The Reluctant Hotwife

I swirl the straw in my gin and tonic, watching the ice cubes clink and melt. The bar's dim lighting does me favors, I think. Soft shadows, amber glow. I'm not a knockout, never have been. I'm too skinny, with angles instead of curves, breasts that barely fill an A-cup. But my legs--those I can work with. Long, smooth, crossed now as I sit on the barstool, one heel hanging off my foot, dangling just enough to look careless.

I'm trying to look careless. Trying to look confident. Because that's what this whole thing needs, right? Confidence. I'm supposed to be selling the idea that I'm here alone, looking for something--someone. Not just waiting for someone to look back.

The thought makes my stomach twist. Nerves, mostly. Guilt, too. I sip my drink, swallow down the ice-cold burn, and check my phone again. No texts from Mark. He's waiting at home, probably pacing, maybe with a drink of his own in hand. He wanted me to check in. A picture if I could manage it, just for proof. For him, not for me.

God, it sounds so stupid now that I'm here. But we talked about it for weeks. His fantasy, his excitement. It made him hard just to think about me doing this, and it felt like it was all for him. That was what finally pushed me out the door. Not curiosity, not some secret thrill I was chasing. Just Mark's eyes on me, that hunger I hadn't seen in years.

So here I am. Doing this for him. Sitting at a bar on a Thursday night, legs crossed and hair swept to one side like I'm trying to be something I'm not. Like I'm trying to be sexy.

I wonder if anyone even notices me. The bar's half-full. A few guys laugh too loudly at a booth near the back. A couple on their third or fourth round tucked into a corner. And me, alone. Nervous. All sharp edges and the lingering taste of gin.

I scan the room and feel my pulse hitch whenever a man's eyes flick my way, wondering if he's the one who'll approach me. I wonder if I'll even be able to go through with it if he does. Mark's voice echoes in my head: Just talk to him, Carla. Just see if you can get him interested. It doesn't have to go anywhere. Not if you don't want it to.

But it feels like it's supposed to. I can't shake the expectation, the pressure of what he wants me to be. The good wife. The hot wife.

And all I can think is, I'm not even sure I know how.

I check my phone again, knowing damn well Mark hasn't texted. It's only been a few minutes since the last time I glanced at the screen, but the silence feels like judgment. Or maybe that's just me, punishing myself for even trying to do this.

I take another sip of my drink. The ice has melted, watering it down to something bland and bitter. I should order another, but I hesitate. What if the bartender looks at me funny for nursing the same cocktail for nearly an hour? What if I stand out too much, or worse--what if I blend in so well that no one even sees me?

I'm supposed to be trying, aren't I? To put myself out there. To draw someone in with a smile, a look, a line I haven't even practiced because all of this feels so... false.

I tug at the hem of my dress, wishing I'd picked something different. It's black, because that's safe. Simple, tight enough to show my shape but not so tight that it screams desperation. I spent too long in front of the mirror trying to make my reflection look like someone else. Someone sexier. Someone who wants this.

Mark would call me beautiful. His fingers would slide over my shoulders, tracing my collarbone and dipping down between the small curves of my breasts. He likes them well enough. He says they suit me, fit perfectly in his hands. I've never been one of those women who draws attention by just walking into a room.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe that's why Mark wants me here, in this bar, pretending to be something else. Maybe he wants to prove something to himself as much as to me.

I can picture him pacing, obsessing over the thought of me with someone else. It's twisted, but it turns him on. Maybe it's the novelty. Maybe it's control. Or maybe it's some deep, aching need he's never managed to explain to me. He called it a game. Something fun. A chance to live out a fantasy.

But for me, sitting here alone feels more like a test.

I'm not shy, exactly. But I'm not a flirt, either. Never had to be. Mark was my first real boyfriend, and things just... happened. We met. We clicked. We built a life. Sex was part of it, sure, but it never felt like a performance. Not until he asked me to do this.

A couple of guys walk past me on their way to the bar. One glances over, eyes skating across my body without really stopping. Like I'm part of the scenery. It leaves a weird, stinging sort of emptiness.

I'm not sure what I expected. That someone would swoop in with a cheesy line and a smile, making all of this easier? That the whole thing would just... happen, sparing me from the awkwardness of trying to make it happen myself?

I hate this. The waiting. The pretending. The way my stomach knots up every time I catch a man's eye only to feel him glance away like I'm not worth the effort.

What if Mark was wrong? What if I'm just... not that woman?

The drink is gone now, ice slumped at the bottom of the glass. I tap my nails against it, a rapid, nervous rhythm that makes me cringe once I realize I'm doing it.

I should leave. Just walk out, go home, tell Mark it's not me. That I tried and failed and felt ridiculous the entire time.

But I can already hear his voice, thick with excitement and pleading, asking me to give it a real shot. It'll be good for us, Carla. Good for you. Just let yourself go a little.

As if it's that easy. As if I can just shed years of habit and hesitation like old skin.

I drag my fingers through my hair, push it back from my face. I've been here for forty-five minutes and all I've managed to do is sit, drink, and second-guess everything about myself.

A part of me wants to prove him wrong. To go home and say, See? It didn't work. It's not me.

But another part of me hates the idea of quitting. Of going back to him empty-handed, admitting that I couldn't even try.

I catch the bartender's eye and order another drink. Maybe I'm not ready to leave just yet.

The second gin and tonic goes down smoother than the first, the alcohol softening my nerves but sharpening the frustration. I feel like an idiot. Just another woman sitting alone at a bar, trying to catch a man's eye. I keep picturing Mark's face, his expression when I finally tell him how this night went. Did you even try, Carla?

I'm almost ready to admit defeat when I feel someone slide into the stool next to me. He's maybe mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, decent enough looking in a business-casual sort of way. Button-down shirt, wedding band glinting under the bar lights.

"Can I buy you a drink?" His voice is low, confident.

I glance up, startled by the directness. "Sure."

"What are you having?"

"Gin and tonic."

He signals the bartender, then leans against the counter, angling himself toward me like he's done this a hundred times. And maybe he has.

"I'm Ron," he says.

"Carla."

He gives me a smile, but there's something tired about it. Not sleazy, just... resigned. As if this conversation is a routine.

The bartender sets the drink in front of me and Ron watches me take a sip before he speaks again. "Rough night?"

"Something like that." I don't know what else to say. I'm not supposed to sound desperate, but playing coy feels ridiculous.

He nods like he understands. Maybe he does. "Mine, too. Long day at work. Wife's been giving me grief about some bullshit. Probably why I ended up here."

There's a heaviness in his voice. Not anger. Just the kind of weariness that comes from years of fighting the same battles.

