Chapter 6 #6

Chapter 6 #6

Chapter 6
~ Shailyn ~ 

I stood frozen, my body refusing to move even as every instinct screamed at me to run. 

He noticed my hesitation, probably thought I was drinking him in, admiring what was on display. His voice cut through the haze, low and teasing. "You can stare all you want. It's all yours…for now"

But he didn't know. He had no idea I knew exactly who he was — Dwayne Belmar, my husband's brother, the man who'd just returned after five years to reclaim everything Dante had stolen from him. 

Maybe it was the alcohol swimming through my veins or it was the hormones raging inside me, or the reckless desperation of a woman who'd spent five years being invisible. Whatever it was, before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed him and pulled him close.

We were chest to chest now, so close I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He looked down into my eyes like he could see straight through to my soul, and for one terrifying moment, something flickered across his face like recognition.

"Do I know you?" he asked, his voice rough. "You seem... familiar."

My heart stuttered. Panic clawed at my throat, but I forced myself to compose, to breathe. I shook my head. "No."

The lie tasted bitter, but I swallowed it down.

I was already lost in the pleasure of being this close to him, of being wanted, of being seen. I just wanted him to blow my mind apart and help me forget everything — my mother's deteriorating health, and most of all, my asshole of a husband, Dante..

For a second, guilt slipped in like a knife between my ribs. I had loved Dante so much. I still did, didn't I? 

But then the memories came flooding back with Dante fucking his secretary while I stood outside his office door, the sound of their bodies slapping together even after he'd screamed at me to leave. Those two girls in the hospital bathroom, fighting over him, both infected with the same syphilis he'd given me.

No. Tonight was my night. Tonight, I would use Dwayne to forget everything.

He guided me backward until my legs hit the bed. I sat, looking up at him, and the power dynamic shifted. He towered over me, his shirt hanging open to reveal those tattoos I'd memorized, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen.
God, he was beautiful.
He knelt between my legs, his hands sliding up my thighs, bunching my dress higher. His touch left fire in its wake.
"You're shaking," he observed.
"I'm nervous," I admitted. The alcohol was making me honest. Too honest.
"We can stop." But his hands kept moving, kept exploring, kept driving me insane. "Just say the word."

This was new… this foreplay, this attention, this care. Dante had never been like this. With him, it was always about his pleasure, his release. He never stayed after. He'd finish and leave me lying there alone, like I was nothing more than a convenience.
I couldn't say the word. I could barely remember my own name with his hands on me like this.
He kissed my neck, just below my ear, and I gasped. His lips traveled lower, tracing my collarbone, the hollow of my throat. Each kiss felt like worship, and I'd never been worshipped before.
"Tell me what you want," he murmured against my skin.
You. I want you. I want to forget I'm Shailyn Belmar for just one night. I want to remember what it feels like to be desired.
"Everything," I breathed. "I want everything."
He pulled back to look at me, his dark eyes searching mine through his mask. For a moment, I thought he'd recognized me. Thought this was over before it really began.
But then he smiled a slow, dangerous smile that made my stomach flip and reached for the zipper at the back of my dress.
"Everything," he repeated softly. "I can do that."
The zipper slid down with agonizing slowness. His fingers traced the path it made down my spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The dress pooled around my waist, exposing my simple black bra, nothing fancy, nothing like what Dante's mistresses probably wore.
But Dwayne didn't seem to care. His hands cupped my breasts through the fabric, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I arched into the touch with a moan.
"So responsive," he murmured, almost to himself. "So beautiful."
Beautiful. When was the last time Dante had called me beautiful? Had he ever?
His mouth replaced his hands, hot and demanding through the lace. I clutched at his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, anchoring myself as sensation overwhelmed me.
This couldn't be real. This had to be a dream, or the alcohol, or temporary insanity.
But his hands were real. His mouth was real. The way he was making me feel desired, worshipped, seen, that was devastatingly real.
He unhooked my bra with practiced ease and tossed it aside. For a moment, I wanted to cover myself. Five years of Dante's criticism had left marks deeper than any bruise.
But Dwayne looked at me like I was art. Like I was precious.
"Perfect," he whispered, and then his mouth was on me again, and I couldn't think anymore.
His tongue circled my nipple, teasing, tormenting, while his hand slid higher up my thigh. I was trembling so badly I thought I might shatter.
"Please," I heard myself beg. "Please, I need—"
"Tell me." His hand stopped, hovering so close but not quite touching where I needed him most. "Tell me what you need."
"You," I gasped. "I need you."
His fingers finally, finally slid beneath my panties, and I nearly came undone right then. He was gentle at first, exploratory, learning what made me gasp and what made me moan.
Dante had never bothered learning. Sex with him had always been about his pleasure, his release. Quick, mechanical, forgettable.
This was different. This was...
"So wet," Dwayne murmured against my breast. "All for me?"
I couldn't form words. Could only nod frantically as his fingers worked magic I'd never experienced before.
He stood, and I whimpered at the loss of contact. But then he was unbuckling his belt, sliding his pants down, and oh God, he was magnificent.
I whimpered in frustration, but the dark, hungry look on his face told me he had something better planned.

