The Act

by Stella Gray

  “Tell me,” I repeated, my voice throaty.

  “You want me to tell you that we didn’t believe for a second that Hemingway had written on it?” he asked, slapping one hand on the desk behind me, the other undoing his jeans, his hard cock springing free.

  “Yes,” I said, my mouth watering at the sight.

  “But since we’d been drinking Death in the Afternoons all day, the whole thing felt fated, so we spent an exorbitant amount of money on it?”

  “Yes,” I moaned as he traced the slit of my wet pussy with his tip.

  I was so hungry for him, I leaned back on my hands, opening my legs even wider. He must have liked what he saw.

  “Fuck, Em,” he said, gripping his cock as he panted.

  “Fuck me,” I agreed, tilting my hips to guide him.

  “Yes,” he said, and with a smooth, fast thrust, he was inside.

  I gasped as he filled me up, so big and so deep. Gripping the edge of the desk, I bit my lip as he began fucking me, whispering low in my ear as he picked up his pace.

  “You think the shit in my apartment is important to me because I’m still into her?” he asked, punctuating his words with slow, hard thrusts.

  “Yes,” I moaned, throwing my head back, his mouth coming down to suck my throat. I felt near to tears again, overwhelmed with emotion and all the sensations that went along with having hot, angry sex with my husband.

  “Then what do you think it means that I’m fucking my wife on a desk that I bought with her?”

  That was the problem. I didn’t know what it meant. Was it some kind of filthy erotic game for him? Tearing me down just to fuck me afterward in all my humiliation and rage?

  I was simultaneously so hot and angry and turned on that I couldn’t think straight. All I could focus on was Ford’s cock, pumping in and out as he rode me hard on top of the desk he’d bought with Claudia in Paris.

  “Ford,” I cried out.

  “That’s right,” he said, driving himself even deeper. “I’m your husband. I’m your fucking husband and I’m fucking your tight, sweet little pussy on this desk.”

  It creaked beneath us, each thrust knocking it against the wall.

  I never thought I’d be into hate sex, but I loved how it made me feel. How heightened it all was. How powerful I felt, that I could drive Ford to this point, where he was practically out of control with desire for me. Because that’s how I felt with him. Out of control.

  He gripped my hips and fucked me even harder, watching my breasts bounce with every thrust.

  I was completely naked and he was still fully dressed. He ducked his head to take my nipple in his mouth and I moaned as he nipped me with his teeth. That combination of pleasure and pain was everything I wanted and only Ford knew how to give it to me. I knew I’d never ever find a man that could satisfy me the way that he did.

  I still didn’t know what he was trying to do, what he thought he was accomplishing with all of this. Was it just a hot love triangle in his mind? Making me jealous while remembering what it had been like with Claudia, secretly comparing me to her while he fucked me?

  Or was he trying to show me how trivial all these objects were to him? Was he tainting his memories of her on purpose?

  I didn’t have any answers. All I had was the sweet ache between my legs, the delicious feel of Ford’s perfect cock, his breath against my ear, bringing me closer and closer to climaxing. I wrapped my legs higher around his waist, leaning back, letting him go even deeper.

  “More,” I murmured. “Give me more.”

  He let out a grunt and I could sense that he was close. Hot little sparks were firing off inside my pussy, and I knew when I came—and soon—it would be explosive. The pleasure was barreling toward me, building in my lower belly, making my toes curl as my legs tightened around Ford.

  As if he could sense I was about to come, he started fucking me faster. My head was banging against the wall now, but I didn’t care.

  I didn’t care that this was the desk he’d bought with Claudia. I didn’t even care if he had done exactly the same thing with her on it that he was doing with me. Right now, all I cared about was chasing my release. I needed it.

  “Come for me, Emzee. I want to feel that pussy clench around my cock,” Ford said.

  It was enough to push me over the edge.

  I gasped, coming hard and fast around his cock, doing exactly as he requested. As my body contracted in tight bursts, he let out a hoarse cry and spilled his seed into me, the two of us moaning as we slumped back onto the desk.

  As we caught our breath, I realized that even though Ford might never give me any solid answers about Claudia, he’d still given me a fantastic orgasm.

  Considering the terms of our relationship, that would have to be enough.

  Ford

  Chapter 9

  Even though I’d lived with Claudia, and was used to sharing space with a woman, everything about cohabitating with Emzee felt different. Everything.

  Take this morning, even, when I’d rolled over in bed to find that Em and I had slept in past 10 o’clock. Claudia never would have allowed that, even on a Saturday like today. She firmly agreed with the science that said sleeping in on the weekend threw off one’s circadian rhythms, setting one up for a sluggish Monday at the office.

  I hadn’t slept so soundly in years.

  It was all so new and weird.

  After the fight last night, and the incredible sex Emzee and I’d had on that stupid desk in my office, I didn’t quite know where my wife and I stood. Our argument hadn’t actually been resolved, and it wasn’t the kind of thing that was going to figure itself out. As soon as she was up, we’d have to talk about it.

  Right now, though, she was fast asleep.

