Weaponized

[I was not going to write this. Then I did. Please enjoy.]

(Night. Still humid. They've both showered, but neither's really unwound.)

Emily dried her hair in rough, impatient strokes. The towel slapped against her back with every movement. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror -- pink-cheeked, damp at the temples, a little wild-eyed -- and looked away before she could think too hard about it.

Mark was already in bed, propped up against the pillows with his laptop glowing on his thighs. Some blog article. Some rabbit hole. His mouth was pursed in that way it always was when he was reading something he thought might make him smarter.

She climbed in next to him, the bed dipping. He didn't look up.

"What's so interesting?" she asked, tucking her knees up to her chest, hugging them without meaning to.

"Some article about the whole alpha/beta thing." He tilted the screen toward her -- The Myth of the Alpha Male: Why Power Isn't What You Think. "Apparently it's all crap. Wolves don't even work like that. It's just families."

Emily snorted. "No kidding."

He smiled, closed the laptop, set it on the nightstand with a soft thunk. "Kind of hilarious, right? Half the internet trying to figure out if they're 'alpha' enough to get laid. Turns out they just need... good parenting skills?"

She laughed -- a little too loudly, a little too brittle.

Mark caught it. His eyes softened. "You okay?"

She shrugged, pulling the covers higher. "Just tired. And maybe a little sick of all the -- " she waved a hand vaguely, searching for the word, " -- posing. All the pretending."

"Yeah," he said. "Makes you wonder what real power looks like, doesn't it?"

There was a note in his voice she wasn't used to. Something low and unguarded.

She leaned back against the headboard, feeling the coolness of the wood through her damp hair. "You think it's strength? Money? Looks?"

Mark hesitated. His hand toyed with a loose thread on the comforter. "I think... it's making someone feel something they can't explain."

Emily turned her head, looking at him. Really looking.

Something twisted low in her gut. She knew -- knew -- that he wasn't talking about himself.

"Like--" she started, but her voice cracked, and she had to start again. "Like how Antoine just walks into a room and everyone... feels it."

Mark nodded. His face was tight, but he wasn't looking away. "Exactly."

Silence ballooned between them. Thick, unspeakable.

She felt herself sliding down into something she hadn't meant to name. Into wanting things she hadn't dared even daydream about when she was younger and "good."

"You feel it too," she said quietly. Not accusing. Not surprised.

Mark's smile was small. Bitter. "Hard not to."

A beat. Two. The air between them felt wet somehow. Charged.

"I feel it," Emily whispered. Her heart kicked against her ribs like it was trying to escape.

Mark's hand slid up, almost automatically, resting on her knee under the covers. A comforting gesture that, somehow, felt like a white flag.

"I don't want to," she said.

"I know," he said.

Her throat was dry. Her skin was hot. She wanted -- fuck, she wanted --

"I don't think it's about being alpha," she said. "I think it's about... being willing to take. To have. Without asking."

Mark nodded again. His voice, when it came, was almost inaudible.

"Maybe that's what I can't do," he said. "Maybe that's what you need."

The words hit her like a slap and a caress at once. Her whole body shivered, treacherously, and she hated herself for it even as she craved more.

"I don't want to hurt you," she said.

"I don't want you to lie to yourself," he answered.

Her hand found his. Gripped it tightly.

They sat there, two bodies pressed side by side, each shaking with things they hadn't yet dared to confess aloud. Mark, aching to hold on. Emily, aching to let go.

She didn't say anything else that night.

Didn't need to.

Her thighs were slick under the covers. She could feel it -- the restless pulse of it -- the way her whole center ached, greedy and wet, just from talking about it. About Antoine. About taking, being taken, being seen.

Mark shifted beside her, the mattress groaning, and she caught the barest shape of him through the sheets -- the soft, familiar bulge of him, half-hard, clueless.

Her mouth was dry. Her skin was screaming.

She rolled over him without warning, one knee thrown across his lap, her cotton panties dragging wetly over his stomach. Mark sucked in a breath, startled -- "Em?" -- but she shut him up with her mouth on his, a kiss too deep, too needy to be mistaken for anything but what it was.

He didn't ask questions. He never did.

She shoved his boxers down just enough, pawing at him, at herself, her fingers clumsy with the urgency sparking in her blood. His cock was already swelling -- four inches, maybe a little more if she willed it -- but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough again. And still she needed it.

Needed him.

Needed someone.

She sank onto him in a messy, graceless shove, grinding herself down until he was buried in her heat. She didn't wait. Didn't pause. Rode him with short, desperate jerks, chasing the pressure building at the base of her spine like it was a fire she could only put out by burning through it.

Mark groaned under her, his hands gripping her hips, trying to guide her, soothe her -- but she batted him away, planted her palms on his chest, used him.

Her clit throbbed with every grind of her hips. Sweat slid down the valley of her back. The sheets tangled around her calves.

She didn't want tenderness. She didn't want love.

She wanted to cum.

And she did -- with a low, broken gasp, her nails clawing into his skin, her body wracked with wave after wave of blinding, furious pleasure.

Mark came too, shuddering helplessly under her, but she barely noticed.

By the time he tried to pull her down to cuddle, she was already turning away, sliding off him, curling into herself with the sheets twisted between her thighs, sticky and trembling and hollow.

Neither of them said a word.

The room stank of sex and something worse:

The knowledge that this was just the beginning.

Emily woke tangled in damp sheets, her thigh stuck to the mattress where they'd sweated through the night. Her body ached.

Not the pleasant kind.

The used-up, too-fast, not-right kind.

Mark was already up, moving around in the kitchen -- she could hear the faint clatter of a spoon against a ceramic mug, the soft hum of the fridge door opening and closing.

She pressed her palms against her eyes, hard, until the darkness exploded with starbursts.

It didn't help.

Memory wasn't in her eyes. It was everywhere -- in the sore clench of her thighs, the rawness between her legs, the way her heart stuttered when she thought about how she'd taken him last night. How she'd used him.

Not for him.

Not for them.

For the ghost of another man.

Her stomach turned. She rolled out of bed, her feet hitting the floorboards too hard, too loud. Her panties were still damp, sticky against her skin, and the smell of herself -- of sex, of need -- rose up when she stood.

She stripped them off in a vicious tug and threw them in the hamper.

Showered under water as hot as she could stand, scrubbing herself like she could wash the thoughts away.

It didn't work.

They clung.

Every memory was a knife:

The way her hips had snapped against Mark's, frantic, chasing her own pleasure.

The way she hadn't even tried to kiss him after.

The way she'd lain there afterward, hollow and burning, thinking about someone else's mouth. Someone else's hands.

She dried off mechanically, wrapped herself in her robe, padded into the kitchen barefoot.

Mark smiled at her -- small, cautious -- and slid a mug of coffee across the counter.

"Morning," he said, voice warm, easy.

She wanted to slap it out of his hands.

She wanted to scream How can you be so fucking nice to me after that?

She wanted to crawl back into bed and never get up again.

