One New Message (A Dark Romance Novel)

by Vivian Ward

  I’ve got to have some fun while we fuck each other’s brains out and what better way than to take my time. After all, it’s taken me nearly two years of playing cat and mouse with him to get this far.

  He can’t stand the teasing, so he flips me over, kneeling behind me, spreading my thighs apart with his knee. I’m watching his every move in the glass as he slides into my glistening entrance and begins fucking me from behind.

  He feels even better fucking me doggy style. Maybe it’s the angle? All I know for sure is that I love the way he looks as I continue watching the two of us in the closet mirrors. The way my hips are rounded and my ass is in the air with him behind me, the smell of sex lingers in the air, and it’s everything I hoped it would be.

  Gripping my breasts, he squeezes them as he slams his cock deeper inside my pussy, filling me with each pump his cock delivers. With sweat beading on his brow, he grunts and picks up his pace.

  I know he’s getting close; I can feel it. His entire length is beginning to swell inside of me, and I can feel his balls start to tighten, and I can’t wait for him to fill me with a cream pie.

  It’s the ultimate sin: having another man’s cum inside me, returning to my husband with evidence that another man used my pussy for his pleasure.

  This is when I begin bucking my hips, slamming my ass against him. All I want is to drain his balls and take every ounce of cum he has in them. It takes everything he has as he growls and digs his fingers into my rounded hips with his dick buried deep inside me but he can’t handle it.

  I watch in the mirror as he delivers one hard, long thrust and empties his seed inside me. As I feel his hot spurts shooting like lava, he continues fucking me, his cock covered in thick white cum, pushing his load deeper inside me.

  Stop it, Cathy! You little slut. Don’t you dare hurt Brett like that. You would ruin your trust with him forever. He loves you and worships the ground you walk on. You’ll never find a man as good as him.

  And I know that last part is true. He takes such good care of me and cherishes me. There’s not a thing in the world that Brett wouldn’t do for me. He might not cook or clean, but that man rubs my feet, gives me back massages, talks to me while I take baths, waits on me when I’m too tired to get things for myself and is a damn good father.

  I know that I could never ask for a better man. And that’s why I would never do anything to jeopardize our relationship.

  He pulls more than his fair share with taking care of the kids and paying the bills. A lot of women would kill to have a man like Brett and I know I’m lucky to have him. I’m very grateful to have him.

  The next crew is slowly beginning to gather around the time clock to punch in. Looking up at the clock, it’s 5 minutes till shift change.

  In less than 15 minutes, I’m going to find out the answers to my questions.

  Jeremy parks behind me and follows me inside my old, abandoned house as we make small talk about how busy work has been lately.

  The dynamic of our conversation is friendly, but we haven’t made it inside yet. Who knows what will happen once we’re behind closed doors.

  “Where’s that AC unit, Cathy? I’ll get that first and get it out to your car, and then we can work on the windows.”

  “It’s upstairs,” I say, holding my arm out. “Follow me, and I’ll show you.”

  Climbing the stairs with him behind me, I can’t help but wonder if he’s checking out my ass. He’s whistled at it a hundred times before, and Lord knows he’s made plenty of comments about it.

  “It’s right in here,” I say, opening the door to what used to be my daughter’s bedroom. “And I can help you, just tell me what you need me to do.”

  While we’re taking the window unit out, everything is still friendly, but not too friendly.

  And even though I’d anticipated him kissing me or making some sort of move on me, he's a perfect gentleman, and I’m somewhat relieved.

  Part of me is relieved because he’s not making any moves so I don’t have to make any decisions but there’s another part of me that’s almost disappointed. I sort of feel let down that he’s not attracted to me like I’d thought he was.

  Then what’s all the flirting at work about? Is he just being nice….or is he just on his best behavior today?

  After we get the AC unit out to my car, we stand outside for a bit while he smokes and just make small talk. It’s no different from when we’re at work. For some reason, I feel foolish for thinking that he liked me more than just friends.

  My cheeks flush slightly at the thought of my fuckfest fantasy in front of the mirrored closet doors, and I feel a bit guilty while we continue our innocent conversation about nothing in particular.

  “Well, ready to get back in there?” he asks, snubbing his cigarette out with the heel of his shoe.

  “Yeah, let’s get back inside.”

  While we’re removing the window dressings, we somehow manage to start talking about the age of the house.

  It was built in 1890, though it’s had several renovations—one of which includes central air conditioning on the bottom floor only.

  It’s also had a couple of porches added on; one upstairs on a second-floor balcony and the other porch renovation was the laundry room.

  The current laundry room was once a back porch that was insulated and enclosed because electric washers and dryers didn’t exist when the house was built, or if they did, only the very wealthy could afford them. Somewhere down the line, someone turned the porch into the laundry room and built another porch off of that room that leads out to the backyard.

  “You know something?” I ask him. “There’s this small closet-like area in the master bedroom where my husband hung his clothes, and there’s an old door that’s nailed shut. All the years we’ve lived here, we’ve never known what that door leads to, but it’s creepy. It’s the kind that has the skeleton keyhole.”