  I eased out of bed gently, careful not to wake her—I figured she deserved as much rest as she wanted. Still, my fingers itched to touch her naked back, to caress the exposed skin that I knew was soft as silk, but I resisted. Instead, I got dressed and headed to the kitchen. Munchkin followed me. After I put the coffee on, I took him for a quick walk before starting on breakfast.

  There wasn’t much to work with, but I had enough of the basics on hand to whip up some sausage and pancakes, which I knew Emzee would like. It had always been her go-to order on those rare occasions we’d made it to McDonald’s before they stopped serving breakfast.

  Pouring pancake batter onto the griddle, I thought more about the contrasts between Emzee and Claudia. The way, with Claudia, everything had been so rigidly routine.

  Every day she’d wake up before me (sometimes even before the sun rose), turn on the coffee maker, and then lay out my agenda next to my cup. Even on the weekends, there’d be to-do lists or whole itineraries with museum visits or lunch plans detailed on them. Then she’d go work out. It was vitally important to her that she get her gym time in before the day started. I don’t think I ever once saw her sleep in.

  And breakfast? Claudia wasn’t into it. She’d just choke down a quick protein shake on her way to the gym, even though she hated the chalky taste.

  Lazy, mid-morning pancakes with Emzee could be nice. No stress. No rush. No lectures on the evils of various breakfast meats and their saturated fat content.

  But of course, I couldn’t let myself get used to it. My new wife didn’t actually love me; she’d made that abundantly clear. So I wouldn’t make the mistake of letting her fully into my life. Which was okay by me. After all, Claudia and I had gotten along just fine for years without being in love. It was when she started wanting more—when my parents started demanding more—that I’d realized I had to get out.

  Obviously, I’d have to keep Emzee at a distance. Better for her, and better for me. The last thing either of us needed were entanglements that would make it any harder to end our marriage in a year. It seemed doubtful we’d be able to go back to the way things were before, but if we were lucky, we could remain in each other’s lives. Maybe not as best friends, but I didn’t like the idea of her di
sappearing completely.

  Turning to set the platter of steaming pancakes on the table, I almost tripped over Munchkin, who’d apparently been sitting at my feet while I was cooking.

  “You smell those sausages, boy?” I said. His stub of a tail wagged double-time, and I cut a piece for him to snack on while I was setting the table.

  “You’re spoiling him,” Emzee scolded from the doorway, a smirk on her face. She still looked sleepy, but she’d put on a robe. The dog trotted over and rolled onto his back at her feet, and Em crouched down to give him a belly rub. “What a little mooch you are.”

  “Morning,” I said. “I made brunch.”

  “It smells amazing,” Emzee said, seating herself at the table. “Thank you.”

  After pouring us each a coffee and tuning the radio to an old-school jazz station, I sat down and we started eating. I could sense the tension between us, the weight of too many unspoken words. But I didn’t know where to start.

  The shoulder of her robe had slipped down a little, exposing that soft, bare skin, and part of me wanted to throw our breakfast in the sink, bend her over the table, and bang the shit out of her. To be honest, all I could think about was what we’d done last night. How wild she’d been when I took her on top of the desk. I’d expected her to balk at my cruelty, my roughness, but she seemed to love it. She’d been so fucking wet. She’d wanted me, wanted everything I’d given her. Just like she always did. I was getting hard at the thought.

  When we were both done, Emzee put our dishes in the sink. It wasn’t until she sat back down that she looked me straight in the eye.

  “We need to talk,” she said. “About last night.”

  I nodded. “I guess that was pretty weird. I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she said. “It was fine.”

  “Just fine?” I raised an eyebrow.

  Emzee blushed. “You know what I mean,” she said. “It was kinky, but I was into it. I didn’t dislike anything you did. It’s just…”

  Leaning forward, I coaxed, “Just what?”

  She took a deep breath and then blurted, “I’m not interested in getting involved with whatever thoughts or feelings you have about Claudia.”

  “Em—” But she held up her hand before I could continue.

  “We might not have an emotional relationship, but you still have to respect me. If you don’t, we have to stop the sex, and I’ll move into the guest room.”

  I let her words sink in, nodding slowly as I thought things over.

  Maybe having her move into the guest room was the best thing for both of us. Because all that kink from last night? It had nothing to do with how I felt about Claudia, and everything to do with how I felt about Emzee. I wished she was the one who’d left her mark all over my apartment. That the stories I’d been telling had been about her instead.

  I didn’t like any of the memories that Claudia had left behind. When I looked at that fucking Sri Lankan vase, all I thought about was how Claudia had spent half our trip bitching about the poverty there. How everything and everyone was so filthy and disgusting. Emzee never would have said that—she wouldn’t have even thought it. If we’d been on that trip together, Emzee would have focused on observing the culture and people around her. She probably would have spent the whole trip taking photographs of everything: good, bad, or ugly.

  To her, though, there would have been beauty in all of it.

  And another thing—Emzee would never call all the miserable marriages in my family “traditional.” Nor would she ever aspire to have a similar one for herself.