Instead, she wrapped her hands around the mug and forced herself to smile back.

"Morning."

Mark watched her over the rim of his own cup. His eyes were softer than she deserved. Curious. Maybe even a little... proud?

Like he liked that she'd lost control.

Like he wanted her like that -- messy, desperate, half-destroyed.

The thought made her stomach knot tighter.

She drank her coffee too fast. Burned the roof of her mouth. Deserved it.

He leaned against the counter, casual, one foot crossed over the other, and said, almost lightly, "You were wild last night."

Her cheeks burned. She stared into her mug like it had answers.

"I... I'm sorry," she muttered.

Mark laughed, a short, surprised sound. "Sorry? Why?"

Because it wasn't about you.

Because I wasn't thinking about you.

Because I used you like a fucking toy and it made me cum harder than I ever have in my life.

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Mark stepped closer, brushed a damp lock of hair off her forehead. His touch was feather-light. Reverent.

"You don't have to be sorry," he said softly. "I liked it."

Something in her twisted. Hard.

She forced herself to meet his eyes -- really meet them -- and saw it there.

The want.

The fear.

The permission.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to fuck someone so hard it broke the world open.

Instead, she nodded. Smiled like a good wife. Finished her coffee.

And all the while, the guilt gnawed at her, a hot, needy little animal chewing holes in her chest.

Emily saw him by the produce section.

It was so stupidly normal it made her feel like she'd stepped into a bad dream -- Antoine, standing by a pyramid of avocados, squeezing one thoughtfully, his thumb pressing into the pebbled skin.

He was wearing a black t-shirt, faded jeans, and sunglasses pushed up onto his head. The casual look of someone who belonged anywhere.

Like the universe had invented him that morning just to fuck with her.

He hadn't seen her yet. She could have turned away, ducked down another aisle.

But she didn't.

She stood there, hands wrapped too tight around the handle of the shopping cart, and let herself look.

His body moved differently than other men's -- loose, like gravity owed him favors.

His arms flexed casually when he hefted a melon, checking the weight.

He frowned at a price tag, a little crease forming between his brows.

He smiled -- that low, lazy smile -- at some woman passing by, and Emily watched the woman's whole posture change. Chest out, hips cocked, unconsciously inviting.

Emily burned with it.

Jealousy?

Hunger?

Both?

Finally he noticed her.

His smile widened, easy, unbothered.

"Hey," Antoine said, just that, like they'd run into each other a dozen times before.

"Hey," Emily answered, her voice a little too bright, a little too sharp. Her heart hammered in her throat.

He glanced into her cart. "Stocking up?"

"Trying to," she said. "Mark eats like a teenage boy."

Antoine laughed. God, even that -- the sound of it -- curled in her gut like smoke.

"You doing okay?" he asked, not intrusive, just... there. Solid as hell.

"Yeah," she lied. "You?"

"Always."

Another smile. Another little tilt of his head. Like he was letting her off the hook without ever putting her on it.

And that was it.

No touch. No linger. No invitation.

Just two people talking about groceries under too-harsh fluorescent lights.

He turned away first, whistling under his breath as he strolled toward the frozen foods.

Emily stood there for a long moment, her fingers numb on the cart handle, before finally moving again.

Later that night

Mark was brushing his teeth when she mentioned it.

Casual, tossed out like she barely remembered.

"Saw Antoine at the store today."

He paused, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. Spit and mint foam gathering at the corners of his lips.

"Oh yeah?" he mumbled around the brush.

"Yeah," she said, stripping off her jeans, pulling on an old college t-shirt. "Just said hi."

Mark rinsed, spat, wiped his mouth on the towel.

There was a tightness in his shoulders she didn't want to look too closely at.

"Good guy," he said finally, voice too light.

Was he encouraging her?

Was he pretending not to notice?

Was he hoping she'd say more?

Was he dying inside?

She didn't know.

Worse:

She didn't care.

She climbed into bed without another word, feeling his eyes on her back.

The guilt was still there, sour and thick in her throat.

But it was quieter now.

Easier to ignore.

Like a bruise you could press just to feel something.

She closed her eyes and dreamed of hands that had never touched her.

Yet.

The sun was bleeding pale light through the curtains when Emily woke.

For a long moment she just lay there, cocooned in warmth and Mark's familiar breathing, the weight of the blankets heavy on her hips. The world was still, hushed, waiting.

She turned toward him without thinking.

Found him sprawled on his back, hair messy, mouth open slightly, defenseless in sleep.

Her stomach twisted.

Last night. The grocery store.

Antoine's smile.

Mark's smile.

Her own blank, hungry, horrible heart.

It throbbed between her legs -- an ache, stupid and needy -- before she could stop it.

She slid her hand under the covers, slow, deliberate. Palmed the soft skin of his stomach, the faint trail of hair leading down.

He stirred but didn't wake fully.

His cock was already hard -- not fully, not urgently, but enough. Enough for now.

Emily pushed the covers down, shifted her bare thigh over him, straddling his hips without ceremony.

Mark grunted, half-laughing, half-sighing, his hands coming up instinctively to hold her waist.

She guided him inside her with one hand, hissing softly at the fit -- too small, always just a little too small -- but familiar.

Comfortable.

Home.

She rocked against him lazily, not rushing, savoring the slow grind of friction. Her body was awake now, hungry, grateful for any kind of touch.

Mark opened his eyes, smiling up at her -- sleepy, adoring.

She smiled back, a little brokenly.

And somewhere in that easy rhythm, she heard herself say it:

"God, you're so small inside me this morning," she murmured, almost fond.

She didn't even think about it.

It just slipped out, raw and soft as breath.

Mark blinked -- just once -- then smiled.

Not hurt.

Not humiliated.

He smiled inwardly, like he was savoring a secret.

Emily faltered for a half-second -- her hips stuttering -- but he smoothed his hands up her thighs, encouraging her back into motion.

Telling her without a word that it was okay.

That he liked it.

The realization made her pussy clench hard around him, unexpected, electric.

Mark felt it too. His mouth fell open a little, wonder and want flooding his face.

She moved faster then -- not because she needed to, but because she needed it over.

Needed to cum and forget.

Needed to blot out the guilt, the memory, the knowing.

She chased her orgasm ruthlessly, grinding down hard, using him again.

Mark came first, gasping and clutching her hips, but she kept riding him until she came too -- sharp, messy, mean.

Afterward she collapsed against his chest, breathless, her heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape her body.

Mark stroked her back in slow, lazy arcs.

Content.

Oblivious.

Or pretending to be.

Emily closed her eyes and tried not to cry.

Not because of him.

Because of herself.

Because somewhere deep down, she realized:

She liked making him small.

She liked feeling too much for him.

And she was already imagining what it would feel like to be stretched wide, filled properly, taken by someone who wouldn't smile so sweetly afterward.

She was already gone.

She just hadn't left yet.

It started after breakfast.

Emily was curled up on the couch, thumbing through her phone, pretending not to watch Mark out of the corner of her eye.

He was doing the dishes, sleeves pushed up, hands slick and competent under the spray of the faucet.

