The letter told me I’d been betrayed by the person closest to me. I didn’t realize that soon I’d be betraying him in turn.
The letter I received was cryptic and impossible to ignore. I followed every last instruction, desperate to find out answers as I went to that dark and dreary motel and I slipped in the door to come face to face with the man who told me that my husband was cheating.
It was his best friend. He said he had proof. But as I pressed him for answers less and less was making sense, right up until I saw those eyes.
Hiding in the closet, peering out through a crack. Those eyes that were impossible to miss. That face, hidden in the dark but belonging to the man that I married.
It was a game and a test. Lie to the wife and pretend that you’re cheating, see if she’ll believe it and when you offer to make things even see if she’ll go through with it. It was a test of my fidelity and honestly it just pissed me off.
His friend was little more than an innocent bystander but he would do. He was tall and handsome and he had the body to make this work. He was strong enough to satisfy and weak enough to bend to my will.
Because if this was the game they wanted to play, then I’d make it a night to remember. If this was the game they wanted to play, then I could play it too.
And yes, this wasn’t a game I ever had any intention of playing, but if they’re going to make me play then we’re going to play by my rules.
Excerpt
Oliver, I almost feel bad about Oliver. He’s too good a man for any of this. Used by my husband for the setup, now used by me for the turn.
But when I look at him, I don’t know if that’s right anymore. When my eyes fall on this man I get a sense of him that I’ve never felt before. All of his enormous bulk, all of the energy coiled up into a tight ball. All of it focused on me as the world narrows down to the spotlight of the two of us and I remember what my friends said about him.
I remember the promise of his power, of his skill, of his natural gifts. I remember them telling me how big he was, their hands laying out dimensions that couldn’t possibly be real. I remember that night, the night after the party when I lay in bed next to Nathan snoring after a vigorous session of lovemaking and I remember wondering whether they were lying to me. I remember closing my eyes and imagining him, my husband’s best friend, while the fingers of one hand danced between my thighs and the other clapped over my mouth to muffle my cries of pleasure at my fantasy.
So intense had been the guilt over that dalliance in my mind that I’d never allowed myself to fantasize that way again. I’d restrained myself, unable even to look Oliver in the eyes for a full year after my wedding to his best friend. Unable to forget my imaginings because for days after each time I’d meet him in the real world he’d meet me in my dreams. And in my dreams, I’d always be satisfied.
So yes, when I kissed him now I launched myself at him intending to play a role. I’d intended to play the part of a wanton woman, a wife betrayed desperate for the comfort of the nearest warm body. I’d intended to act that part but I don’t know if I’d ever embodied a role quite so well before.
Because when his lips are on mine, when his hands are on my body, when his will is pressing into me without any resistance and with even just one-tenth of the furious need that he feels within him I feel myself melt for him. I feel his need and I see it reflected in myself, every inch of me aching to feel him on me and to feel him in me and oh god just to feel it, just to feel every last moment of it. I hear a moan and I know that it’s in my voice but I don’t have any control over it. It takes all of my effort just to keep myself standing against the onrushing torrent of his efforts.
But I manage to force through it, parting my lips to let his eager tongue inside and feeling his hands pulling and pushing at my clothing, tugging as he struggles to find his way to my bare skin. I manage to force my mind to sharpen against the effort and to focus on why I’m really here.
It’s not pleasure. It’s not the man in front of me. I’m not here for him or for me.
Oliver is a means to an end. I am a means to an end. The pleasure we’re taking from one another is temporary, sure to be abruptly ceased the moment I can find it in me to stumble back and pull him with me, lining us both so that we’re perfectly centered through the gap in the closet door. So that Nathan can witness us for his own perverse need to prove my infidelities and gain that last measure of control over me.
Timing is everything here and this is almost more of a dance than anything else. I pull on Oliver and drag him with me as I step backward and I make sure that we’re standing parallel to the doorway so that Nathan can see the both of us perfectly framed. I give it a count of three, waiting for the sound of the door sliding open and then I know what’ll happen just as easily as if it had been scripted.
Nathan will come out of his closet eyes ablaze and indignant but I won’t give the man the chance. I’ll wheel on him, my whole body tight and my eyes righteous as I lay into him with the words running through my mind now. Letting my dear and doting husband know in no uncertain terms that I’ve set him up, that I knew all along, that I didn’t and never had any intention of hurting him the way he’s played pretend at hurting me but that it’s his fault, his jealousy and his lack of trust and his machiavellian manipulations that drove me to this point but that it all means nothing, that even he means nothing to me anymore.
And that’s the plan, followed by turning on my heel and storming out. That’s the idea, but Nathan hasn’t moved and I don’t know what’s happening anymore.