bright as she circulated through the crowd.

“What are you going to tell her when she wonders why the bed is all wet?”

“Nothing. Or I’ll tell her I was lying naked on the bed after a shower. It’ll just turn her on.”

“You’re disgusting!” I yowled. “I don’t want to be a part of this. I don’t want to be the other woman in your weird bitter marriage. Or whatever thing you’re plotting, you asshole gold-digger.”

“Well, you are.”

He pulled up my dress and knocked my thighs wide with one knee.

“Don’t make me do this,” I begged. “I feel so dirty and wrong with you taking me right in her bedroom!”

Somehow I couldn’t look away from the window, Pippa with her pretty dress, and her confident motions.

She moved like someone whose husband loved her and treated her like gold.

But I knew the truth.

His fingers ran down my belly, two parting my wet slit.

“Sweetheart, you like it dirty.”

And my best friend’s husband spit on my pussy, not in a thoughtful way to lube me up, but in a dirty, wrong, dominating way, to show me who was boss, to show me no matter what moral objections I had to cheating, it didn’t matter.

I was going to be the other woman no matter what.

His spit dripped down into my pussy, and he plunged inside me, thick, dominating cock, pounded me down to the cervix, as I was pinned underneath him.

“Look at you, dirty whore, having sex with a married man.”

I blinked back bitter tears of rage, my hand raised to slap him but he captured it easily and pinned my wrist to the bed.