He wasn't ripped. Wasn't dominant.

But he was hers.

The ache between her legs from that morning hadn't faded.

If anything, it had deepened. Thickened.

A sour, restless need that no amount of domestic peace could touch.

Mark dried his hands, turned, leaned back against the counter.

"You ever think about it?" he asked, voice almost casual.

Emily blinked. "About what?"

He shrugged, a little too loose, a little too careful.

"You know. Someone else."

A pause.

"While we're together."

She sat up a little straighter.

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. In her throat. Lower.

"Why are you asking?"

Mark smiled -- that crooked, private smile he sometimes wore when he was teasing her under the table at restaurants.

"Just curious."

Emily licked her lips, heart pounding. "You mean... cheating?"

He shook his head. "No. Not cheating. Not... lying."

Another beat.

"I mean with me knowing. Watching. Wanting you to."

The words hung there, obscene and beautiful.

Emily's whole body prickled with electricity.

It wasn't just the suggestion.

It was him saying it.

Giving it.

Handing her the leash and daring her to run.

She swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry.

"You want me to?" she whispered.

Mark pushed off the counter, crossed the room in two strides, and sat beside her. Close. Solid.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture so tender it made her ache.

"I want to see you the way you deserve to be seen," he said.

Low. Honest. Hungry.

Emily shivered.

He kept going, his voice steady even as his hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees.

"I want to see you glow, Em. I want to see someone lose their mind over you. I want to watch you take what you deserve -- all that power, all that beauty -- and know you chose me to come home to."

Her throat closed up. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to come, violently, just from the permission in his voice.

"I don't want to lose you," he said.

"And I won't."

Another pause.

"I just want the leash... longer."

Emily closed her eyes. Her body swayed toward him, helpless.

She thought of Antoine.

Of his hands. His mouth.

Of Mark watching. Wanting.

It should have made her ashamed.

Instead, it made her wet.

When she spoke, her voice was barely a thread.

"What if I can't... stop?" she whispered.

Mark smiled.

Not cruel. Not scared.

Proud.

"Then I'll follow you wherever you go," he said.

"And when you're done burning the world down, you'll find me right behind you, waiting."

Emily let out a shaky breath.

Laughed, a little, broken and giddy.

She threw her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and for the first time in weeks, months, maybe ever, she felt free.

Free to be wanted.

Free to want.

And deep inside, a new hunger unfurled:

The hunger to be worth that devotion.

To become something big enough, terrible enough, to deserve it.

It was just a stupid gym cookout.

Grilled chicken, lukewarm beer, too many jokes about macros and deadlifts.

Mark insisted they go -- said it would be "good to get out," that it would be "good for her."

She should have known something was up when he kept glancing at her while she got dressed.

Nervous energy.

Wired, like a man about to handcuff himself to a grenade.

She pulled a simple sundress out of the closet -- pale blue, loose, safe. She tossed it onto the bed and reached for a bra.

Mark cleared his throat.

"You could wear something... else," he said, almost shyly.

Emily raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Like what?"

He moved to the dresser, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out a top she hadn't worn in years -- a little black cami, low-cut, the fabric worn thin enough that nipples would ghost through if the light hit it right.

And jeans.

Tight ones.

The ones that clung to her hips like second skin and made her ass look indecent even when she wasn't trying.

She stared at the clothes in his hands.

Then at him.

"You serious?"

He nodded.

A little color rose in his cheeks, but he didn't flinch.

"I want..." He stopped, gathered himself. "I want you to be looked at."

She crossed her arms. "By who?"

"Everyone." His voice was low. Steady. Sure. "I want them to see you and hunger. I want them to know what I have."

Emily's stomach flipped.

It should have felt insulting. Like being offered up. Like being pimped out.

But it didn't.

It felt like being lit up.

Like being worshiped.

Like he was stripping her out of her guilt and dressing her in something better -- glory.

She hesitated, hands twisting in the hem of the sundress she hadn't put on yet.

"You really want that?" she asked, and hated how small her voice sounded.

Mark stepped closer, crowding her gently against the edge of the bed.

He laid the clothes down beside her.

Brushed his fingers up her arm, light as breath.

"I want them to look at you," he said.

"And I want you to look back."

Emily's heart thundered against her ribs.

Her thighs pressed together, seeking friction.

"And when they stare," Mark murmured, leaning close enough that his words warmed her ear, "you'll know you're mine."

A shiver raced through her, helpless and hot.

She reached for the cami with trembling fingers.

Pulled it on over bare skin.

No bra.

The fabric clung to her nipples instantly, the cool air of the room making them stiffen, obvious.

Mark's eyes darkened.

She shimmied into the jeans next -- struggling a little, biting her lip -- and when she turned to face him, the look on his face made her legs go weak.

Reverent.

Amazed.

Ravenous.

She caught him in the hallway, right before he could grab his keys.

One minute he was turning to reach for his wallet -- and the next her body was pressing into his from behind, arms snaking around his waist, mouth finding the warm skin at the back of his neck.

Mark froze.

Let out a shaky laugh.

"Em," he warned, but it was too late.

She slid her hands down, palming him through his jeans. He was already half-hard -- maybe from the sight of her in that goddamn top, maybe just from breathing the same air.

Emily pressed her hips against his ass, grinding slowly, hungrily.

"Mark," she whispered, teeth scraping the shell of his ear. "Please."

She was dripping for him -- she could feel it, the hot slickness between her thighs, the wild pulse of her body begging for more.

For anything.

He turned around, caught her wrists gently in his hands, held them still against his chest.

Her eyes were glassy, desperate, pupils blown wide.

"You want me to fuck you right now?" he murmured, smiling like he already knew the answer.

She nodded, frantic, grinding against his thigh. "God, yes."

Mark leaned down, kissed her forehead -- soft, reverent -- and pulled away.

"No."

Emily blinked up at him, stunned.

He smiled, slow and wicked.

"I want you hungry," he said.

"I want you dripping all night."

"I want every man there to smell you before they even see you."

Emily made a soft, wounded noise in the back of her throat.

Mark stroked his thumb over the inside of her wrist, tender.

"You'll be a mess by the time we get home," he promised.

"And then you'll get everything you want."

She stared at him, breathing hard, every nerve in her body screaming.

Her pussy clenched, leaking hotter, wetter.

The denial didn't calm her.

It set her on fire.

Mark tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, kissed her once -- chastely -- and stepped away, grabbing his keys and wallet like it was just any other Sunday.

Emily stood there shaking, thighs slick, heart pounding against her ribs.

By the time they walked out the front door, she was so keyed up she could barely walk straight.

Every step in those tight jeans was friction.

Every glance in the mirror was proof that she was alive.

Unstoppable.

And somewhere inside, deeper than the hunger, deeper than the guilt, she knew:

This night would change everything.

The cookout was chaos.

Plastic tables sagging under the weight of burgers and potato salad, gym rats flexing out of habit, kids shrieking, cheap music blaring from somebody's bluetooth speaker.