I find myself staring at his wedding ring. The way it gleams, obvious and careless. Like he didn't even bother to take it off before trying to pick me up.

"I guess we're both here to take our minds off things," he says, his eyes sweeping over me with interest but nothing close to excitement.

"Is that what you're doing?" I ask, unable to keep the judgment out of my voice.

He shrugs. "Trying to, anyway. Just feels good to talk to someone who's... not her, you know?"

I nod, even though I don't really understand. I'm not here to escape Mark. I'm here for him. But this man--Ron--he's here to get away from something. To get away from her.

He keeps talking, going on about his wife like I'm a therapist he doesn't have to pay for. How she's clingy, critical, never satisfied. How he feels trapped. His words are familiar. Things I've heard friends say, things I've read in cheap novels.

But the longer he talks, the more disgusted I feel. Not with him, exactly. With the fact that this is the first man who's approached me, and he's not interested in me at all. Just the idea of someone who isn't his wife.

This isn't what Mark wanted. This isn't what I wanted, either, if I'm being honest.

"Thanks for the drink," I say, interrupting him mid-sentence.

He looks surprised, maybe even a little hurt. "You're leaving?"

"Yeah. I've got to go."

"Sure. Okay." His voice is flat now. He's already dismissed me. Just another attempt that didn't work out.

I slide off the stool, grab my purse, and head for the door without looking back. The chill of the night air slaps me in the face, but it feels better than sitting there listening to Ron complain about his wife. Better than pretending this was some kind of game I could play.

I fish my phone from my purse and text Mark. I'm on my way home.

The reply comes almost immediately. How did it go?

I'll tell you when I get there.

I hesitate, my fingers trembling over the keyboard. And then, before I can think too hard about it, I add: This is harder than I thought.

I pull into the driveway and kill the engine, but I don't get out of the car right away. My fingers rest on the steering wheel, clenched tight enough to make the knuckles go pale. It's not just the cold air that leaves me shivering.

I should've told Mark I was coming home earlier. Maybe then he wouldn't be waiting by the door when I walk in, his eyes bright and hungry the second he sees me.

"Hey," he says, his voice too eager.

"Hey." I shrug off my coat and hang it on the hook by the door. My purse lands with a dull thud on the bench.

Mark follows me into the kitchen like a puppy, eyes darting over me like he's trying to read the whole night from my expression. "So... how'd it go?"

I pour myself a glass of water from the sink, gulping it down like it might wash away the frustration clinging to me. I don't look at him.

"It was a bust."

He pauses. "What do you mean?"

"No one approached me. Except one guy."

"Okay," he says slowly, his voice lifting like he's waiting for something good. Like I'm about to tell him I brought someone home.

"He was married." I take another sip of water, feeling it sit heavy in my stomach. "Spent the whole time bitching about his wife. Bought me a drink just so he'd have someone to listen to him vent."

Mark shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fingers fidgeting like he's trying to figure out what to do with them. "But you talked to him, right? You... you let him buy you a drink?"

"Yeah, Mark. I let him buy me a drink." I set the glass down hard, the clink of it against the counter sharper than I intended. "But it wasn't some sexy stranger making me feel wanted. It was just some guy trying to forget he had a wife waiting at home."

"But you talked to him," he repeats, like he's determined to squeeze something positive out of the night. "That's good, Carla. That's... progress."

"Progress?" I laugh, but it sounds harsh. Bitter. "What exactly did you think was going to happen? That I'd walk in there and just..." I wave my hand in the air, like I can conjure up the right words. "Seduce some guy right off the bat?"

"No, but..." Mark's jaw tightens. His eyes flick away from me, and I can see him fighting to keep his voice calm. "I just thought you'd give it a real shot."

"A real shot?" I snap. "I sat there for over an hour, Mark. Alone. Trying to look... I don't even know. Approachable? Sexy? Desperate? And the only guy who talked to me made me feel like shit."

He folds his arms across his chest. Defensive. "You're the one who wanted to try this, too."

"That's not fair." The words come out clipped, each one stinging on its way out. "You're the one who brought this up. You're the one who kept pushing it until I said I'd try."

"I thought you wanted to spice things up. For us."

"No, you thought this would spice things up." I meet his eyes and hold the stare, refusing to back down. "You wanted me to do something I'm not even sure I'm capable of."

His shoulders slump a little, but the frustration doesn't fade. "I'm not asking you to do anything crazy. Just... put yourself out there. Talk to someone. See where it goes."

"I did talk to someone." I almost laugh, but there's no humor in it. "And it was awful."

Mark opens his mouth to argue, then clamps it shut again. I can see him wrestling with what to say, how to spin this in a way that doesn't make me sound like the problem.

"Maybe you just... I don't know... need to try again," he says, the words hesitant but stubborn.

"Why?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "Why are you so obsessed with this? With me doing this?"

He's silent for a moment, his eyes darting away from mine. "Because... it's exciting. The idea of you... with someone else. Of you coming home and telling me about it. It makes me feel..." He pauses, searching for the right words. "Alive."

"Well, it makes me feel like crap."

That hits him harder than I expected. His face falls, and for a second, I see real hurt there. But it doesn't last long. The frustration comes roaring back, masking the vulnerability he just let slip.

"I just thought you'd actually try, Carla."

"What the hell do you think I was doing?" My voice cracks, but I push through it. "You weren't there. You didn't see how stupid I felt just sitting there, waiting for someone to notice me. You just keep pushing this like it's supposed to be easy."

"I'm not pushing--"

"Yes, you are!" I cut him off. "And you're not even listening. You're so wrapped up in your fantasy that you don't care how shitty this feels for me."

He goes quiet again, jaw clenching and unclenching. "I'm just trying to make things better. To keep things... exciting."

"At what cost?"

The words hang in the air between us, cold and heavy. I don't even want to hear his answer.

I brush past him, heading for the bedroom. "I'm going to bed."

He doesn't try to stop me.

The tension settles over the house like a fog. Thick, clinging, impossible to brush away. I try to act normal--cook dinner, fold laundry, talk about work like we're just... us. Like I didn't walk out of that bar humiliated and come home to Mark looking at me like I'd failed some test he never warned me I was taking.

He tries, too. I can tell. He offers to make dinner one night, orders takeout the next. Hugs me from behind in the kitchen, lips brushing my neck in a way that used to send heat straight to my core.

But it's not working. Not for me. And apparently, not for him either.

Thursday night, almost a week since the disaster at the bar, I find myself on my knees in our bedroom, Mark's hand buried in my hair like he's trying to guide me. Trying to coax himself into something more than just that half-interested stiffness he can't seem to hold on to.

