I couldn’t look at the kitchen island without getting wet.

Every time I walked past it, I remembered how Mason had bent me over and fucked me senseless while my husband’s expensive plates sat neatly on the shelves above us. His cum was still leaking out of me hours later, a constant filthy reminder of what I had done.

I spent the rest of the day in a haze of guilt and unbearable arousal. I tried to write. I tried to read. I even tried to call Lucas. But every single thing I did led me back to Mason, his deep voice, his cruel grey eyes, the way his thick...