Emily barely noticed any of it.

She was too aware of herself.

Of the thin stretch of fabric over her tits, the way every step made the denim saw against the slick heat between her legs.

Of the way men -- and a few women -- turned their heads when she passed.

It wasn't crude.

It wasn't catcalling.

It was worse.

It was hunger.

Bare-faced and raw.

The kind you didn't speak out loud because it was too big.

Mark stayed close. Always a step behind or beside her, hand resting lightly on the small of her back like a brand.

He made small talk, laughed at bad jokes, accepted a red plastic cup of beer from a trainer she barely knew.

But Emily could feel the tension thrumming off him like a struck chord.

She caught him once, when he thought she wasn't looking -- adjusting himself casually in his jeans, cock straining the fabric, leaking precome into the cotton.

Hard for her.

Hard for what he was doing to her.

It should have embarrassed her.

Instead, it made her thighs clench harder around the pulse of her own need.

By the time the sun started dipping behind the trees, painting everything in gold, Emily was ready to fucking snap.

That's when she saw him.

Antoine.

Leaning against a picnic table, laughing at something Brad Martin said.

Beer in one hand.

T-shirt tight across his chest.

Looking like he could tear the world apart without breaking a sweat.

Emily froze.

Mark felt it -- of course he did -- and glanced where she was looking.

Then, calmly, deliberately, he took a step back.

Just one.

Not much.

Barely a shift.

But it cracked something inside her.

She felt it ripple out of her like a signal -- here I am. Here I am. Take me.

And Mark -- her sweet, loyal, brilliant Mark -- was stepping aside to let it happen.

Not pushing.

Not selling.

Just... offering.

Emily started walking before she even realized she was moving.

Antoine caught her eyes mid-laugh.

Stopped laughing.

The air between them thickened, slow and syrupy.

"Hey," he said, low and easy, like he hadn't just sucked the breath out of her lungs.

"Hey," she said back, voice too soft.

Mark hovered for a heartbeat -- polite, attentive -- then clapped Antoine lightly on the shoulder, grinning.

"Watch out for her," he joked. "She's dangerous when she's had two beers."

Antoine laughed, warm and easy, but his eyes never left Emily's.

Mark stepped away.

Joined another knot of people.

Never looked back.

Emily stayed.

Held Antoine's gaze.

Felt herself burning down to the bone.

And though no one said it, not out loud, not even in a whisper --

The offering had been made.

And the claiming would come.

They stood just a little too close to the beer cooler.

Too close for two married people and a man who hadn't yet been given the full truth.

Too close for Emily's sanity.

Antoine was asking about her workout routine.

Or her job.

Or something equally safe.

She couldn't fucking hear him over the roar of her blood in her ears.

All she could do was watch the way his mouth moved.

Slow. Deliberate.

Words unspooling like silk she wanted to wrap around her wrists.

She laughed at something he said -- too loud, too eager -- and clapped a hand over her mouth, cheeks flaming.

Antoine smiled.

Not at the joke.

At her.

Like he could taste her nerves.

Like he liked it.

"You always this shy?" he asked, voice low and warm.

Emily dropped her hand, wiped it against her thigh, sudden, fidgety.

"Maybe just around you," she said before she could stop herself.

Antoine's smile widened, slow and lazy and aware.

"That so?"

She nodded. Swallowed hard.

Her throat felt raw.

Antoine shifted his weight -- not much, just enough that his body brushed against hers. Not quite a touch.

Not quite an accident.

She felt it like a fucking lightning strike.

Her nipples stiffened painfully under the thin fabric of the cami.

Her thighs clenched.

He saw it.

She knew he did.

But he didn't push.

Didn't crowd her.

Didn't take.

He just was.

And that made it so much worse.

So much better.

"What about you?" she managed, her voice thinner than she wanted it to be. "Always this charming?"

He chuckled, and the sound rumbled through her like a slow tide.

"Only when it matters," he said.

Their eyes locked.

The world fell away -- the tables, the cheap music, the stink of beer and sweat and grilled meat -- all of it gone, nothing left but him and her and the wildfire snapping between them.

For one long, suspended second, Emily forgot about Mark.

Forgot about her marriage.

Forgot about her own name.

She belonged to the man standing inches away, smiling at her like he could already feel her thighs trembling.

And Antoine -- beautiful, dangerous Antoine -- didn't even know he'd been chosen.

Yet.

Mark's laughter floated from somewhere across the yard.

It snapped her back to herself like a slap.

Emily stepped back, heart pounding, forcing a smile that tasted like blood.

"I should..." she gestured vaguely, turning away before she could say something unforgivable.

Antoine didn't chase her.

He didn't need to.

The hook was already buried deep in her ribs.

The car was too quiet.

Too dark.

Too small.

Emily sat with her knees pressed tightly together, her palms slick against the denim stretched over her thighs.

Every bump in the road made her clit throb.

Every glance from Mark made her skin prickle.

He was humming under his breath -- a little nothing tune, casual, careless -- but she could feel the tension in him, thick and electric.

Could see the stiff line of his cock pressing against his jeans.

She squirmed in her seat, restless and wild, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from whimpering.

Mark finally glanced over at her, his smile lazy, wicked.

"You looked good tonight," he said, like he was talking about the weather.

Emily swallowed hard. Her throat was dry.

"Thanks," she managed.

Mark tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Then, casually:

"Did you notice how big he was?"

Her whole body jolted.

Mark kept his eyes on the road, like he hadn't just dropped a fucking bomb in her lap.

Emily stared at him, heat flushing her face, her chest, the tops of her thighs.

"I --" she started, then stopped.

Mark's smile widened.

"You did," he said, satisfied.

Emily slumped back against the seat, humiliated and wet and aching.

She hadn't meant to.

She hadn't even realized.

But the memory flashed up hot and merciless:

The lazy hang of Antoine's cock inside his jeans, heavy and thick, obscene even without trying.

The way the fabric had pulled tight when he'd shifted, the unmistakable weight of him swinging slightly with the motion.

The casual arrogance of it -- like he carried a loaded weapon and didn't even bother to hide it.

Emily pressed her thighs together harder, a useless, desperate gesture.

Mark's hand slid off the steering wheel and rested lightly on her thigh.

"You liked it," he murmured.

Not accusing.

Not hurt.

Hungry.

Emily bit her lip until she tasted blood.

She shook her head -- lying -- because she couldn't speak the truth out loud yet.

Couldn't say, Yes, God, yes, it made me want to crawl to him.

Mark squeezed her thigh, slow and firm, thumb tracing little circles through the denim.

"It's okay," he said, voice low and rough. "I like that you noticed."

Emily made a soft, wrecked sound -- half sob, half moan.

Mark just smiled.

Turned up the radio.

Rolled down the windows a crack.

The cool night air rushed in, prickling against her burning skin.

But it couldn't cool her.

Nothing could.

By the time they pulled into the driveway, Emily was shaking -- with need, with shame, with something bigger and hungrier than either of those.

She was going to break tonight.