  “How come you never opened it?” he asks, handing me curtain panels as he slides them off the rods of the living room window.

  “I don’t know,” I shrug. “I asked my husband at least a dozen times to open it, but he never did it.”

  A boyish grin breaks out across his face. “Wanna see now? I’ll open it, and we can find out together.”

  “Hell yeah, I wanna see!”

  “Here, take this,” he hands me the valance. “And let me grab my toolbox out of the back of my truck. I’ll get it open.”

  While he’s prying the door open, we discuss the possibilities as to where it might lead and why it was nailed shut, but it’s anyone’s guess until we open it.

  “Ready?” he asks, removing the last nail.

  “Ready,” I nod as we smile at each other.

  He pulls the door open, and it’s a doorway that leads to the dirt basement. The only way we’ve ever been able to access the basement is by going outside and lifting the door that’s on hinges that lies flat on the ground.

  “What the hell?”

  “Where’d the steps go?” he asks me.

  It’s obvious that there used to be steps to get down to the basement, but they’re long gone by now. There’s about an eight-foot drop from the door to the cellar floor.

  “You act like I took them out. I have no idea. It’s weird, though.” I shrug. “Wonder why they took them out?”

  “No clue,” he says. “That was pretty uneventful.”

  I was kind of secretly hoping they led to a hidden room beneath the second-floor steps or something.

  After he nails the door back to its original position, he suggests we go back outside so he can smoke again. There’s a lot of little things that I’ve gathered up that I need to take out to my car, so I agree.

  “Did you know I’m quitting?” he asks.

  “Oh? Are you? It was hard for me to stop smoking, but you’ll be able to do it.”

  “No, I mean I’m getting a new job.”

  I stand in silence, letting the words echo in my mind.

  If he get
s a new job, that means we won’t work together anymore. What the hell?

  “Why? I mean, why would you leave? Where are you going?”

  He takes a long drag off his cigarette before answering me and flicks the ashes.

  “You know that heavy machinery place across the street from work?” I nod. “They’re offering me better pay with a straight shift. No more flipping back and forth.”

  Shit. I wouldn’t pass that up either. I hate when our shifts rotate. I pout my bottom lip out to let him know I’m disappointed even though I am aware it won’t help my cause, whatever that is.

  “I’m gonna miss you,” I blurt out. It sounds pathetic like a boyfriend just broke up with me, and for a split second that’s how it almost feels. “Who’s going to keep me company on breaks or help me when I mess up?”

  He exhales a cloud of smoke as he smiles at me and tosses his cigarette out into the street.

  “You’ll still see me around. And besides, there’s still Larry and the whole rest of the crew. You’ll be fine.”

  “I know,” I say, closing my trunk. “Well, I guess we’re all finished here. Thanks for helping, by the way.”

  “No problem, that’s what friends are for. Do you need help locking up or anything?” he offers.

  “Nah, I’ve got it. You better get home to your wife. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

  Locking up, I can’t help but think how work will be so different without him there. It almost makes me sad.

  I try to put on a happy face even though I’m feeling a bit down about the news Jeremy just gave me as I walk in the door when I get home.

  Chapter 6

  One year later

  “Fuck, babe. You were so good tonight,” I say as my head collapses on the pillow.

  I’m so exasperated after the way Brett’s just fucked my brains out. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but whatever it is, I like it.

  It’s almost like he can’t get enough of me lately. In the past six months, we went from having sex once or twice a week to about four times a week. Not bad after more than a decade of marriage.

  I love the way he can’t get enough of me, the way he worships me and makes me feel sexy. A lot of my friends and coworkers complain that they don’t have sex often or worry that their partner no longer finds them attractive. With Brett, I have no doubt about what he thinks because he shows me on a regular basis.

  Thinking back on it, I don’t even believe that we had sex this often when we were in our 20s. Well, maybe but it’d be a close run for the money.

  “I love you,” he rolls over toward me, pulling me into him.

  Scanning his eyes, I can see the sincerity and hear it in his voice.

  “I love you, too,” I brush my lips against his as he rests his forehead against mine.

  After a few moments, he sighs and leans back on his pillow with me still wrapped in his arm. Laying my head on his chest, I listen to the beat of his heart as his chest rises and falls.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” I ask, running my fingers through his chest hair.

  Another heavy sigh escapes his lips.

  He’s thinking about something, but I don’t know what. Again, I wish I could read his mind as he can with mine.

  “Are you going to talk to me?” I ask, stretching over to my side of the bed as I grab my cup and take a drink with the blanket still wrapped around me.

  “Cathy, if I ask you something,” his voice trails off.

  I give him a minute to collect his thoughts or gather his words, but they never come.

  “What? What do you want to ask me?”

  “No, never mind,” he says.

  “Oh no, you can’t do that. You can’t start something and then say whatever. That’ll drive me crazy. What is it? You can ask me anything you want; you know that.”

  His eyes dart back and forth, and there’s a faint smile beginning to pull at his lips.

  “You know how we’ve been talking about our fantasies lately?” he sits up and grabs his phone.

