Emily is spent

Garrett dragged a fingertip through the mess glistening between Emily's thighs, holding it up to the pulsing club lights like he was inspecting fine wine. "Christ," he muttered, swiping his thumb across her swollen clit just to watch her whole body jerk. "Even wrecked, she's prettier than anything I've ever paid for." Emily whimpered—a broken, wet sound—her fingers clutching at the leather cushions as Kevin's cum dripped down her trembling thighs.

"P-please," she gasped when Mitchell leaned in to bite the back of her neck, his hands kneading her sore breasts with relentless interest. Her clit throbbed with oversensitivity, the ache radiating through her pelvis with every brush of Garrett's calloused fingers. "I need—I can't—"

Kevin exhaled sharply through his nose, watching the way Emily's lashes fluttered when Reynolds twisted her nipple between two fingers. "Enough." The single word cut through the bass-heavy air, his hand closing around Garrett's wrist to still his tormenting touches. "She's done."

Mitchell made a disappointed sound but released Emily's hair when Kevin shot him a look. Garrett, however, traced one last circle around her abused entrance—just enough to make her thighs quiver—before wiping his fingers on the booth's upholstery. "Pity," he murmured, thumbing the fresh bite mark on her hip. "Was just getting started."

Emily collapsed forward onto the sticky leather, her cheek pressed against the cool surface as she fought to catch her breath. Kevin's hand settled between her shoulder blades, the weight unexpectedly gentle compared to the bruises blooming across her skin. Reynolds chuckled, swirling his whiskey as he took in the wreckage of her—mascara smeared, dress torn open, every inch of her marked by their hands and mouths.

——————————————-

The hum of the luxury sedan’s engine was a dull counterpoint to Emily’s ragged breathing as Kevin guided her into the backseat with a hand at the small of her back—too firm to be mistaken for tenderness. The driver didn’t glance back, his gloved fingers tightening on the wheel when Emily’s bare thigh brushed the leather seat, leaving a faint smear of moisture in its wake. Kevin slid in beside her, his suit jacket draped over her lap like an afterthought, the fabric scratchy against her oversensitive skin.

"Address," Kevin said, not to her but to the partition glass. Emily opened her mouth—her throat still raw from Mitchell’s grip—but the driver was already nodding, pulling away from the curb with a smoothness that made her stomach lurch. Neon streaked across the tinted windows, painting Kevin’s profile in fractured blues and pinks as he scrolled through his phone, thumb hovering over his wife’s unanswered texts. Emily watched his jaw clench when a new notification popped up: *Did you get the anniversary reservations?*

The car hit a pothole, jostling Emily against Kevin’s side. His arm shot out to brace her, fingers digging into the fresh bruises Garrett had left on her hip. She bit back a whimper, but the sound must have slipped out—Kevin’s gaze flicked to her, dark and unreadable, before he reached into the minibar for a bottled water. He twisted the cap off with a sharp crack and pressed it into her shaking hands. "Drink," he ordered, his voice low. "You’re dehydrated."

Emily’s fingers trembled around the cool plastic, water sloshing over her wrists as she lifted it to her lips. The first sip was a shock—clean and crisp against the bitterness still clinging to her tongue. Kevin watched her swallow, his thumb brushing a stray drop from her chin before he returned to his phone, typing one-handed: *Handled. Home by midnight.*

The lie settled between them like another stain on her dress.

Her apartment building loomed in the windshield, its Art Deco façade washed in sodium light. The driver pulled into the loading zone with practiced ease, but didn’t kill the engine. Kevin’s hand closed around Emily’s bare knee—a silent command to wait—as he sent a final text. His wedding band glinted in the glow of the screen before he pocketed the phone and turned to her. "Can you walk?"

Emily nodded, though her thighs burned when she shifted. Kevin’s mouth tightened. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders, the wool scratchy against her skin. The gesture might’ve been considerate if not for the way his fingers lingered on the bite marks peppering her collarbone—a possessive press of fingertips that made her breath hitch.

The elevator smelled of lemon disinfectant and something faintly mildewed. Emily watched their reflection warp in the brushed metal doors: Kevin’s tie still impeccably knotted, her smeared lipstick and tangled hair. His palm settled against the small of her back as the floors ticked upward, guiding her forward like he expected her knees to give out. She almost wished they would.

Her apartment was dark when the key turned—just as she’d left it that morning, before silver dresses and VIP lounges. Emily reached for the light switch, but Kevin caught her wrist. "Don’t." His voice was low, rough. The streetlights filtered through sheer curtains, striping the hardwood where her heels had fallen weeks ago. She’d meant to put them away.

Kevin’s grip shifted to her elbow, steering her past the kitchen island where a half-empty wine glass still sat from yesterday’s lonely dinner. The bedroom door sighed open on familiar hinges. He didn’t turn on the lamp, just guided her to the edge of the mattress with a hand between her shoulder blades. The duvet was cool beneath her thighs.

"Shower," he said, not unkindly. Emily’s fingers fumbled with the ruined strap of her dress. Kevin watched her struggle for three breaths before sighing and reaching for the clasp himself. His knuckles brushed her spine—once, twice—before the fabric slithered to her waist. The air pricked her bare skin.