And Mark was going to watch.

Help.

Worship.

She just didn't know how yet.

The door had barely slammed behind them before Emily grabbed him.

Fingers curled tight in the fabric of his t-shirt, yanking him toward her, so fierce it stole the breath out of his chest.

Mark stumbled, laughing a little -- but the laugh died in his throat when he saw her face.

Flushed.

Wild-eyed.

Trembling.

Her thighs were still pressed tight together, rubbing in tiny, frantic motions she probably didn't even realize she was making.

"You can't just..." she panted, words tripping over themselves, "You can't just -- wind me up like that and not -- not tell me--"

She swallowed hard.

Dragged him even closer, until his belt buckle scraped against the zipper of her too-tight jeans.

"Tell me the rules," she whispered, voice raw.

Mark blinked, stunned, aroused so violently it made him dizzy.

He could have teased her. Could have strung her out longer.

But something in her voice -- that desperate, furious need -- pulled the truth out of him instead.

He cupped her face in both hands, kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth -- quick, messy, reverent.

Then he pulled back and said:

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Emily made an impatient noise, shoving at his chest. "I know that. I'm not asking for an out. I'm asking--" she broke off, teeth gritted, shaking. "What do you want?"

Mark exhaled slowly, his thumbs stroking along her jawline.

"I want you to flirt with him," he said.

Her breath hitched.

"I want you to tease him," Mark continued, voice low and steady. "Smile at him. Touch his arm when you laugh. Let him wonder how far you'll go."

Emily's knees almost gave out.

She dug her nails into his arms, grounding herself.

"I want you to get so wet you can't walk straight," he murmured, mouth brushing hers with every word. "I want you dripping when you come home to me."

Emily whimpered. Actually whimpered. Shame and heat sluiced down her spine in a dizzying wave.

"And when you're ready..." Mark said, pausing, his forehead resting against hers, "... if you're ready... you can let him kiss you."

Emily shook, helpless against the avalanche roaring through her.

"And if he wants more?" she whispered.

Mark smiled -- slow, dangerous.

"Then you tell him the next rule."

She stared up at him, trembling, wild, strung so tight she could hear her own heartbeat between her ears.

"And what's that?" she asked, her voice cracking.

Mark kissed her -- deep, brutal, claiming -- before he said it:

"He has to take you from me."

Emily gasped, shuddering violently against him, her entire body clenching so hard it felt like a seizure.

"But," Mark added, softer now, a cruel mercy, "he won't even know it."

He pulled back, studying her like something precious and breakable.

"That's the game," he whispered. "That's the rule."

Emily stood there shaking in his arms, wet, her whole body screaming. Her thighs slid against each other, slick and treacherous.

And she realized, with a sick, giddy thrill:

She was already half-lost.

And she never wanted to be found.

They stumbled into the living room, still half-tangled, half-fighting, half-fucking with their hands and mouths.

Mark shoved her against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip so hard she'd have bruises tomorrow.

She loved it.

Loved him.

"I love you," she gasped, grabbing his face in both hands, forcing him to look at her. "I'm not leaving. I'm yours. Always."

Mark's smile was small. Crooked.

Painful.

Beautiful.

"I know," he said, brushing his nose against hers.

Then, softly:

"But you want Antoine, don't you?"

Emily froze.

The words dropped between them like a loaded gun.

She could have lied.

Could have laughed it off.

Could have kissed him until they forgot it.

But something inside her -- raw, trembling, molten -- cracked open instead.

She shook her head -- a reflex, desperate -- even as the truth clawed its way up her throat.

"I--" she choked, squeezing her eyes shut like that would erase the heat flooding her cheeks, her chest, her thighs. "I don't--"

Mark kissed the corner of her mouth, slow and patient.

"You do," he whispered.

"Say it."

Emily whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave half-moons.

"I want him," she whispered.

Ashamed.

Relieved.

Wrecked.

Mark groaned -- not in pain, but in pure, wrecked pleasure -- and dropped his forehead to her shoulder.

"Good girl," he breathed.

The praise shattered her.

Emily sagged against the wall, gasping, soaking through her jeans, clinging to him like a lifeline.

Mark kissed her throat, her collarbone, her shoulder, worshipful.

"That's all I needed," he murmured.

"Just the truth."

Emily sobbed once, broken and wet, and kissed him back, messy and wild and grateful.

Because she wasn't broken.

She wasn't betraying him.

She was becoming something they had always wanted together -- something bigger than guilt, bigger than shame.

His perfect wife.

His filthy, shining star.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow she would burn brighter.

Hotter.

For both of them.

Mark kissed her like he was trying to swallow her whole.

Hands everywhere -- frantic, worshiping, greedy -- yanking her jeans down, shoving her cami up over her breasts.

Emily clawed at his belt, laughing breathlessly, half-mad with heat.

It wasn't pretty.

It wasn't slow.

It was war.

He spun her around, bent her over the arm of the couch, shoved his jeans down just enough.

His cock pressed against the slick heat of her cunt, and she moaned -- high, frantic -- grinding back against him, desperate to be filled.

He pushed into her in one rough, graceless thrust.

She gasped -- not from the stretch, but from the lack of it.

God, she was so wet she could barely feel him.

Barely.

He fucked her fast, messy, his hands branding her hips.

She let her head fall forward, hair sticking to her sweaty cheeks, body shuddering with every slap of his thighs against her ass.

It was good.

It was so fucking good.

But even in the middle of it --

even riding the edge of orgasm --

her mind flashed back.

Antoine.

The heavy swing of him in his jeans.

The way her pussy had throbbed just seeing it.

And without meaning to --

without even thinking --

she let it slip:

"You're so... small inside me," she gasped, half-laughing, half-moan.

Mark groaned, deep and broken, his hips jerking erratically.

It wrecked him.

She felt it.

Felt the way his cock twitched inside her, the way his hands clamped down harder, the way he gave himself up in that sound.

And it lit her the fuck up.

A wicked, delirious grin spread across her face.

Drunk on it.

Drunk on him.

She pushed back against him harder, grinding her ass into his hips, taunting him with her body.

"You like that, don't you?" she panted, breathless, cruel.

Mark whimpered -- whimpered -- and fucked her faster, like he was chasing something he'd never catch.

"You like knowing you can't fill me up," she gasped, voice dripping sweet venom. "Like knowing there's room for him. For someone bigger."

Mark's fingers dug into her hips so hard she cried out -- not in pain, but in blinding pleasure.

"You want me stretched wide, don't you?" she hissed. "Ruined for you?"

He made a broken, feral noise -- somewhere between a sob and a roar -- and came hard, hips slamming into her with frantic, helpless jerks.

Hot spurts flooded her, but she barely felt it -- her own orgasm crashing through her seconds later, ripping a scream from her throat.

She collapsed against the couch, trembling, soaked, wrecked.

Mark slumped over her, panting against the back of her neck, his cock still twitching weakly inside her.

They stayed like that for a long moment -- sweaty, shaking, bound.

