13. Wife's POV [Part 2]

My hands slick with oil, massaging it slowly into his thigh, and I could feel the heat from his skin seeping into my palms. The scent of the oil was thick and sweet—floral but oddly sensual. It coated my hands, clung to my wrists, even began to warm my skin like it was meant to linger. I hadn’t noticed it earlier when I took it from the shelf, but now? Now it was everywhere. It was... intoxicating.

And he was watching me.

Not just in the way he always did. His gaze had dropped—blatantly, shamelessly—to my chest. My top had tugged down just enough while I leaned forward, the curve of my breasts pushed out, rising and falling as I breathed. I saw his eyes glued there, his stare heavy and unapologetic, almost like he could see through the fabric. And I swear, he licked his lips.

His thigh was tense beneath my fingers, the muscle twitching as I worked the oil in. I tried to keep my eyes fixed on my hands, on the motion, on the excuse I kept repeating in my head: I’m just helping. This is just for his pain. I’m not doing anything wrong.

Disgust twisted in my gut.

But it didn't stop the little flutter deep inside me either.

But then I felt it again.

That twitch.

That obvious pulse of arousal, hidden barely by the thin, wrinkled fabric of his shorts. It pressed up with each breath, rising higher, thicker. I didn’t need to look. I felt it. That growing hardness radiating heat right next to my hand. One more inch, and I’d be touching it.

I should’ve stopped.

I knew I should’ve stopped.

But my hands didn’t move away. They slowed down. They hovered there on his thigh, coated in oil, my palms slick and warm—just like he liked it. His breath had deepened, rough now, almost like a low growl of satisfaction. I could hear it.

His cock pulsed again under those loose shorts. And this time... I looked.

I didn’t mean to. But I did.

It was hard—thick. Heavy. So much bigger than I’d expected for someone his age. The fabric of his shorts wasn’t doing much to hide it anymore. It was right there. And for a moment, a dangerous second too long, I imagined what it might feel like in my palm. How it might twitch... react... stretch...

Stop it. What the hell is wrong with me?

I shook the thought from my head and **** my eyes away, back to his thigh, focusing on the circular motion of my hands.

“You’ve got magic in your fingers, sweetheart…” he groaned, voice deep and hoarse. “Mmm, your husband ever beg for these massages?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

My breath was shallow, skin flushed. My hands moved slower, less confident. I was spiraling.

The scent of oil mixed with his stench, it wrapped around me, made my stomach twist. It should have disgusted me. Instead, I felt… dizzy. Flushed.

Wrong.

He groaned again, shifting slightly, his knee parting just a bit more, opening space for me. For my hand.

“Don’t stop,” he muttered. “You’re doing it just right. That’s the spot... ahh, yes.”

His voice dripped with intent, and I looked up. His eyes weren’t closed. He was watching me. Studying my expression, my hesitation, the tremble in my lips.

And he knew.

He could see it—the way my thighs pressed together involuntarily, the way my breaths were shorter now, quicker. He could see that I wasn’t just embarrassed.

I was turned on.

He smiled, slow and dirty. His cock throbbed visibly through his shorts, fully hard. Proud and Shameless.

I hated how close it was. I hated how I couldn’t look away.

And still, I didn’t pull my hand back.

I rubbed higher. Gently. Testing him. Testing myself. His thigh muscles jumped beneath my touch. I reached the hem of his shorts, just brushing it—and froze.

It was there. Right there.

If I moved my hand even half an inch up… I’d feel it.

I closed my eyes.

This isn’t me. I’m not like this. I’m a wife. I have a husband who loves me. This is wrong. This is sick.

But my nipples were hard under my bra. My panties—already wet. I could feel my arousal, spreading across the inside of my thighs like a shameful confession I couldn’t hide.

His voice cut through my thoughts, soft and hoarse. “If your husband knew how good your hands felt, he’d never let you out of bed.”

I flinched.

He said it so casually, like we were just flirting. Like I wasn’t kneeling here, one motion away from stroking his cock.

Then I glanced up—by accident really—and saw the clock.

Shit.

I had been there over an hour again. Time had slipped away from me, just like last time. Only now… I had no errands. No groceries. No fabricated list to fall back on.

Panic hit me hard and fast.

I jumped to my feet, wiping my palms on the hem of my skirt, trying to look casual. Normal. As if I hadn’t just been massaging his legs, eyeing the shape of his cock.

“I—I think that’s enough. The oil should start working.”

He didn’t argue. He just lay back with that same amused grin, like he knew exactly what had just happened. Like he had already won something, even if I hadn’t touched him there.

I turned to leave the room, my legs shaky. I needed space.

The second I stepped outside his house, the air felt different. Cooler. Cleaner. My body was hot, my thoughts a mess, and I was covered in that oil. I sniffed my hands, then my clothes. It was everywhere. That goddamn scent—sweet and floral but wrapped in something distinctly masculine now that it had mixed with his skin. I didn’t even need to imagine what it would smell like to someone else.

Oh god.

I was screwed. I reached our door, pulse hammering in my chest. I paused. Waited. Listened.

Quiet.

He’s probably still working, I told myself. I’ll sneak in, take a quick shower, maybe say I picked up something at the store.

I opened the door carefully, pushing it gently so it wouldn’t creak. My footsteps were light, deliberate. I moved like a thief. Slow. Quiet. Each step carefully placed on the floor to avoid the boards that creaked.

If I could just make it to the bathroom…I turned to the living room.

And froze.

He was there. Looking directly at me.

My stomach dropped.

I flinched, just for a second. My smile came out stiff, too rehearsed. “H-hey, honey. Sorry I’m a bit late. I had to pick up a few things on the way back. You know… errand stuff.”

His eyes narrowed—not angry, but alert. Watching me too closely. I tried to act normal. My hands still smelled like that oil. My clothes clung to me in places it hadn’t before. I didn’t know if it was the heat or my own damn arousal, but I felt sticky, exposed.

He stood, took a step toward me.

I panicked.

“I’m all sweaty from the walk. Let me just go clean up real quick,” I said quickly, forcing a laugh, trying to sound breezy.

Before he could get closer—before he could smell me—I darted past him, heart thudding, practically running toward the bathroom.

The moment the door shut, I leaned against it and finally breathed.

That scent. Still on me. Still thick in the air.

I peeled off my clothes, one by one, holding them like evidence. Everything reeked of him. Of the oil. Of his skin. Of something filthy.

I tossed it in the hamper, turned on the shower, and stepped in under the hot water.

And as it washed over me, all I could think was—

I let him get to me again. I’m letting this happen. I’m letting myself change.

And worst of all?

A part of me didn’t want to stop.