I watched as Val inserted a card into a reader and the gate to her apartment’s parking garage opened. I sighed, watching Travis’ SUV fade away as we drove deeper into the bowels of the parking garage toward her assigned space.
“I get that,” she replied. “I just don’t want you to forget the eight-plus good years you had because he was hard to live with near the end.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, I promise. The memories of him at the end won’t tarnish the other years.” Quite the opposite.
AN HOUR, A glass of Merlot, and a string of text messages later, and I was out of Val’s apartment and on my way toward Brody. Wearing my hair up in one of Val’s baseball caps, I drove a loop around the medical center. It was my diversionary tactic. If Travis saw the car leave the garage, I hoped he’d think it was Val. After repeatedly checking my mirrors and looking down side streets, I breathed a sigh of relief that he was nowhere to be found.
As I made my way toward the small, secluded motel, taking the less than direct route, I had the realization: this was fucking ridiculous. Stewart was dead. Why the hell did I feel the need to hide my activities from my own damn employee?
Earlier, when I’d brought up the motel’s address on my phone, I knew it wasn’t our normal type of place. From its pictures it looked like the kind of motel seen on crime shows, the places where prostitutes frequented and often ended up dead.
As I got closer I laughed. Maybe it was the perfect place. Because tonight I wanted to be a whore: not Stewart’s whore, but my own. For the first time since I could remember, I wanted sex—pure, unadulterated fucking—and I wanted it bad. So much so that as I drove into the darkness the night before my husband’s funeral, all I could think about was Brody Phillips. I thought about his tall, trim, and healthy physique. I remembered him standing in the funeral home all proper and businesslike. I imagined the clean scent of his aftershave.
As miles passed, I embellished the memory:
No longer were we conversing in front of the other mourners. No. I imagined the same scene with significantly different details. In my fantasy, as he stood in front of me and gave me his condolences, instead of nodding, I unbuttoned his starched white shirt. As each button came undone, more of his wide chest became visible. Unable to control myself, I ran my hands up and down his firm abs. His aquamarine eyes zeroed in as each ripple of muscle tightened under the tips of my fingers. When his stare turned sultry, my nails gently raked the surface of his tanned skin. With a quick lick of my fingers, I rolled his nipple and licked my lips. His gaze narrowed as I allowed my hand to fall lower, teasing the buckle of his black leather belt.
He leaned closer as the room of people hushed at our blatant display of disrespect. Seizing my shoulders, Brody growled in my ear, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Instead of answering, I nuzzled his neck, hearing the stir in his throat and feeling growth of his erection. I pushed my hips forward.
“Oh, you want to put on a show?” he asked, his deep voice now raspy.
“Yeah,” I cooed, just before playfully nipping his ear.
Grabbing my chin, he harshly captured my lips, holding them hostage until my body melted and I moaned in both pleasure and pain. Pulling away, he reached for my shoulder and in one fluid move, spun me around, bending me over the table—the one with Stewart’s urn. My hips bruised against the polished wood as his stone-hard cock met my ass. His stubbly cheek against my neck felt like sandpaper as he snarled near my ear, “If you want a show, I’ll give you a fucking show. I’ll show all these assholes that you’re mine. No one else’s, ever. Just mine.”
Before I could respond, he reached for the hem of my black dress and pulled it to my waist, exposing my black lace panties, now wet in anticipation. “Is that what you want?” He continued to taunt me with his cock.
Speech was becoming more difficult as the murmurs throughout the funeral home disappeared into the sounds of his frantic heart and warm breath at my ear. All I could do was nod.
Brody snatched my hair, twisted it around his fist, and held my head still. “No, Vik. No more nodding. Fucking talk. Tell me what you want.”
My body trembled as I answered honestly. “I want you. I want you to take me right here.”
I gasped as he touched my inner thigh and his knee pushed my legs apart. Reaching for my panties, he moved only the crotch and slid his fingers deep inside.
Even though I knew that eyes were watching, I didn’t care. Some of them had seen me like this before; others were appalled, while even more were turned on as hell. Moans echoed throughout the room as Brody returned my concentration to him. With one hand he reached forward, rubbing my clit.
“Tell them,” he growled.
My mind was a blur. Tell them what?
“Tell them you’re mine.”
“I’m his,” I panted, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
Fisting my hair again, he repeated, “Tell them louder.”
“I’m his. No one else can take me, ever.” The words were liberating as my hips once again banged against the shiny table and his thick, hard cock plunged in and out of me. I bit my lip to stop my screams as each thrust hit harder than the one before: dominating and claiming. Brody’s upper body pushed forward, splaying me across the surface of the table and sending everything to the floor: the vases, the flowers, and Stewart’s ashes.
The road before me came back into focus as I squirmed in my seat, blinked repeatedly, and shook my head. Damn! I wonder what Val’s counselor would think of that little fantasy. He or she would probably have a field day with it. I didn’t want to think about any part of it, other than the obvious. I wanted sex, and I wanted it now.