He's not even looking at me. His head is thrown back, eyes screwed shut, like the effort alone is exhausting him.

I swirl my tongue around the tip, take him deeper, trying every trick I've picked up over years of marriage. Slow, deliberate strokes, my lips pressing tight, my hand working the base to make up for what my mouth can't reach.

Nothing. He's half-hard at best, twitching with a weak pulse that fades as soon as it starts.

I glance up, my eyes searching his face for something--desire, excitement, hell, even frustration. But he just looks lost.

"Mark..." I say his name softly, his dick still resting limp against my tongue. "Maybe we should try something else."

"No. Just... keep going." His voice is strained, like it's taking everything he has to keep himself from snapping.

I do as he asks, bobbing my head, my jaw starting to ache as I work him for longer than I should have to. My fingers tease his balls, my tongue pressing firm along the vein on the underside of his shaft. All the moves I know he likes. All the things that used to make him groan and grab the back of my head with that mix of need and control that used to drive me crazy.

But he's barely even there.

I feel his body tense, and for a second I think maybe it's working. That I've finally broken through whatever wall has him locked up. But then his shoulders slump and his hands fall away from my hair.

"Fuck," he mutters, yanking himself free from my mouth like he's angry at me. At himself. At everything. "I can't..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. Just shoves himself off the bed and starts pacing, his naked body a coil of frustration.

I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My own frustration bubbles up, thick and sour. "Maybe if you'd actually pay attention to me instead of whatever fantasy you've got running through your head, this wouldn't be so hard."

"It's not like I'm doing it on purpose, Carla." His voice comes out clipped, defensive. "I just... it's not the same."

"What isn't?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at me like I'm the one who's supposed to understand him without him having to say a damn thing.

"I keep thinking about it," he finally admits, his gaze shifting to the floor. "About you... with someone else. It's like I can't get it out of my head."

"That's the problem, Mark." My voice cracks. "You're so caught up in this stupid fantasy that you can't even be with me. You want me to go out there and... and fuck some stranger just so you can get off to the idea of it."

"That's not fair." He flinches, but his frustration doesn't fade. "I just... it's exciting, okay? And when you came home the other night and said nothing happened, it was just... a letdown."

"A letdown?" The word stings more than it should.

He runs a hand through his hair, his fingers pulling hard enough to leave his scalp red. "I don't know how to explain it. It's like... like I need to see it happen. Or at least hear about it. Like it's the only way I can--"

"Get hard?" I finish for him.

His face flushes, anger and embarrassment tangled together. "You make it sound like I'm some kind of freak."

"I didn't say that." I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples like I can massage the headache away. "But this... whatever this is... it's not working."

He stands there for a moment, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. "Then maybe you should try again."

I stare at him, waiting for him to take it back. To realize how ridiculous this all is. But he just looks at me with that same desperate hunger I saw in his eyes when he first brought all of this up.

"Mark..."

"Please, Carla." His voice cracks this time. He sounds almost broken. "I need this."

It's the way he says it that gets me. That pleading, vulnerable tone that makes me feel like if I say no, I'll be letting him down in some deeper way than I even understand.

"Fine," I whisper, feeling the words scrape against my throat. "I'll try again."

He nods, relief flooding his expression even though he doesn't say another word.

But I can feel the pressure mounting, pressing down on me harder than ever. Because now, it's not just about trying. It's about succeeding. And that's something I'm not sure I can do.

Saturday night. Mark's downstairs watching TV, but I can hear the tension in the way he flips through channels, never settling on anything for more than a minute. I haven't told him I'm going out tonight, but he knows.

He must.

I stand in front of the mirror, my closet emptied onto the bed like I'd waged war on my wardrobe. Dresses, skirts, blouses--all of them wrong. Too conservative or too clingy. Too frumpy or too obvious.

Sexy without being slutty. That's what I keep telling myself. I want to look good. Not cheap. Just... desirable.

I settle on a wine-colored dress that hits just above the knee. Fitted but not skintight. Sleeveless, with a subtle V-neck that hints at cleavage without shoving it in anyone's face. My hair is loose, waves framing my face, falling to my shoulders in a way I hope looks casual instead of rehearsed.

The makeup takes longer than it should. I wipe the eyeliner off three times before I settle on something simple. Just enough to make my eyes look bigger, my lips a shade darker than their natural pink.

It's not about dressing up for him. It's about making myself look like someone who could be wanted. Someone a stranger might approach and feel drawn to, if only for a few minutes.

I stare at myself in the mirror, hands smoothing the fabric over my hips. Mark says I'm beautiful, but that's his job. His bias. Looking at myself now, I feel... presentable. Acceptable, maybe.

But not sexy. Not the kind of woman who could pull this off.

I grab my purse, my phone, and head downstairs before I can change my mind.

Mark's sprawled on the couch, a beer sweating on the coffee table beside him. His eyes snap to me the second I step into the living room.

"You going out?"

"Yeah." My voice sounds strained, but I force myself to keep my chin up.

His gaze sweeps over me, that familiar mix of excitement and nerves flickering across his face. "You look... amazing."

"Thanks." I don't sound like I mean it, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Do you... want me to drive you?" His voice is eager, like he wants to be part of this even if it's only in some small, pathetic way.

"No. I'll be fine."

The disappointment shows, but he forces a smile. "Okay. Just... text me if anything happens."

"Yeah." I hesitate, fingers clutching the strap of my purse. "I'll text you."

It feels like I'm throwing him a bone, giving him something to cling to. And maybe I am.

I leave before the awkwardness can grow roots.

The bar is the same one I went to last time. Mark picked it out because it was just far enough from our neighborhood that I wouldn't bump into anyone I knew. That alone makes it feel wrong. Like an affair before an affair.

But it's got atmosphere. Dark wood, soft lighting, a few too many people packed in for me to feel entirely comfortable.

I slide onto a barstool, ordering a gin and tonic without even thinking about it. The bartender looks at me like he recognizes me, but he doesn't say anything.

I scan the room, my pulse humming at an uncomfortable frequency. It's not excitement. Not quite. More like a weird, jittery energy. An awareness of how this night is supposed to go, of what Mark wants me to do.

Maybe it's curiosity, though. Just a little. Wondering what it would feel like if someone walked up to me and started talking. If I could make them want me. Not the way Mark does--out of habit, routine, familiarity--but something sharp and immediate.

I'm not turned on. Not exactly. But the possibility of being wanted--of being seen--that has my nerves thrumming.

I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the cool burn settle me. Trying to keep myself from looking too eager. Too desperate.

