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Sugar spinning into candy, ache whirling into oblivion. This is what she needed; this is what she had chosen him for.
Her fingertips heated when she pressed into the hot skin of his belly as she reached the brink of exploding, involuntarily squeezing around him over and over and over.
When she caught her breath, she climbed off him and sat near his waist. She put a hand around him to finish him off. Only a few strokes and he grunted, cum spurting, dripping over her thumb and onto the sheet.
She moved away from him and laid back on the bed, their bodies far enough apart so he couldn’t easily reach her. She glanced at the clock.
It was late. She wouldn’t ask him to leave at this hour, but she did not want to be held. Chilled from a dewy layer of sweat, she pulled the bunched sheet up from the foot of the bed over them. Maybe now she could finally sleep.
She could not. She got out of bed, grabbed her robe from the chaise, wrapped it around herself, and went to the bathroom, closing the door softly.
The cool night air inched in as she opened the window and sat on the wide ledge of the tub. He had not disappointed. He was attentive and responsive and quiet. With him, she could be somewhere else.
When they were on the movie set three years ago, he was different, brash with the producers, the actors, the director. To her, he lobbed question after question about her novel and characters, their motivations, how she envisioned the story. She appreciated his enthusiasm, but he also had come across as a tad full of himself. Not that she cared as long as he did his work.
A while after they worked together, Quinn heard snippets here and there about him: cheating, divorce, fall from grace, brought down a peg or two. There was even some embarrassing hashtag on social media, if she remembered correctly. But maybe she didn’t; that old life was forever ago.
The porcelain ledge of the tub was cold against the back of her thighs. She planned to take a bath, wash away the stickiness and the sweat and the scent, and be by herself in here a while longer.
Instead, she stood and started toward the door; no, she wouldn’t wash, not yet. The drying fluids pulling her skin taut, the dank smell of cum, they were a reminder that, least of all, she was guilty of fucking a man she barely knew.
She undressed in front of him. Although she avoided looking at him at first, she fucked him several times, deliberately and hungrily. And still, she wanted more. What kind of wife did that make her?
What kind of widow?
The tears fell down her cheeks as she left the bathroom, tip-toed across the room and slid back into bed, turning away from the foreign body sleeping beside her.
It was just this once.
When she woke to the early light outside, he wasn’t in the bed. She closed her eyes again. If he were waiting for her downstairs, sitting on the couch or at the kitchen table reading something on his phone, maybe he would give up and leave.
As alone as she felt the past year, still she craved isolation. Even while he was inside her last night.
That’s how it had been, with the friends who came to visit, with the people who pressured her to go out for dinner or take a walk or attend some fundraising event she felt too bad to say no to, she was by herself.
When her longtime writers’ group begged her to come back, just to sit and listen and be back among them, she had sat there like a zombie, unable to absorb the words, the stories being spoken around her.
During their wine break, she told a colleague she was going to the bathroom but instead snuck out the door, ignored their calls, and had not gone back since.
When it seemed like enough time passed without noise from the lower level, she got up, re-tied her robe, and went down the back stairs to the kitchen.
On the center island sat a plate with an omelette—brie and mushrooms, items she never would have had if the caterers didn’t wrap up last night’s leftovers.
A sliced strawberry fanned out on the edge, and a sprinkling of chives dusted the rest of the plate. Gleaming silverware that wasn’t hers lay on a folded cloth napkin. A glass of orange juice sat nearby, covered tightly with plastic wrap.
For some reason, he chose to protect the juice but not the food, as if one were more vulnerable than the other. She didn’t know why she thought about it so hard as she picked at the breakfast he prepared. She could ask if she were to see him again, but she would not.
3
HIDDEN CAMERA REALITY SHOW?
He leaned against the leather headrest and caught Gil’s sidelong glance in the rearview mirror. “Everything okay, Mr. Jaines?”
His exhale stifled a dry laugh. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” He had known Gil since the network hired him for the show years ago, and no matter how many times he asked Gil to call him Jonathan, the man refused to use his first name.
“Back to the city?”
“Back to the city.”