“I get that,” she replied. “I just don’t want you to forget the eight-plus good years you had because he was hard to live with near the end.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, I promise. The memories of him at the end won’t tarnish the other years.” Quite the opposite.
AN HOUR, A glass of Merlot, and a string of text messages later, and I was out of Val’s apartment and on my way toward Brody. Wearing my hair up in one of Val’s baseball caps, I drove a loop around the medical center. It was my diversionary tactic. If Travis saw the car leave the garage, I hoped he’d think it was Val. After repeatedly checking my mirrors and looking down side streets, I breathed a sigh of relief that he was nowhere to be found.
As I made my way toward the small, secluded motel, taking the less than direct route, I had the realization: this was fucking ridiculous. Stewart was dead. Why the hell did I feel the need to hide my activities from my own damn employee?
Earlier, when I’d brought up the motel’s address on my phone, I knew it wasn’t our normal type of place. From its pictures it looked like the kind of motel seen on crime shows, the places where prostitutes frequented and often ended up dead.
As I got closer I laughed. Maybe it was the perfect place. Because tonight I wanted to be a whore: not Stewart’s whore, but my own. For the first time since I could remember, I wanted sex—pure, unadulterated fucking—and I wanted it bad. So much so that as I drove into the darkness the night before my husband’s funeral, all I could think about was Brody Phillips. I thought about his tall, trim, and healthy physique. I remembered him standing in the funeral home all proper and businesslike. I imagined the clean scent of his aftershave.
As miles passed, I embellished the memory:
No longer were we conversing in front of the other mourners. No. I imagined the same scene with significantly different details. In my fantasy, as he stood in front of me and gave me his condolences, instead of nodding, I unbuttoned his starched white shirt. As each button came undone, more of his wide chest became visible. Unable to control myself, I ran my hands up and down his firm abs. His aquamarine eyes zeroed in as each ripple of muscle tightened under the tips of my fingers. When his stare turned sultry, my nails gently raked the surface of his tanned skin. With a quick lick of my fingers, I rolled his nipple and licked my lips. His gaze narrowed as I allowed my hand to fall lower, teasing the buckle of his black leather belt.
He leaned closer as the room of people hushed at our blatant display of disrespect. Seizing my shoulders, Brody growled in my ear, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Instead of answering, I nuzzled his neck, hearing the stir in his throat and feeling growth of his erection. I pushed my hips forward.
“Oh, you want to put on a show?” he asked, his deep voice now raspy.
“Yeah,” I cooed, just before playfully nipping his ear.
Grabbing my chin, he harshly captured my lips, holding them hostage until my body melted and I moaned in both pleasure and pain. Pulling away, he reached for my shoulder and in one fluid move, spun me around, bending me over the table—the one with Stewart’s urn. My hips bruised against the polished wood as his stone-hard cock met my ass. His stubbly cheek against my neck felt like sandpaper as he snarled near my ear, “If you want a show, I’ll give you a fucking show. I’ll show all these assholes that you’re mine. No one else’s, ever. Just mine.”
Before I could respond, he reached for the hem of my black dress and pulled it to my waist, exposing my black lace panties, now wet in anticipation. “Is that what you want?” He continued to taunt me with his cock.
Speech was becoming more difficult as the murmurs throughout the funeral home disappeared into the sounds of his frantic heart and warm breath at my ear. All I could do was nod.
Brody snatched my hair, twisted it around his fist, and held my head still. “No, Vik. No more nodding. Fucking talk. Tell me what you want.”
My body trembled as I answered honestly. “I want you. I want you to take me right here.”
I gasped as he touched my inner thigh and his knee pushed my legs apart. Reaching for my panties, he moved only the crotch and slid his fingers deep inside.
Even though I knew that eyes were watching, I didn’t care. Some of them had seen me like this before; others were appalled, while even more were turned on as hell. Moans echoed throughout the room as Brody returned my concentration to him. With one hand he reached forward, rubbing my clit.
“Tell them,” he growled.
My mind was a blur. Tell them what?
“Tell them you’re mine.”
“I’m his,” I panted, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
Fisting my hair again, he repeated, “Tell them louder.”
“I’m his. No one else can take me, ever.” The words were liberating as my hips once again banged against the shiny table and his thick, hard cock plunged in and out of me. I bit my lip to stop my screams as each thrust hit harder than the one before: dominating and claiming. Brody’s upper body pushed forward, splaying me across the surface of the table and sending everything to the floor: the vases, the flowers, and Stewart’s ashes.
The road before me came back into focus as I squirmed in my seat, blinked repeatedly, and shook my head. Damn! I wonder what Val’s counselor would think of that little fantasy. He or she would probably have a field day with it. I didn’t want to think about any part of it, other than the obvious. I wanted sex, and I wanted it now.