And when he finally pulled out, when he finally collapsed beside her on the couch, when he finally dared to look her in the eyes --

She smiled.

Soft.

Dangerous.

Victorious.

And Mark smiled back.

Because he knew.

And she knew.

And neither of them would ever be the same again.

They don't even talk about Antoine directly afterward. They don't have to.

It's already decided.

The couch was still warm from their bodies.

Emily lay sprawled across it -- legs open, thighs glistening, breathing like she'd run a marathon barefoot.

Mark kissed his way down her stomach, slow, reverent.

His hands spread her thighs wider, wide enough that she could feel the air cool against the mess he'd left inside her.

Wide enough to make her feel obscene.

Beautiful.

She whimpered, hips tilting up in invitation, in demand.

Mark settled between her thighs like a man kneeling at an altar.

Kissed the crease where thigh met pelvis.

Kissed the soft, slick folds of her cunt.

Drank her in like he was starving for it.

Emily moaned, long and low, her hands sinking into his hair, anchoring him to her body.

Mark licked her slow, deep, deliberate.

No rush.

No mercy.

And then, between strokes, he said it --

soft, casual, deadly:

"Tell me about him."

Emily gasped, hips jerking up against his mouth.

She shook her head, shame and lust battling for control.

But Mark just held her thighs open wider, thumbs stroking her skin, tongue teasing her clit until she was sobbing for more.

"Tell me what you see when you close your eyes," he whispered against her pussy, breath hot and wicked.

"Tell me what you want."

Emily squeezed her eyes shut, face burning.

"I can't," she choked out.

Mark flicked his tongue over her clit, sharp and sweet.

"You can," he said. "You will."

Emily whimpered, helpless.

Her body betrayed her -- slicking hotter, wetter, throbbing against his mouth.

She tried to fight it.

She lost.

"Antoine," she gasped.

The name fell from her lips like a curse, a prayer, a spell.

Mark groaned against her -- the vibration sending shocks straight through her clit, down to her curling toes.

"Good girl," he breathed.

Emily sobbed once -- wrecked, grateful -- and let it pour out of her.

"He's so big," she whimpered. "I can't stop thinking about it. About how he'd... fill me. Stretch me. Break me open."

Mark licked her harder now, savage and slow, matching the rhythm of her confession.

"I think about his hands," she gasped. "How big they'd feel on my hips. How easy it would be for him to hold me down. To take me."

Mark sucked her clit into his mouth, moaning like he was the one losing his mind.

"I think about his cock," she cried, hips thrashing. "How it would hurt -- how good it would hurt -- how I'd be so fucking full I wouldn't even remember my own name."

Mark slipped two fingers inside her -- shallow, teasing -- and she almost screamed at how empty she still felt.

"I want him," she sobbed. "God, I want him."

Mark pulled back just enough to meet her eyes -- his mouth shiny with her slick, his face radiant with pride and hunger.

"You will," he promised.

Then he buried his face between her thighs again, fucking her with his tongue, relentless, worshipful, savage.

Emily shattered against him -- screaming, sobbing, laughing -- cumming so hard she thought she might never feel the same again.

And when it was over --

when she lay there twitching, ruined, wide open --

Mark climbed up her body, kissed her messy, wet mouth, and whispered:

"You're mine.

And I want you full of him."

Emily sobbed again, this time in pure, shattering love.

And in the dark, sweet corners of her heart, a seed of wicked, perfect desire took root --

and began to bloom.

The clock ticked too loudly.

Emily sat cross-legged on the couch, a stack of sophomore essays balanced precariously on her lap, a red pen poised in her fingers like a dagger.

She hated this part.

The mindless drudgery.

The tiny, petty complaints she had to scribble in margins.

The way none of it mattered.

It grated against her nerves today worse than ever.

It felt wrong, small, stupid.

After everything that had spilled out of her last night -- all that sweat and heat and confession -- sitting here grading comma splices felt like dying by inches.

Mark lounged in the armchair across from her, pretending to read something on his tablet.

But she could feel his eyes on her.

Watching.

Waiting.

She sighed heavily, shoved the papers aside, rubbing her temples.

"I can't fucking focus," she muttered.

Mark smiled behind his tablet.

Set it down gently on the side table.

And in the same tone he might have asked if she wanted tea, he said:

"How are you going to do it?"

Emily blinked at him.

"Do what?"

Mark leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright, wicked.

"You know."

A small shrug, all fake innocence.

"Him."

Emily flushed, the heat rising fast, furious.

Her thighs clenched involuntarily.

She shook her head, tried to laugh it off -- tried.

"You're insane," she muttered, reaching for the next essay.

Mark snatched it out of her hand.

Emily glared at him.

He just smiled wider.

That damn smile.

The one that made her want to slap him and fuck him and worship him all at once.

"I'm serious," he said, voice low, coaxing. "You're not going to just... fall into it."

He cocked his head, studying her like something delicious.

"You're going to make it happen."

Emily's mouth went dry.

"You're going to walk in there," Mark continued, soft, rhythmic, hypnotic, "and you're going to choose him.

With your eyes.

With your body."

She squirmed, heart hammering against her ribs.

"And he's going to feel it," Mark whispered. "Every step you take, every glance, every fucking smile."

Emily tried to swallow.

Failed.

Mark leaned closer, voice dropping to a rough murmur.

"You're not going to wait for him to make a move. You're going to invite him.

You're going to seduce him.

You're going to offer yourself in every little way... until he can't think about anything else but your wet pussy and how much he needs to ruin it."

Emily whimpered -- actually whimpered -- and pressed her thighs together under her leggings like she could trap the heat leaking out of her.

Mark sat back, satisfied, watching her squirm.

"So," he said, smiling like a shark,

"how are you going to do it, baby?"

Emily shook her head wildly, laughing and sobbing and aching.

"I don't know," she gasped.

"I can't -- I don't even know how--"

Mark chuckled.

Low. Rough. Affectionate.

"You'll figure it out," he said.

"I trust you."

Emily wiped her eyes, trembling.

Trembling from laughter.

Trembling from want.

Because he was right.

Because it was already inside her -- the hunger, the cunning, the knowledge.

Because part of her -- the part she had spent her whole life burying -- was already planning.

Emily didn't announce it.

She didn't explain it.

She just... started.

The first stop was the sporting goods store.

She bypassed the loose sweatpants and baggy tees she used to hide in.

Walked straight to the racks she used to pretend she didn't even see -- the tiny shorts, the sports bras that barely contained anything, the second-skin leggings that made every step a promise.

She tried things on in the dressing room -- staring at herself in the mirror, stretching, bending.

Learning herself like a weapon she hadn't known she was allowed to wield.

The soft cling of black lycra over her thighs.

The sinful bounce of her tits when she jumped lightly in place.

The way her ass looked, god, obscene, in the right leggings.

She smiled at herself.

Small. Dangerous.

This wasn't for her students.

This wasn't for Mark.

This wasn't even for Antoine.

This was for the moment.

For the taking.

Next came the hair dye.