I wonder if anyone's looking at me. If anyone even notices me sitting here, legs crossed and chin lifted like I've got some kind of confidence I know I don't.

I force myself to make eye contact with the bartender when he checks on me. Smile when he asks if I need another drink.

"Maybe in a bit."

He nods and moves on.

I shift on the stool, feeling my dress ride up just a little higher than I intended. Part of me wants to tug it down, to smooth it into something less suggestive. But I don't.

This is what Mark wants.

But is it what I want?

The question nags at me, but I push it aside. Tonight isn't about sorting out my feelings. It's about trying. About proving to Mark that I'm making an effort.

My eyes drift over the crowd. Couples leaning into each other, laughter and conversation blending with the low thrum of music. A few guys huddled around the pool table, their glances shifting toward me whenever they take a break to sip their beers.

One of them catches my eye. Not bad looking. Dark hair, broad shoulders. He grins at something one of his friends says but looks back at me like he's checking to see if I'm still watching.

I look away, feeling my cheeks warm. Maybe from embarrassment. Maybe from the drink.

But it's a start.

I take another sip, feeling that nervous energy settle into something almost manageable. Almost... exciting.

Maybe tonight won't be such a disaster after all.

I finish my first drink too fast. The gin and tonic slides down my throat, cool and crisp, the alcohol settling in my stomach like a lump of nerves. I can already feel it working, taking the edge off the discomfort but sharpening the rest of my senses.

The guys at the pool table have stopped glancing my way. One of them paired off with a girl who draped herself over him like a scarf, giggling at everything he said. The others are too absorbed in their game to notice anything else.

It's fine. I didn't want to talk to them anyway.

Another half hour goes by and still... nothing. I order another drink, but this time I pace myself, letting the ice melt and water it down until it tastes like something I can tolerate instead of something I'm hiding behind.

I try to make eye contact. Smile a little when someone's gaze sweeps over me. But it's like I'm invisible. No one approaches.

A slow bitterness starts to build in the back of my throat, thicker than the gin. Maybe Mark was wrong. Maybe I really can't do this.

Maybe it's me.

Maybe I'm just not the kind of woman who catches a man's attention. Not the kind who can play this game the way Mark wants me to. Not sexy. Not bold.

It's humiliating. And the more I think about it, the more desperate I feel.

I shift on my stool, uncrossing and crossing my legs like the movement alone might draw someone's eye. But it doesn't.

I'm just another woman sitting alone in a bar, waiting for something to happen. And it's starting to feel pathetic.

I check my phone. Nothing from Mark. Not even a curious text asking how it's going.

I consider sending him a picture, something to prove that I'm here, trying. But what's the point? He'll just ask how it's going and I'll have to admit that once again, it's not going anywhere.

A hollow, sinking feeling settles in my chest. My shoulders droop. I'm about ready to toss my drink and leave when I feel a presence at my side.

"Hey."

The voice is deeper than I expected, but there's a softness to it. Like he's trying not to startle me.

I look up and find a man standing beside me, his smile polite but too eager. He's tall, with thinning hair and the beginnings of a double chin. Not hideous, but not attractive either. Just... average. And not my type.

"Mind if I sit?" he asks, already pulling the stool out before I can respond.

"Sure." The word slips out before I can catch it.

"I'm Greg." He holds out a hand, and I shake it out of habit. His palm is sweaty, his grip overly firm like he's trying to project confidence.

"Carla."

"Nice to meet you, Carla." His eyes sweep over me, lingering just a little too long before settling back on my face. "I was starting to think I'd be the only one here drinking alone tonight."

I force a smile. "Guess not."

He orders a beer and doesn't waste time diving into conversation. Something about his job, his coworkers, the bullshit project he's working on. He laughs too much, like he's trying to make up for something.

I nod and make the right noises, but my attention keeps drifting. I'm barely listening, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass.

"You come here often?" he asks, his eyes glittering like he thinks the line is clever.

"Not really."

"Well, I'm glad I caught you tonight." His knee bumps against mine, not quite accidental but not aggressive either. Just a touch. Testing the waters.

I stiffen, but I don't pull away. Mark's voice echoes in my head. Just try, Carla. Just see where it goes.

Greg takes my silence as encouragement. He leans in closer, his arm braced against the back of my stool. I can smell his cologne--something too heavy and sharp.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he says, his eyes locked on my chest.

I want to tell him to fuck off. To stand up and leave without looking back. But I don't. Because this is what I'm here for, isn't it? To be noticed. To be wanted.

"Thanks." My voice sounds flat, but Greg doesn't seem to care.

"Can I buy you another drink?"

"I... sure."

He grins, flashing teeth that are slightly yellowed. I force myself to smile back.

The drink arrives and Greg keeps talking, his hand sliding onto my thigh at some point, like he's done it a hundred times before. His palm is clammy and warm, squeezing just a little harder than necessary.

I don't like it. But I don't stop him.

"Do you live around here?" he asks, his thumb rubbing circles just above my knee.

"Sort of."

"Maybe we could go somewhere quieter. My hotel's just down the street."

I flinch before I can catch myself. "I... I'm not sure about that."

He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. "Come on. Just for a little while. It'll be fun."

I can feel my pulse hammering against my ribcage, a rush of panic flooding my chest. This isn't what I wanted. Not like this. Not with him.

But I let him touch me. I let him keep talking, his hand slipping higher on my thigh, testing how far I'll let him go.

All I can think is, This is what Mark wanted.

Even if I can't stand the man touching me. Even if I feel sick to my stomach just letting it happen.

"Let me think about it," I say, my voice weak and unconvincing.

Greg's smile falters, but he nods. "Sure. Take your time."

He orders another drink, and I force myself to stay there, letting his hand rest on my thigh like it's perfectly natural.

I have no idea what I'm doing. But I can't bring myself to leave.

Greg finishes his beer and orders another one, even though I haven't touched my own drink in twenty minutes. His hand hasn't left my thigh, fingers drawing lazy circles over my skin that leave me cold instead of heated.

"So," he says, his voice dropping like he's trying to sound seductive. "You ready to get out of here?"

I force a smile, something I've been doing for so long tonight it's practically reflex. "I should probably head home."

"Come on," he presses, his thumb digging in a little harder. "You're really gonna call it a night already?"

The disappointment in his voice feels like another failure. Like I'm not just letting him down--I'm letting Mark down, too.

But this isn't fun. It's not thrilling. It's just awkward and uncomfortable and I feel myself pulling away from Greg even as he leans closer.

Still, I let him pay the tab. Let him walk me out of the bar, his hand lingering at the small of my back like he owns me.

"Which one's yours?" he asks as we step into the parking lot, the cool air brushing against my arms and making me shiver.

