Felicity heads to her room, and James replies

James’ reply came in three rapid-fire bursts: *I would.* A pause. *Not some rushed fuck in a guest room.* Another beat. *I’d take her to my bed. Make her kneel on my wife’s side. Let her smell the perfume on the pillows while I show her exactly what a real man feels like.* The cruelty of the image licked up my spine—the humiliation woven into the intimacy, the way he’d **** me to confront the wife-shaped ghost between us.

The shower’s hiss upstairs synced with my shallow breathing. I typed one-handed, the other tracing the waistband of my leggings: *And if she says no?* The lie tasted sweet—we both knew I wouldn’t.

His reply seared through the screen: *She won’t.* Not cocky. Certain. *Not after I’ve had my mouth between her thighs. Not after she’s felt how much I want her.* The bubbles pulsed longer this time. *But if she ever truly meant it? I’d walk away. Even if it fucking killed me.* The admission hit differently—rough-edged with something too close to honor. ***** isn’t control. Any idiot with hands can take. I want her shaking because she can’t not beg.*

My fingers trembled against the screen. *Prove it,* I typed, then deleted. Too eager. Instead, I traced the outline of my phone with a fingertip, imagining his grip around it—knuckles white, veins standing stark against tanned skin. *Send me a photo,* I finally wrote, each letter deliberate. *Of how hard the tease in your house makes you.* The words blazed on the screen, undeniable. A line crossed.

Upstairs, the shower stopped abruptly. Silence pooled in the hallway outside—Bella’s wet footsteps padding toward her room. The pipes groaned, protesting. My pulse thundered in my ears. The typing bubble appeared, vanished, reappeared. My thumbnail dug into my lower lip until I tasted copper.

The notification vibrated against my palm before I saw it—a thick, pulsing preview of the image loading. His office chair’s leather creased under his weight in the background, mahogany desk polished to a military shine. But the focal point was the obscene tenting of his charcoal work trousers, the fabric stretched taut over what could only be described as a *problem*. The shadow where his shaft curved upward was almost violent in its implication. My throat dried. He’d unbuttoned the top of his trousers just enough to reveal the waistband of his briefs—navy cotton darkened with precum. The accompanying text hissed onto the screen: *Her fault.*

Bella’s bedroom door clicked open upstairs. I swiped to save the image, fingers fumbling—too slow. The preview disappeared as footsteps descended the stairs. Panic licked up my spine. Had he revoked it? The typing bubbles swirled. Then, a second image loaded: his hand fisted around his huge, thick cock, veins standing in stark relief against flushed skin. The head glistened, swollen and ruddy under office lighting. *Proof enough?* The caption was all gritted teeth and shattered restraint.

My breath caught. It wasn’t just big—it was *obscene*. The kind of cock that made teenage boys’ attempts laughable porn parody. The kind that had no business existing outside of Renaissance sculptures or erotica written by women who’d never seen one. My thumbs hovered, useless. What did you say to that? *Christ*, I typed, then erased. *Impressive* felt clinical. The truth lodged itself in my throat: I wanted to trace those veins with my tongue, feel the stretch he’d promised.

The bubbles danced. *Your turn.*