A brighter, sunnier blonde -- not platinum, not cartoonish, just enough to catch the light and hold it hostage.

Antoine had a thing for blondes.

She'd heard him say it once, casually, months ago, before any of this started.

A joke about a beach volleyball tournament.

A throwaway comment.

She remembered.

She remembered everything now.

Next: waxing strips.

Painful, clumsy, messy in the bathroom mirror -- but worth it.

She wanted to be bare for him.

Smooth everywhere.

Touchable everywhere.

The thought made her thighs press tight together again, the familiar throb building.

Finally, a better tan.

No more pale, safe, schoolteacher skin.

She spent the afternoon stretched out on a lounge chair in the backyard, baking herself golden under the lazy Sunday sun.

Feeling her body ripen.

Mark brought her iced tea at one point.

Said nothing.

Just watched her, smiling that slow, stunned smile like she was a solar flare and he was too close.

Emily sipped the tea, tilted her sunglasses down her nose, smirked at him.

Mark flushed -- just a little -- and retreated inside.

Hard, she knew.

Unable to look away.

Good.

She wasn't dressing for seduction.

She was weaponizing herself.

That night, she laid everything out on the bed:

Tiny black shorts that barely covered anything.

A neon pink sports bra that turned her tits into something obscene.

New sneakers, clean and bright, because she was starting a new war.

She stood there, staring at the collection like she was staring at her own body on an altar.

Mark came in behind her, barefoot and silent.

"You look incredible," he said, reverent, awed.

Emily didn't look at him.

She smiled at the mirror.

At herself.

"I'm going to make him need me," she said softly.

Mark stepped closer. Rested his hands on her hips, gentle, proud.

"I know."

Mark barely slept.

He held Emily too tightly -- arms wrapped around her like she was the last warm thing in the universe -- but she didn't seem to mind.

She was restless, shifting against him, her body electric under the skin.

But she stayed.

She belonged.

Even tangled in dreams, even twitching like a loaded gun, she curled into him without thinking.

Like he was home.

He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in, half-praying she wouldn't wake up --

because if she did, he knew he'd never survive what her eyes would say.

In the gray light of morning, she sat at the kitchen table, hair still damp from her shower, a cup of coffee steaming in front of her.

Mark leaned against the counter, pretending to scroll through his phone, watching her over the edge.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glanced up at him with a sly, wicked little smile.

"I'm going to the gym after school," she said, casual, like she was announcing what kind of cereal she wanted.

Then, after a sip of coffee, softer:

"And after that...

I think I'm going to Antoine's."

The words hung in the air.

Sacred.

Terrifying.

Perfect.

Mark's heart punched his ribs.

He swallowed thickly.

He didn't answer right away.

He set his phone down carefully.

Crossed the kitchen in three long strides.

Pulled a small black pouch out of his hoodie pocket.

Emily blinked, wary, amused.

"What's that?"

Mark pulled the pouch open.

Inside, gleaming like a secret, was a chastity cage.

Small. Sleek. Brushed steel.

Emily's breath hitched -- a tiny, involuntary gasp.

Her thighs rubbed together under the table, betraying her.

Mark's mouth quirked into a shy, savage smile.

"This," he said, voice low, "is to keep me from cumming while you're gone."

Emily stared at it.

At him.

Her heart hammering.

Mark reached into the box, pulled out the tiny padlock, and flipped it once in his fingers -- the soft metallic click making her whole body tense.

He set the keys down in front of her coffee cup.

Deliberate.

Final.

Her hand shook slightly as she picked them up, feeling the impossible lightness of them.

Mark kissed the top of her head, tender, grounding.

"Make it worth it," he murmured against her hair.

Emily closed her eyes, the keys digging into her palm.

She could feel it -- the gravity of the moment pulling her deeper, tying her tighter to him even as he loosened the leash.

She wasn't abandoning him.

She was becoming more for him.

More for herself.

She smiled -- slow, sharp, wicked.

"I will," she promised.

And she meant it.

Her throat tasted like copper.

The day dissolved around her.

The shriek of the bell.

The drone of students' voices.

The scratch of red pen against cheap paper.

All of it blurred together like a fever dream.

Only the keys -- those tiny, traitorous keys -- felt real, heavy and accusing in her purse with every step.

By the time Emily pulled into the gym parking lot, her heart was slamming against her ribs so hard she thought she might crack open.

She grabbed her gym bag from the passenger seat, slammed the door harder than she meant to, and forced herself to walk steady across the asphalt.

Inside, the air was thick with sweat, metal, rubber -- desire.

She went straight to the locker room, ignoring the front desk staff's cheerful greetings, laser-focused.

The locker room was half-empty -- a few other women chatting, tugging at ponytails, fixing their makeup before cardio.

Emily barely saw them.

She found a corner, dumped her bag onto the bench, and yanked the zipper open with shaking hands.

Pulled out the new outfit piece by piece.

Tiny black shorts.

The neon pink sports bra.

She stripped quickly, almost violently, kicking her safe, loose clothes into a pile.

The cold air prickled against her bare skin.

Her nipples stiffened instantly, high and sharp under the slick neon fabric.

The shorts slid up over her freshly waxed thighs with a whisper.

She shimmied them into place, yanking the waistband high enough to hug the curve of her waist.

The cut was obscene -- high enough to flash the soft crease where thigh met hip, tight enough that the outline of her bare, aching pussy was nearly visible if she shifted wrong.

Perfect.

Her stomach twisted -- terror, lust, triumph grinding together into something bigger than either.

She turned toward the mirror.

And froze.

For a long, breathless second, she didn't recognize herself.

The woman in the mirror was dangerous.

Tanned, golden skin gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Blonde hair catching every harsh beam, weaponizing it.

Tight, firm body wrapped in black and pink like a gift too obscene to be opened in public.

Her tits strained against the sports bra, nipples clearly outlined, shameless.

Her thighs flexed and shifted as she shifted her weight -- strong, wide, lush.

Her stomach was soft but taut, curving into her hips like an invitation.

And between her legs, the shorts clung tight enough to frame the wicked, swollen outline of her need.

She looked like sex made flesh, burning in effigy.

She looked like something a man would ruin his whole fucking life over.

She smiled.

Small. Crooked.

Dangerous.

He won't stand a chance.

Her hands smoothed down the sides of the shorts, feeling the tremble of her own thighs.

She rolled her shoulders back.

Lifted her chin.

Shifted her weight onto one leg, popping her hip just so -- watching the line of her body sharpen into a weapon.

Her pussy throbbed.

Her skin buzzed.

She breathed in.

Out.

Slow. Deliberate.

You are a gift.

You are a weapon.

You are the answer to prayers he hasn't dared to say out loud yet.

She grabbed her water bottle, slung a towel over her shoulder, and headed for the door without a backward glance.

When she stepped onto the gym floor, the noise shifted.

Almost imperceptibly.

A slight hitch in conversation.

A long, unblinking stare from the guy re-racking dumbbells.

Good.

Let them look.

She wasn't here for them.