"Over there." I nod toward my car, my voice small.

"I'll walk you." He's not asking. Just guiding me along like he's entitled to it.

We reach my car and I fumble with my keys, my fingers trembling as I try to keep my breathing steady. Greg hovers too close, his body angled toward mine, blocking me from the rest of the world.

"It was nice meeting you," I say, hoping he'll take the hint.

But Greg's already leaning in, his hand slipping around my waist as he presses me back against the cool metal of the car. His mouth crashes against mine, his lips rough and too wet, his breath sour from the beer.

I gasp, the sound muffled by his kiss. My first instinct is to push him away, but my arms are pinned between us, and before I can even think to move, his hands are on me.

One grips my hip, fingers squeezing hard enough to leave marks. The other cups my breast, fingers clumsy and greedy, groping like he's trying to prove something.

I freeze. My mind blanks, panic splintering through me like ice.

But beneath the fear, there's something else. A tiny, twisted part of me that keeps thinking, Mark would be thrilled if he knew.

Greg's mouth trails down to my neck, his stubble scraping against my skin. "God, you're sexy," he mutters, his words thick and clumsy.

His hand tightens on my breast, thumb rubbing over my nipple through the fabric of my dress. I don't feel pleasure. Just pressure. Pressure from his touch, pressure from Mark's expectations, pressure from my own confusion about why I'm even letting this happen.

"Greg..." I try to say his name, but it comes out like a gasp.

He takes it as encouragement, his body pressing me harder against the car, his knee nudging between my thighs like he's trying to get even closer.

"I knew you were into me," he murmurs, his mouth hot against my ear. "You wouldn't have let me walk you out here if you weren't."

I want to tell him he's wrong. That I'm not into him at all. That this whole night has been a mistake. But the words stay stuck in my throat, tangled up with guilt and shame and that terrible, lingering thought of This is what Mark wanted.

Greg's hand slides down from my breast to my waist, his fingers digging in like he's trying to mold me to his body. His mouth finds mine again, and this time, I shove against his chest.

"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I intended, but it feels good to say it.

Greg pulls back, blinking at me like he's surprised I even said anything. "What's wrong?"

"I just... I have to go."

His expression shifts, annoyance flickering across his face before he forces a grin. "Come on, Carla. You don't have to be shy."

"I'm not being shy," I snap, my voice trembling. "I just... I need to go."

I push past him, wrenching the car door open and sliding into the driver's seat before he can say anything else. I can feel his eyes on me as I start the engine, but I don't look back.

I pull out of the parking lot, my hands shaking so badly I have to grip the wheel with both of them just to keep the car steady.

My chest feels tight. My skin prickles like it's still crawling from his touch. I can't tell if I'm disgusted or just disappointed.

But all I know is I need to get home. Away from Greg. Away from this place.

Away from everything.

I barely remember the drive home. My fingers stay clamped around the wheel, knuckles pale and aching by the time I finally pull into the driveway.

The house is dark except for the glow of the TV seeping through the curtains. I kill the engine, my heart thudding too hard and too fast. It's like I'm trying to hold in every thought, every feeling, all at once.

I walk through the front door, not even bothering to hang up my coat. Mark's on the couch, eyes locked on the screen but not really watching. He looks up the second I step inside.

"Hey," he says, his voice tight with anticipation. "You're home late."

"Yeah." I hover by the doorway, my purse clutched against my chest like some sort of shield.

He studies me, his gaze roaming over my body like he's searching for evidence of what happened. "Did you...?"

"I talked to someone."

His eyes sharpen. "Yeah?"

I nod, swallowing hard. "Yeah. His name was Greg."

"Was he... interested?" Mark's voice has that familiar edge, excitement sparking just beneath the surface.

"He walked me to my car."

A grin spreads across his face, wide and hungry. "What happened?"

I hesitate. Part of me wants to downplay it, to brush it off and pretend like it was nothing. But the way Mark's looking at me... he wants details. Needs them. And I know if I try to water it down, he'll just push for more.

"He kissed me," I say, my voice low and hollow. "Pinned me against the car. He... he groped me."

Mark's eyes go wide, his body tensing. "Did you let him?"

"Yes." I hear the guilt in my own voice, but it only seems to make Mark's excitement swell.

"Where did he touch you?"

"Everywhere." The word feels heavy on my tongue. "My breasts, my thighs... he pushed me against the car and just... touched me."

Mark's breathing shifts, deepening. His hand slides to his crotch, a motion so quick I almost don't catch it. But he's not hiding it. He's letting me see.

"Did he finger you?" The words come out harsh, almost demanding.

"No."

Mark's expression tightens. "Did you... did you suck him off?"

"No." My cheeks flush with embarrassment and something else. Shame, maybe. Disappointment.

"Why not?" Mark's voice rises, frustration simmering beneath his excitement.

"I... I couldn't. I didn't want to."

"You were right there, Carla." He sounds almost angry, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "You let him touch you. You let him push you against the car. Why didn't you just... do something?"

"I tried." My voice cracks. "But it felt wrong."

"It's supposed to feel wrong," he snaps, his eyes glinting with a hunger that borders on desperation. "That's the whole point. It's supposed to be dirty and... and fucked up."

"Mark, I--"

He's not listening. He's already unzipping his pants, his hand working his cock free. It's thicker than I've seen it in weeks, not fully hard but definitely responding to everything I just told him.

"Come here," he growls, his voice tight and urgent.

I hesitate, but he's already tugging at my arm, pulling me down to my knees in front of him. My knees hit the carpet, and my eyes fix on his cock, the way it twitches under his touch.

"Is this what you wanted?" I ask, my voice small.

"Yes." His hand curls around my hair, guiding me forward. "God, yes. Just... put your mouth on me."

I part my lips and take him into my mouth, the salt and heat of him flooding my senses. His fingers grip my hair, but not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to steer me, to make sure I'm doing exactly what he wants.

He's half-hard when I start, but the more I work him, the harder he gets. It's like the frustration I felt earlier has been transferred to him, turned into some twisted kind of arousal that makes him throb against my tongue.

"That's it," he groans, his hips shifting to press deeper into my mouth. "Fuck, Carla... just like that."

I try to focus, my tongue swirling over the head of his cock, my hand pumping at the base. It's clumsy, messy, but he doesn't care. He's lost in it, his head tipping back against the couch cushions as he groans through clenched teeth.

It doesn't take long. His hand tightens in my hair, his breathing coming out in shallow, ragged bursts.

"Fuck... I'm gonna..."