I didn't have time to dwell on the loss of contact because suddenly I saw all of him — his full glory — and fear mixed with anticipation. How would that even fit? But before I could overthink it, he positioned himself at my entrance and pushed inside.

The stretch was exquisite. He filled me completely, and with each thrust, he sent waves of pleasure crashing through me. I tugged at his hair, scratched down his back, lost in the sensation of being thoroughly, completely consumed. We moved together like we'd done this a thousand times before, and when we both finally released, the intensity of it left me dazed, boneless.

I passed out right there beside him.

\---

The next morning, I woke up feeling like I'd been hit nineteen thousand times. My body was sore, especially down there, but it was a good kind of sore — the kind that reminded me I was alive.

I stretched lazily and felt someone beside me. For one blissful, confused moment, I thought it was Dante—that maybe, finally, he'd stayed the night after sex. My heart lifted with stupid, pathetic hope.

Then reality crashed down on me like an avalanche.

Dante didn't sleep beside me. Dante never slept beside me.

Because it wasn't Dante.

It was Dwayne.

I had actually slept with my husband's brother, it wasn’t a dream.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I cursed myself silently, viciously. How was I any better than Dante now? I'd become exactly what I hated—a cheater, a liar, someone who destroyed their marriage vows. It didn't matter that Dante had been cheating on me for four years straight, that he'd given me infection after infection, that he'd never loved me at all. I was supposed to be better than him.

But I wasn't. I was just as broken.

I glanced over at Dwayne, still on his mask, and I wondered how we were able to fall asleep on this suffocating masks. 

He was deep asleep his chest rising and falling steadily, his face relaxed in a way that made him look almost peaceful. This was my chance to leave before he woke up and recognized me.

I moved quickly, quietly, gathering my things and dressing as fast as my sore body would allow. I probably looked insane with my hair wild, makeup smudged, dress wrinkled, but I didn't care. I just needed to get out.

I snuck out of the room and ran through the hallway like the devil himself was chasing me.

Outside, I hailed a taxi and collapsed into the backseat, using the ride to compose myself. I couldn't show up at Aunt Patricia's looking like I'd just had my brains thoroughly fucked out — or worse, like I'd had a one-night stand with my husband's brother.

I cleaned off my ruined makeup with the wipes I always carried, straightened my dress as best I could, and sprayed myself with perfume to mask the scent of sex and regret. It was too risky to stop at a store for fresh clothes. I'd just have to hope I looked like I'd come from a party, not from a man's bed.

When the taxi pulled up to Aunt Patricia's house, I noticed a motorcycle parked out front. Must be Max's, I thought absently. I'd have to come up with a lie about where I'd been last night when he inevitably asked.

I opened the door and walked inside, calling out casually, "Max, I'm home!"

I didn't look to my left immediately, didn't notice the presence sitting in the living room until he stood up, towering over me with a darkness that made my blood run cold.

Dante.

His eyes locked onto mine, and I knew there was guilt written all over my face. But I was too terrified to hide it now.

He stretched each word out slowly, calmly, which somehow made it worse.

"Where were you last night, Shailyn?"