Antoine is on the floor, somewhere, and Emily feels his gravity before she sees him.

Emily isn't passive now -- she's hunting.

She's glowing. Radiating heat and invitation.

Emily was halfway through her second set of squats when she felt it.

The weight of a stare.

Not the casual kind she'd been soaking in all afternoon --

Not the clumsy ogling from the college boys or the polite glances from the middle-aged regulars.

This was different.

Heavy.

Intimate.

Real.

She finished her last rep, racked the bar with a satisfying clang, wiped the sweat from her brow with the towel slung around her neck --

and turned.

Antoine stood a few feet away, a towel slung over one massive shoulder, a bottle of water dangling from his fingers.

He smiled when she met his eyes.

That slow, easy, devastating smile that felt like a hand sliding up her bare thigh.

"Looking good, Em," he said, voice low, lazy.

Just a compliment.

Harmless.

Normal.

But it wasn't.

She wasn't normal anymore.

She smiled back -- slow, wicked, letting it show.

"Yeah?" she said, tossing the towel over her shoulder, stepping closer.

Deliberate.

Predatory.

"You been watching me?" she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Antoine chuckled -- a warm, rough sound that vibrated all the way down her spine.

"Hard not to," he said, gaze raking over her body in one smooth, devastating sweep.

Not leering.

Appreciating.

Claiming.

Emily flushed -- not from shame, but from pure, reckless thrill.

She let her tongue flick over her lower lip, slow, suggestive.

"Guess I'll have to put on more of a show next time," she murmured, stepping just a fraction closer -- enough to smell the clean salt of his sweat, the heat rolling off his skin.

Antoine's eyes darkened -- pupils dilating, jaw clenching.

For a heartbeat, a single, breathless second, she thought he might grab her.

Push her back against the squat rack.

Sink his hands into her ass and take what she was offering.

Her body screamed for it.

Her pussy ached for it.

But Antoine -- beautiful, careful, frustrating Antoine -- just smiled wider.

"You always been this dangerous?" he asked, voice rougher now.

Emily laughed -- light, high, giddy -- because she knew the answer and so did he.

"No," she said softly.

"Not until recently."

Their eyes locked --

the heat between them thick enough to drown in.

Emily shifted her weight deliberately -- hips cocked, tits thrust out just a little, letting the tight sports bra pull higher, letting the shape of her nipples strain against the thin neon fabric.

She wanted to escalate.

To close the distance.

She almost reached for him -- almost brushed his arm, just a friendly touch, just an excuse.

But Antoine stepped back.

Subtle.

Polite.

Controlled.

It wasn't rejection.

It was restraint.

And it made her wetter than anything he could have done.

Because she saw it.

The crack in his armor.

The tight set of his jaw.

The twitch of his fingers around the water bottle.

He was fighting it.

Fighting her.

And that meant she was winning.

Emily smiled -- wide, sweet, devastating -- and turned away without another word.

She could feel his eyes burn tracks down her back the entire walk to the locker room.

Emily showered fast.

Too fast.

Scrubbed herself raw under the cheap fluorescent lights, the industrial soap stinging where she'd shaved too close.

She needed to be clean.

Needed to be ready.

Her hands shook as she dried off, yanking on tight black yoga pants and a fresh, thin hoodie -- no bra underneath.

Obvious.

Inviting.

She didn't even hesitate.

She wanted to be obvious.

When she found him, Antoine was near the treadmills, leaning against the wall, watching the door like he was waiting for an excuse to leave.

Perfect.

Emily walked up to him, heart hammering, blood loud in her ears.

He smiled when he saw her -- but there was a tightness to it.

A wariness she didn't understand.

She smiled back -- wide, radiant, just a little shy.

"Hey," she said, breathless.

"Hey," Antoine said, voice rough.

Emily bit her lip.

She glanced around. Everyone was looking at her. At them.

Stepped closer.

Close enough that if she shifted her weight just slightly, her tits would brush his arm.

She tilted her head, looking up at him through her lashes.

"You wanna... hang out?" she asked, soft, sweet, dangerous.

There.

It was out.

The offer.

The opening.

She saw it hit him like a punch.

Saw his eyes go wide, startled, wrecked.

But instead of grabbing her --

Instead of dragging her into the locker room and fucking her against the nearest wall --

he flinched.

Actually flinched.

And shook his head.

"Em..." he said, voice pained.

"I can't."

Emily froze.

Blinking.

Reeling.

"What...?" she said, voice cracking.

Antoine scrubbed a hand through his hair, looking miserable.

"It's not -- you're -- you're gorgeous, okay?" he said, like the words hurt him. "It's just --"

He trailed off.

Emily stared at him, burning alive inside her skin.

"Then what the fuck is all this?" she hissed, voice low, furious.

"The looks, the flirting, the... everything?"

Antoine grimaced, helpless.

"I didn't mean to..."

He looked away, looked back, mouth working like he was trying to chew the words before he said them.

Finally, brokenly:

"I'm gay."

Silence slammed down between them.

Emily stared at him, blank, numb.

"You're--?"

She shook her head, laughed -- high, hysterical.

"But you said... you liked blondes--"

Antoine laughed too, but it was a rough, pained sound.

"I meant Brad Martin," he said, jerking his chin toward the front desk.

Emily followed his gaze.

And there, leaning casually against the counter, flirting shamelessly with a twinky attendant, was Brad --

tiny, cut, golden-haired Brad.

A goddamn Calvin Klein ad come to life.

It hit her like a gut punch.

She'd missed it.

Missed everything.

And then --

like a film sliding out of focus --

she saw it.

All the guys.

Not staring at her.

Staring at Antoine.

Sneaking glances.

Pretending to stretch nearby.

Laughing too loud when he passed.

He wasn't her apex predator.

He was their prey.

Emily swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

"So all that... tension..." she whispered.

Antoine's face softened.

Stepped closer.

Lowered his voice.

"It's real," he said.

"But not the way you thought."

He smiled -- small, sad, affectionate.

"I think you're fucking gorgeous, Em," he said. "But you're not the one I dream about bending me over."

Emily laughed -- a broken, gasping sound --

covered her mouth with her hand, head bowed, shaking.

It cracked out of her like a sob she hadn't earned.

She should have been humiliated.

Should have been furious.

Should have been crushed under the weight of how wrong she'd gotten it.

But she wasn't.

All she felt was...

wild.

Free.

Wrecked in the best, sharpest way.

Because if Antoine wasn't going to take her --

if he was never even trying to --

Then the world was even bigger than she thought.

Wider.

Hotter.

More hers.

She smiled at Antoine -- a real smile, bright and brutal -- and touched his arm lightly in goodbye.

No shame.

No apology.

And as she walked out of the gym -- the key to Mark's cage heavy in her purse, her pussy throbbing and empty and awake --

she knew.

She wasn't lost.

She wasn't broken.

She was becoming.

She was free.

Mark was hers.

And soon, the world would be too.

[Okay, you knew I couldn't do the BBC/Hotwife genre and play it straight.]