His hips buck and I feel him pulse against my tongue, hot and thick, filling my mouth before I can even think to pull away. I swallow out of reflex, the taste sharp and salty, his body shuddering as he comes down from it.

When I finally pull back, my lips feel swollen, my jaw sore. But Mark is grinning, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

"That... that was incredible."

I force myself to smile, even though my stomach feels like it's twisting into knots. "I'm glad."

"See? This is working. It's getting better." He looks so pleased with himself, so pleased with me, that I almost believe him.

But I can't shake the feeling that whatever just happened... it wasn't for me.

"Yeah," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "Better."

The week crawls by, each day dragging longer than the last. I go through the motions--work, chores, dinner with Mark--but everything feels warped. Strained.

Mark's in a good mood. Better than he's been in months. He comes home from work, whistles while he cooks, kisses my cheek like he's trying to prove something. To himself. To me.

I should be relieved. Happy, even. He's giving me the attention I kept wishing for, acting like things between us are suddenly back on track.

But it's not about us. It's about what happened Saturday night. About how he got off on me telling him some other man had his hands all over me.

He brings it up every night. A casual question over dinner, a lingering look while I'm folding laundry, a sudden touch when I'm just trying to brush my teeth.

"So... Greg," he says on Tuesday night, his voice light but probing. "Do you think he'd still be interested if you went back?"

"I don't know."

Mark's smile tightens, but he pushes on. "Maybe you should find out."

"What? You mean... go back there?"

"Or somewhere else." He shrugs, but his fingers drum restlessly against the table. "Maybe try something different. Somewhere with more... possibilities."

Possibilities. The word sends a shiver through me.

He keeps pushing. Nudging. Prodding. Until I find myself agreeing just to shut him up.

"Fine," I say one night as we lie in bed, his hand smoothing over my hip like he's trying to coax me into something. "I'll go out again. This weekend."

Mark's eyes flash with excitement. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I force the word out, feeling my stomach twist. "I'll... try somewhere new."

He's hard within seconds, his cock twitching against my thigh as he reaches for me. I let him slide inside me, but it feels distant. Like something I'm just letting him take.

He finishes quickly, his breathing heavy against my ear as he murmurs, "You're amazing, Carla. This is going to be so fucking good for us."

I nod, even though I'm not sure I believe him.

Saturday comes faster than I expected. Mark's all but vibrating with anticipation, his eyes glued to me every time I walk past him.

"I was thinking..." he says as I'm brushing my hair, the soft bristles dragging through tangled waves. "Maybe you could... you know. Dress a little sexier this time."

"Sexier?"

"Yeah. I mean, last time you looked great. But if you want someone to approach you, you need to... stand out."

I meet his gaze in the mirror, his face pinched with excitement and nervousness.

"Slutty, you mean."

"Not slutty." He tries to laugh it off, but it comes out tight. "Just... more inviting."

He has suggestions, of course. The black dress I wore last time wasn't enough, he says. It was too safe. Too plain.

"What about that red dress you bought for our anniversary?" he suggests. "The one you thought was too tight?"

"It is too tight."

"That's the point."

He's already rummaging through my closet before I can argue, pulling out the dress I haven't worn in years. It's scarlet and sinuous, clinging to every curve I have and then some. Thin straps, plunging neckline, hemline that skims high on my thighs.

Mark grins, his eyes gleaming. "You'll look amazing."

I stare at the dress, the way it drapes over his arm like some gaudy promise.

"Fine."

He's practically glowing when I slip it on later that evening. His hands roam over my body like he can't believe it's real.

"You're going to drive them crazy."

"Maybe."

"No, you will." His hand slides down to my ass, giving it a firm squeeze. "They won't be able to keep their hands off you."

He's already hard, the outline of his cock pressing against his jeans.

"I should go," I say, my voice a little too sharp.

"Where are you going tonight?"

"Someplace new."

He nods, his eagerness dulled only slightly by the realization that he won't be part of whatever happens next.

"You'll text me?" he asks.

"If anything happens," I promise, my fingers clutching my purse so tightly I can feel the leather creasing beneath my nails.

The place I pick is a bar Mark mentioned once in passing. Newer, trendier, with flashing neon lights and a dance floor that pulses with energy. It's loud and crowded, people pressed together like they're trying to melt into one another.

It's not my scene. Not even close. But Mark wanted possibilities. So here I am, feeling exposed and ridiculous in this skin-tight dress, my hair styled loose and tousled like I'm trying too hard.

I can feel eyes on me as I walk to the bar, my heels clicking against the polished floor. Some appreciative, some curious, some dismissive.

I order a drink--vodka this time, something strong and clean. Something to make me forget that I feel like a stranger in my own skin.

I stand at the edge of the dance floor, pretending to enjoy the music, pretending not to notice the way men's eyes drift over me and then flick away like they're not sure if I'm worth the effort.

It's exhausting. Trying to appear approachable. Trying to walk that impossible line between sexy and desperate.

But I keep thinking about Mark. About how much he needs this. About how his cock swelled in my mouth after I told him what Greg did to me.

This is what he wants.

So I stand there, drink in hand, eyes searching the crowd. Waiting for someone--anyone--to make a move.

And this time, I won't push them away.

The vodka warms me from the inside out, taking the sharpest edges off my nerves but leaving me hyperaware of everything else. The music, the press of bodies, the hungry eyes drifting over me and then moving on.

It's too loud, too crowded. But at least it's not as quiet and awkward as the last place. Here, I can pretend the noise and heat are part of the plan.

I linger at the bar longer than I should, sipping my drink and glancing at my phone like it's some kind of lifeline. I haven't texted Mark. I haven't even told him I got here. I know he's waiting, probably pacing the living room, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline of his own.

The dance floor pulses in front of me, bodies tangled together in a blur of skin and sweat. I watch them, trying to imagine myself in the middle of it. Grinding against a stranger, letting him press against me until all the awkwardness melts away.

But I can't.

I'm ready to call it a night when someone slides into the space beside me, moving with a kind of loose confidence that feels completely out of place.

"Hey," he says, his voice warm and boyish, with just enough depth to make it clear he's old enough to be here. Barely.

I glance over and find myself staring at someone who looks like he just stepped out of a college campus photo shoot. Tall, lean but athletic, with a chiseled jawline and messy dark hair that looks too perfect to be natural. He's got that effortless glow of youth, his skin smooth and tanned, his eyes bright and clear.

He's cute. Handsome, even. But in a way that feels... wrong. Like he's still too new to all of this, trying to play the part of the man he's not yet grown into.

"Hey," I reply, my voice more cautious than I intended.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asks, his grin flashing and charming in a way that makes my chest tighten. Not with excitement. With something else.