  How could I forget?

  Since we’ve been having a lot more sex lately, we’ve also been talking a lot more about sex, including our fantasies.

  The odd part is as much as we’ve talked about some of the things we’d like to do or try, I’ve been the only one doing any of the talking. I’ve told him of all the things that interest me, including one of my darkest fantasies of being ‘kidnapped’ and ‘forced’ by my abductor.

  Of course, I explained that I want him to be the kidnapper who ‘forces’ me, but I’ve always been into sadism and masochism. Sometimes rope binding and spanking just aren't enough in the world of BDSM.

  I’ve always been a very sexual person and loved all things bad, naughty, dangerous and dirty.

  Obviously, I don’t really want to be kidnapped and raped because that would be scary but the whole rape fantasy has always appealed to me as long as it was with someone I trust.

  A big part of the fantasy is being overpowered and taken. It’s the complete opposite of my everyday real life where I’m always in control, always in charge and always have a say.

  Plus, I like it when Brett’s rough with me and I like being somewhat powerless and vulnerable, especially when it comes to sex with him. It’s one of the things I love about being restrained when he ties me up or pins me down.

  Deep down, I think a lot of women like their man to take control and just use them, take what’s already theirs and do it without contrite.

  I know I do.

  I give Brett a lot of power during sex. I trust him completely.

  The fact that he’s not just coming out and saying what’s on his mind has me a bit worried since I’m usually up for almost anything.

  Almost.

  There are a few things, disgusting things, where I draw the line, but I’m pretty sure he’s right there with me. Neither of us has ever been a fan of bodily functions or fluids.

  “Spill it,” I say. “Tell me what’s on your mind, or I’m going to go nuts.”

  His smile is contagious, but part of me is grinning back at him because I’m nervous. Brett’s never really told me any of his fantasies, so if he’s bringing it up and is holding back, it’s gotta be something either really kinky or really bad. The two of us, for the most part, have always been able to talk about our fantasies.

  “I want to show you something and see what you think,” he says.

  I watch him enter his phone’s passcode and swipe to his homepage. He taps on an app that I don’t recognize and does something in it before he hands me his phone.

  “Tell me what you think of this,” he passes it over to me.

  I’m not quite sure what I’m looking at or what app he’s using, but I pick up on the fact that I’m looking at a photo of a threesome with a woman and two men.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  I’m not quite sure what he’s expecting me to say or why he’s showing it to me. I try to hand his phone back to him, but he refuses it.

  “No, scroll down and look at the other stuff,” he says, pushing my hand back toward the center of my body.

  Scrolling through his phone, I see orgies, threesomes, and a picture of a woman fucking a man while a second guy sits beside them, stroking his cock as he enthusiastically watches.

  “What is this, babe? What the hell am I supposed to be looking at?”

  I’m so confused.

  We’ve always looked at porn together. Hell, we’ve got a whole stash of dirty magazines hidden in our closet so I don’t understand why he’s so eager to show me this.

  “What would you think about doing some of that stuff?” he asks.

  Several years ago, we had talked about swinging but never acted on it. I don’t know what stopped us or why we never went through with it, but we never did. He’s the only man I’ve been with for years.

  “We’ve talked about swinging,” I say. “Are you wanting to try it?”

  He takes his phone from me and scrolls through some more
of the pictures.

  “Well,” he says, looking at one picture in particular. “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean? What are you trying to say because I don’t get it.”

  After a few beats, he exhales a deep breath, almost like he’s mustering the courage to ask me something. His eyes close as his jaw tightens and he pulls me against his long torso, holding me close.

  I can hear his heart beating, and it’s going a mile a minute. My heartbeat begins to match his as I go into high alert mode.

  Something’s up.

  Sitting up straight, he draws in a sharp breath of air and looks down into my eyes as I remain nestled against him.

  “I don’t know any other way to say this” he begins. “Cathy, I-I want to share you.”

  What did I just hear my husband say?

  “Share me? What do you mean?”

  I’m trying to keep an even tone in my voice as I sit up and pull the blankets around my breasts, holding the covers a little tighter than normal. What the hell has he been looking at or reading?

  Share me?

  What the hell does that even mean?

  His time on the internet is starting to worry me.

  The hesitance that’s coming from him is out of this world.

  “Have you ever heard the term, ‘hotwife’?”

  I repeat it in my head: hotwife. What the hell is hotwife? Is he just making random shit up?

  “Brett, why do you want to share me with other men?” I ask.

  “Because, Cathy, I get pleasure from giving you pleasure,” his warm breath tickles my earlobe. “And it doesn’t matter who gives it to you as long as you enjoy yourself.”

  The tone of his raspy voice as he says these words gives me goosebumps all over my body.

  I should be appalled, but I’m not. I should be angry, but I’m not. I should be disgusted, but I’m not.

  I’m not any of those things.

  I am, however, curious and intrigued.

  It’s no secret that I’ve had a few crushes here and there. And it was never limited to just the guys at work. Some of my crushes have been on his friends.

  The only difference is I never acted on them, and now he wants me to.