Chapter 166 Fucking My Husband's Son
"There you are," he said, smiling at me with that oblivious affection that suddenly made me want to scream. "Surprise! Managed to catch an earlier flight. Missed you."
He moved to kiss me and I turned my head at the last second, his lips landing on my cheek instead of my mouth. Because my mouth had been wrapped around his son's cock an hour ago, and the wrongness of that was suddenly overwhelming.
"You surprised me," I managed, pulling the robe tighter. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."
"I know. But the meeting wrapped up faster than expected and I thought, why spend another night in a hotel when I could be home with my beautiful wife?" His eyes traveled over me, and for a terrible moment I thought he'd notice the marks on my neck, the swollen state of my lips, the fact that I looked thoroughly fucked.
But Richard never noticed details like that. Never looked closely enough to see what was right in front of him.
"I'm glad you're home," I lied, aware that Jake was trapped in my bathroom, naked, probably able to hear every word.
"Me too." Richard loosened his tie, oblivious to the tension radiating off me. "I'm exhausted though. Thirteen-hour flight. Mind if I take a quick shower and then maybe we could order in? I'm too tired to go out."
"Of course," I said quickly. "Take your time."
He moved toward the bathroom and my heart stopped.
Jake was in there. Naked. Hiding.
"Actually," I said desperately, "that bathroom's—the drain's been acting up. Probably shouldn't use it until we get it looked at. Use the guest bathroom instead?"
Richard frowned. "The drain's broken? Since when?"
"Just today. I was going to call someone tomorrow."
"I can look at it—"
"No!" I said too loudly, then forced myself to calm down. "No, it's fine. You're exhausted. Just use the guest bath. I'll deal with it tomorrow."
He shrugged, too tired to argue. "Okay. Back in twenty."
He left, and the second the door closed, I rushed to the bathroom. Jake stood there with his clothes on, his expression unreadable.
"You need to go," I whispered frantically. "Now. Before he comes back."
"Is that what you want?" he asked quietly. "For me to sneak out like this never happened?"
"I don't know what I want," I admitted, tears threatening. "I just know this is a disaster. Richard's home, and we need to figure out how to—" I stopped, another wave of panic hitting me. "The sheets. The room smells like sex. He's going to notice. He's going to—"
"Vanessa." Jake gripped my arms, forcing me to focus. "Breathe. We'll figure this out."
"How?" I demanded. "How do we figure this out? There's no good ending here, Jake. Either I tell him and destroy him, or we keep lying and—" I stopped as another realization hit me. "Oh my god."
"What?"
"We didn't use condoms," I said, my voice hollow. "Not once this week. You came inside me probably twenty times and we didn't use anything and I—" My hands went to my stomach. "What if I'm pregnant?"
The words hung between us, massive and terrifying.
"Would that be so terrible?" Jake asked softly.
"Are you serious right now?" I stared at him. "Yes, that would be terrible. That would be catastrophic. I'm married to your father. If I'm pregnant with your baby, it would—it would destroy everything."
"Or it would force your hand," he pointed out. "Force you to make a choice instead of hiding."
"Get out," I said, suddenly furious. "Get out before I do something I regret."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but footsteps in the hallway made us both freeze.
"I'll text you," he mouthed, then slipped out the bedroom door while Richard was still in the guest bathroom.
I stood there alone in my bedroom, surrounded by evidence of my betrayal, and wanted to scream.
Instead, I stripped the bed and shoved the sheets in the washing machine, opened all the windows to air out the room, wiped down surfaces that had been witness to acts Richard could never know about.
By the time he emerged from his shower, clean and tired and trusting, I'd erased the physical evidence.
But I couldn't erase the marks on my body, or the ache between my thighs, or the memory of Jake's hands and mouth and cock.
And I couldn't erase the fact that I'd fallen in love with my stepson.
That night, Richard wanted sex.
Of course he did. He'd been gone a week, and in his mind, that meant I must be desperate for him.
If only he knew.
I lay beneath him while he thrust away for his standard three minutes, and it felt like torture after a week of Jake. Richard's dick felt smaller, his technique nonexistent, his complete disregard for my pleasure glaringly obvious now that I knew what actual good sex felt like.
When he finished and rolled off me, satisfied as always, I excused myself to the bathroom and cried silently while the shower ran.
My phone buzzed with a text.
Jake: We need to talk. Tomorrow. Please.
I stared at that message for a long time before responding.
Me: I know.
Because we did need to talk. About what this week had meant. About whether it could continue. About the fact that I might be carrying his child.
About the fact that I'd fallen in love with him and had no idea what to do about it.
I crawled back into bed beside my husband, and he fell asleep immediately while I lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Two weeks later, I took a pregnancy test.
It was negative.
And instead of relief, all I felt was devastating disappointment.