  And that painting in the den? Emzee wouldn’t have needed a fucking painting to remind her to communicate with her partner. She would just do it. Like she was doing now. Instead of pouting and acting passive-aggressive, the way Claudia always did when she was pissed at me for some reason or another.

  And that desk. I knew for a fact that Em most assuredly would have been a lot more fun over drinks in Paris. All Claudia had wanted to do was shop on the Champs-Élysées and buy things that she could brag about to her friends. That was always all she ever cared about.

  Not that it mattered anymore.

  But even if Emzee and I did go to Paris or any of those other places now, it wouldn’t change the fact that she didn’t love me. That if I let her get inside me any more than she already had, I was going to break. Which was why I should agree to her terms. Call off the sex and let her move into the guest room.

  Problem was, I couldn’t do it. I was too selfish for that.

  “I think it’s for the best,” Emzee was saying. “I can move all my stuff down the hall today. No one will have to know.”

  “No,” I said.

  She looked surprised. “No?”

  “I can be respectful,” I told her. “But as long as we’re in this arrangement, you are my wife and you will sleep in my bed. Understood?”

  Emzee scowled at me, but in the end, she didn’t disagree.

  I had to believe there was a part of her that didn’t actually want to move into the guest room. Or that simply didn’t want to give up our intense physical connection.

  Either way, we’d reached a truce.

  Emzee

  Chapter 10

  It could get exhausting, trying to keep up the schedule for See Yourself. I loved the work I did—loved working with the ex-models, loved the classes I taught, loved knowing I was making a difference—but for the most part, all the behind-the-scenes logistics that went into making a nonprofit function tended to wear me out completely.

  My main goal for the day had been to schedule the new guest instructors and classes for the next few months, but every time I called some rich and/or successful person who had expressed interest in volunteering with us, I was met with the exact same response.

  “Oh, Emzee, it’s such a great cause, and you know I truly, truly want to be involved, cross my heart, but it’s just that I am so busy these days and…” Blah, blah, blah.

  I nodded, even though I knew that Kendra couldn’t see me. She was the latest socialite I’d called, who’d sworn just a few months ago that she’d be thrilled to give a presentation on how to perform well during job interviews—a life skill my students would obviously benefit from learning. And now this.

  More excuses, more rejections, and a lot more panic on my part.

  “Are you sure you can’t make the time?” I asked, feeling a little desperate. “It’s just a one-day seminar. Two to three hours, max.”

  “Let me see…”

  I could practically hear her tapping her way through her calendar app.

  “Maybe I could do something next month?” she said.

  I pumped my fist with excitement. Kendra was one of the people I’d been counting on. She was a part-time recruiter for the most renowned makeup and fashion companies in the world, so she knew firsthand what made a resume sing or an interview crash and burn.

  Flipping to next month’s schedule, I said, “What about the ninth or the sixteenth?”

  “Hmm. Oh. Wait,” she said.

  My pen drooped, and I braced myself for what was coming next.

  “Gosh, it’s just that I’m going to be in Monte Carlo,” she said with a tragic sigh. “You understand, don’t you? We’ll have to reschedule when I get back.”

  “Sure,” I said. “That’d be great.”

  After I hung up, I threw my desk calendar across the bedroom. I’d spent my entire morning on the phone with people like Kendra. People I’d met at galas or fundraisers or parties, who had expressed such genuine interest in See Yourself that I’d thought they would jump at the chance to be directly involved in shaping the future of these women.

  Instead, whenever I called and tried to actually get them on the schedule, they all had excuses. For Kendra it was Monte Carlo. For the Wirtzes, it had been the annual shareholders’ meeting in Paris. Lily was in Tahiti “for the season,” while Maddie’s assistant informed me she was away filming a documentary on the homeless canine population in Ath
ens.

  None of them were available, but each of them had offered to write a check.

  So, sure. I’d be happy to take their money. I couldn’t in good faith turn down operating funds for the program, but at the same time, it wasn’t what I needed. I needed programming. Gurus, educators, people who could help me and my students network. Not just open wallets.

  After all, the whole point of the nonprofit was to teach these girls life skills with the help of actual mentors—but even when I got someone to agree to teach a class (which was rare enough), they tended to want to center themselves and focus more on how good they felt about offering their time, instead of the people I designed the organization to help. One husband and wife entrepreneurial team had even brought their own camera crew to record the class they taught, solely to be edited down and used in Instagram ads later.

  Which I had allowed, because hey, more publicity.

  But I was starting to feel like I was fighting an uphill battle. And I was doing it all alone.

  I’d been in bed for hours with my calendar and my computer on my lap desk, trying to work. I couldn’t use Ford’s office, where the only available surface was the same desk we’d gotten down and dirty on top of. The desk he’d bought with Claudia in fucking Paris. There was no way I could’ve gotten any work done with all of that on my mind.

  Setting my lap desk aside, I rolled over and face planted on the bed, letting the bedding muffle my exasperated groans.

  Of course, my husband chose that exact moment to wander in.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  My head shot up, my hair—already in a haphazard bun on top of my head—flopping to the side. Ford was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, looking irritatingly casual and handsome as he ate an apple.

  He probably never had problems with people promising things they would never deliver.