"Sure."

He waves over the bartender, orders two shots of tequila without asking what I want. The confidence is surprising, and for a second, I almost feel flattered.

"Shots?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Why not?" He shrugs, the movement careless and fluid. "Loosen up a little, right?"

I swallow my hesitation and nod. "Right."

The shots arrive, and he hands me one, his fingers brushing mine. They're warm and smooth, the kind of hands that haven't known the stiffness of age or the roughness of real work.

"Cheers." He clinks his glass against mine before tossing it back like it's nothing.

I follow his lead, the tequila scorching its way down my throat. It's not the kind of drink I enjoy, but I chase it with a sip of vodka and force myself to smile.

"I'm Dylan," he says, leaning in just a little closer. "What's your name?"

"Carla."

"Carla." He repeats it like he's tasting it. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too." I glance him over, still trying to figure him out.

He's young. Too young. Early twenties, maybe. But his posture, his smile, his eyes--they all scream experience. Like he's been doing this kind of thing for years.

And maybe he has.

"Do you come here a lot?" he asks, eyes fixed on me like he's genuinely interested.

"Not really."

"First time?"

"Yeah."

He grins. "Well, you definitely picked the right night. Place is packed."

"Yeah." My gaze drifts over the crowd, but I keep finding myself drawn back to him. The way he's looking at me. Like I'm exactly what he's been searching for.

"You here with friends?" he asks.

"No. Just... on my own."

He nods like he understands, but there's a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "Same. Just out trying to have a good time, you know?"

"Yeah."

We fall into an awkward silence, but Dylan doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't care. He's watching me like he's trying to read my mind, his grin widening as he leans in a little closer.

"You wanna dance?"

The question catches me off guard. "I'm... not much of a dancer."

"Doesn't matter." His voice is smooth, charming. Persistent. "Come on. It'll be fun."

I hesitate, but he's already reaching for my hand, tugging me away from the bar before I can argue.

The dance floor is a blur of motion and heat, the music thumping so hard I can feel it rattling my bones. Dylan's hands settle on my hips, pulling me in until our bodies are pressed together.

It feels good. Sort of. Not the way Mark would want me to describe it. But there's something thrilling about the way Dylan looks at me. His eyes locked on mine, his grin playful and eager.

He's too young. Too confident. Too willing to push me into his world without caring if I belong there.

But I let him guide me, our bodies moving in time with the music. His hands drift from my waist to my hips, his fingers flexing against the fabric of my dress.

"You're really fucking beautiful, you know that?" he says, his lips close to my ear.

I don't answer. Just keep moving, letting the alcohol and the music blur everything until it feels like I'm not even myself anymore.

"Wanna get some air?" he asks after a while, his voice breathless but eager.

I nod. Because saying no feels like giving up. And I'm not ready to do that.

He leads me outside, the cool air shocking against my flushed skin. We stand near the parking lot, away from the noise and the lights, his hands still on me like he's afraid I'll vanish if he lets go.

"You're a lot better at dancing than you think," he says, flashing me that boyish grin.

"Maybe."

"You wanna keep this going?" His voice is low, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my arm.

I know what he's asking. I can feel the pressure of his desire, the urgency of his youth.

The air outside is cool against my flushed skin as Dylan leads me to his truck. It's a beat-up old thing, dusty but functional, the kind of truck that looks like it's seen a hundred late nights just like this one.

"Sorry it's a mess," he says, flashing me a grin that's half-apology, half-smirk. "Guess I wasn't expecting to, uh... get this lucky."

He opens the door for me and I climb in, sliding across the bench seat. He follows, pulling the door shut behind him and immediately shifting toward me, his body crowding mine in a way that feels both thrilling and a little overwhelming.

He's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint trace of sweat mixed with cologne that's probably way too expensive for someone his age.

"You look amazing," he says, his gaze sweeping over me like he's trying to memorize every inch of skin. But it's not the mindless, groping hunger I expected. It's sharper, almost curious. "I mean, you're gorgeous, but there's something else, too. Like... you're confident. You've been around. You know what you're doing."

I laugh, but it comes out awkward and brittle. "You think so?"

"Yeah." He leans in, his knee nudging against mine. "Like, you're not some giggling college girl who's gonna freak out over every little thing. You've got... I don't know... experience. That's hot."

His words hit me harder than they should. I can feel my cheeks warming, my skin prickling with a mixture of embarrassment and something else. Something that feels like validation, but darker.

Experience. That's what he thinks I have. What he wants from me. Not just a woman who looks good, but one who knows how to make him feel good.

It's flattering, in a way. And also humiliating. Because he doesn't know the truth. That I'm just as unsure as any other woman fumbling her way through this kind of night.

"You must've driven guys crazy before," Dylan continues, his voice dropping lower. "You've got that look, you know? Like you know exactly what you're doing."

His hand slides up my thigh, his fingers brushing over the bare skin above my knee. I shiver, my body betraying me even as my mind screams that this is all wrong.

"I bet you know how to make a guy feel good." His lips find my neck, his mouth hot and eager, sucking at my skin like he's trying to draw something out of me. "Like... really good."

His hand creeps higher, fingers squeezing my thigh like he's testing my boundaries. But he doesn't seem worried about being pushed away.

"Bet you know all kinds of things," he murmurs, his breath fanning against my ear. "The kind of stuff most girls my age can't even imagine."

I shudder. Not from pleasure, exactly. From the way his words sink into me, threading together flattery and expectation until I can't tell one from the other.

"You like older women?" I ask, my voice shaky.

"Hell, yeah." His grin is sharp, almost predatory. "Girls my age are fun, sure, but they're clueless. You... you know how to get what you want. And how to give it."

He's wrong. But I don't correct him.

Instead, I let him push me back against the seat, his mouth finding mine with a hunger that feels almost worshipful. His hands roam over my body, pulling at the straps of my dress until my breasts spill free.

"Fuck..." he breathes, his eyes glued to my chest. "Yeah, you definitely know what you're doing."

I don't say anything. Just let him tug the dress down to my hips, leaving me exposed and half-naked in the dim light of the truck's cab.

His mouth closes around one of my nipples, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin with a kind of eagerness that feels both thrilling and overwhelming.

He's good. Not great. Too rough, too fast, but there's something about the way he's looking at me that makes me want to keep going. Like he really believes I'm this experienced, desirable woman who knows exactly what to do.

"God, you feel so good," he groans, his hands roaming over my breasts, squeezing and kneading with a hunger that borders on desperation. "Bet you've driven guys crazy before. Fucking ruined them."

