Chapter 162 You're Not Wearing A Bra
Vanessa's POV
I'd lasted exactly four days pretending it had been a one-time mistake.
Four days of avoiding Jake's knowing looks across the breakfast table. Four days of finding excuses to leave rooms when we were alone. Four days of lying next to Richard at night and remembering how Jake had made me scream in this same bed while my husband had been working late.
Four days of touching myself obsessively every time I was alone, replaying every moment, every sensation, every filthy word Jake had said while he'd fucked me better than my husband ever had.
Four days of slowly losing my mind.
And then Richard had announced he was going to Singapore for a week on business, leaving that very afternoon. A last-minute crisis with an overseas client that required his immediate attention.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he'd said over breakfast, barely looking up from his phone. "I know it's sudden, but this account is worth millions. I'll make it up to you when I get back."
He wouldn't make it up to me. He never did. Would come home exhausted, distracted, more interested in sleep than sex. The pattern had been consistent for two years—why would it change now?
"It's fine," I'd said automatically. "I understand. Work is important."
More important than me, clearly. But I'd stopped saying that out loud months ago.
Richard had left two hours later, barely kissing me goodbye, his mind already on spreadsheets and presentations. And then it had been just me and Jake in this massive house, with seven days stretching ahead and no one to interrupt or judge or witness whatever might happen.
I'd tried to convince myself I'd be strong. That I'd maintain boundaries. That what happened four days ago had been a temporary insanity brought on by neglect and opportunity.
But when I'd turned from closing the front door after Richard's departure to find Jake standing in the hallway watching me with dark, hungry eyes, I'd known I was completely fucked.
"So," he'd said, his voice low. "My dad's gone for a week."
"He is," I'd agreed, my heart already racing.
"Which means we're alone. Completely alone. No one coming home early. No interruptions." He'd stepped closer. "No more excuses about 'just this once.'"
"Jake—"
"You've been avoiding me," he'd interrupted, closing the distance between us. "Pretending you don't think about it constantly. Pretending you don't want it again."
"We agreed it was a mistake—"
"You agreed it was a mistake. I never said that." His hand had come up to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheek. "I said whatever you needed to tell yourself. But we both know the truth, Vanessa. You haven't stopped thinking about it. About me. About how I made you feel."
I'd wanted to deny it. Wanted to maintain some dignity, some pretense of self-control.
But I was so fucking tired of lying.
"I haven't stopped thinking about it," I'd admitted, the words breaking free. "I touch myself every night remembering. I can barely look at you without wanting—" I'd stopped, unable to finish.
"Wanting what?" he'd prompted, his voice rough.
"Wanting you to fuck me again," I'd whispered. "Wanting your hands on me. Wanting to feel alive again instead of just... existing."
Something had shifted in his expression—triumph and possession and heat all mixed together. "Then stop fighting it. Stop pretending you don't want this. We have seven days, Vanessa. Seven days to explore everything you've been denying yourself. Everything my dad doesn't give you."
"This is wrong—"
"I don't care." He'd backed me against the wall, his body pressing against mine. "Do you care? Really? Because I think you're tired of being the good wife to a man who doesn't appreciate you. Tired of faking satisfaction. Tired of being lonely in your own house."
He'd been right. About all of it.
"What are you proposing?" I'd asked, my voice barely audible.
"An arrangement. For this week. You stop pretending you don't want me, and I'll give you everything you need. Everything you've been missing. I'll worship your body. Make you cum so many times you lose count. Show you what it's like to be with someone who actually gives a fuck about your pleasure."
My rational mind had known this was insane. That sleeping with him once had been bad enough, but actively choosing to continue? That was crossing into territory I couldn't uncross.
But my body—my starved, neglected, desperate body—hadn't cared about rational thought.
"Just for this week," I'd said, making one last attempt at maintaining some boundaries. "While he's gone. And then we go back to normal."
Jake's smile had told me he didn't believe that any more than I did. "Whatever you need to tell yourself."
Then he'd kissed me, and I'd stopped thinking altogether.
That had been this morning.
Now it was evening, and I was standing in the kitchen trying to pretend my hands weren't shaking as I made dinner, hyperaware of Jake's presence in the living room, of the fact that we were completely alone and there was nothing stopping us from finishing what we'd started.
He'd given me space all afternoon—deliberately, I thought. Letting the anticipation build. Letting me come to him instead of pushing.
The strategy was working. I was so wound up I could barely function, my body humming with need every time I heard him move or speak.
I was plating the pasta when I felt him behind me—hadn't heard him approach, but suddenly he was there, his chest against my back, his hands sliding around my waist.
"Smells good," he murmured in my ear.
"It's just pasta," I managed, my voice unsteady.
"I wasn't talking about the food." His hands slid up to cup my breasts through my shirt, and I gasped. "I've been thinking about you all day. About what I want to do to you tonight."
"Jake—"
"You're not wearing a bra," he observed, his thumbs finding my nipples through the thin fabric. "Did you do that for me?"