I swallow hard, the words echoing in my head. Driven guys crazy. Maybe that's what Mark wants me to be. This fantasy of a woman who can seduce anyone, control them, make them desperate for more.

Dylan's fingers slide between my legs, pressing against me through the thin fabric of my thong. His touch is clumsy, but determined.

"You're so wet," he says, his voice a low growl. "Fuck, you must be really into this."

I can feel myself responding, my body betraying me even as my mind remains tangled in guilt and confusion.

He slips his fingers under the waistband of my thong, brushing over me with a roughness that makes me gasp.

"You've done this before, right?" he asks, his fingers moving faster, pressing harder. "Been with a guy in the backseat like this? Done all kinds of dirty shit?"

I don't answer. Because I know the truth would ruin whatever fantasy he's built up about me. And maybe part of me wants him to believe it. Wants to believe it myself.

He presses his fingers inside me, the motion too sudden, too forceful. I gasp, my back arching against the seat, my body reacting even as my mind screams that this isn't what I want.

But I let him keep going. Let him grope and kiss and whisper things in my ear that make my stomach twist with equal parts excitement and dread.

By the time he finally pulls back, his face flushed and his breathing ragged, I feel like I've been stripped raw. My dress is bunched around my waist, my thong somewhere lost in the shadows of the truck.

"Fuck, that was hot," Dylan says, wiping his mouth like he's just finished a meal. "You're seriously amazing."

I pull my dress down, my fingers trembling as I try to cover myself. "I have to go."

"What? Already?"

"I just... I need to go."

He watches me scramble out of the truck, his confusion melting into frustration. "Whatever. Your loss."

I don't look back. I just climb into my own car and drive away, my skin prickling with the memory of his touch.

The house is dark when I get home. Mark must've turned off all the lights, the only glow coming from the hallway where our bedroom door is cracked open.

I push the door open and find him sitting on the edge of the bed, his phone clutched in his hand like it's some kind of lifeline. His face snaps up the moment he sees me, his eyes wild and hungry.

"You didn't text me." The accusation spills out before I even get the chance to explain myself.

"I was... distracted." My voice is thin, stretched tight by nerves and exhaustion.

"Distracted?" His fingers twitch around his phone, his eyes raking over me like he's trying to figure out what I did, who I did it with. "You couldn't even bother to let me know you were okay?"

"I'm fine, Mark." I step into the room, feeling my legs tremble beneath me. "Everything's fine."

He gets to his feet, his movements sharp and tense. "So? What happened?"

I hesitate, but I can already see the impatience flickering across his face. If I don't give him something, he'll just keep pushing.

"There was a guy," I say, my voice trembling. "He was... young. Too young. But he was into me. Really into me."

Mark's eyes widen, his breathing shifting. "How young?"

"I don't know. Early twenties, maybe. He thought I was... experienced. That I could show him things."

Mark lets out a low groan, his hand moving almost unconsciously to his crotch. I can see him straining against his jeans, that raw hunger lighting up his expression.

"What happened?" he demands, his voice thick with need.

I force myself to keep talking, to give him what he wants. "He brought me to his truck. We made out... he pulled my dress down, touched me. He... he fingered me."

Mark's face twists, a mix of excitement and something darker. "Did you touch him?"

"No."

"Did you suck him off?"

"No."

His eyes narrow, his fingers flexing at his sides like he's trying to grab something that's not there. "Why the hell not?"

"Mark, I couldn't just--"

"You were halfway there," he snaps, his voice cracking. "Fuck, Carla. You let him finger you, but you wouldn't even return the favor?"

I flinch, the harshness of his tone slicing through me. "It didn't feel right."

"It's not supposed to feel right!" His voice rises, his frustration bubbling over. "It's supposed to feel dirty and wrong and... and exciting."

He's pacing now, his fists clenching and unclenching like he's trying to get a grip on his own anger.

"I tried," I say, my voice breaking. "I did what you wanted."

"No. You half-assed it. You're still holding back." His eyes blaze, his frustration twisting into something that feels dangerous. "What the fuck do you think we're doing here, Carla? Playing pretend?"

"I'm doing this for you," I snap, my own anger surging up to meet his. "You're the one who wanted this. You're the one who kept pushing me."

"And you can't even go through with it."

The words hang in the air, heavy and accusing. Mark's breathing is ragged, his chest heaving as he stares at me like I've failed some impossible test.

He takes a step toward me, his gaze dropping to my legs, my dress still wrinkled and pulled awkwardly around my hips.

"Did you at least fuck him?" he asks, his voice low and trembling.

"No."

He lets out a harsh, frustrated laugh. "God, Carla... you're killing me."

I open my mouth to argue, to defend myself, but he's already moving. His hands latch onto my shoulders, spinning me around until my chest is pressed against the back of the couch.

"Mark--"

"Shut up." His voice is a growl, his fingers clawing at the hem of my dress, yanking it up over my hips with a force that makes me gasp.

I brace myself against the couch, my palms flat against the soft fabric as Mark's hands roam over my bare ass. His touch is rough, demanding.

"No panties." His voice is thick, broken. "Did he take them off?"

"Yes." The word comes out in a choked whisper.

"Goddamn..." His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me back until my body arches against him. "You're such a fucking tease."

I want to argue, to push him away, but the moment his cock presses against me, all the words scatter.

He thrusts into me with a force that makes me cry out, the suddenness of it sending a shockwave through my body. There's no gentleness, no hesitation. Just raw, desperate need.

He fucks me hard, his hands gripping my hips so tightly I know they'll leave bruises. His breathing is ragged, his words coming out in broken, filthy fragments.

"You let him touch you..." he snarls, his thrusts coming faster, deeper. "You let him fuck you with his fingers, but you couldn't even finish him off."

"I'm sorry," I gasp, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "I tried."

"Try harder." His voice is savage, his cock slamming into me with a brutality that feels almost punishing.

My fingers dig into the couch cushions, my body trembling beneath him. But there's something else there, too. Something dark and twisted and sick that feels like... pride.

He's finally hard for me. He's finally wanting me.

It's a victory, even if it feels like I'm being torn apart.

Mark groans, his body jerking against me as he comes, his hips slamming into me one final time before he collapses against my back.

I can feel him trembling, his breath hot against my neck as he tries to catch his breath. But he doesn't say anything.

He just pulls away, leaving me crumpled against the couch, my body sore and aching and slick with sweat.

I don't move. Just stay there, my dress still bunched around my hips, my hair tangled and wild.

Part of me wants to scream at him. Part of me wants to sob until my throat is raw.

But another part of me--maybe the sickest part--feels something close to satisfaction.

Because I did what he wanted. I made him feel something.

And even if it left me feeling broken, at least it was something.