---
The door clicked softly behind her as Madeline left for work, her perfume still lingering in the air. She'd made breakfast. Eggs, toast, coffee, like she'd done it a hundred times before. Like we were a real couple.
I didn't know how to feel about that.
I cleaned up after eating, trying to get used to the space. Our apartment. My new life. Every time I looked around, it hit me again—I was living here. With her. As her husband.
It still didn't feel real.
I was mid-wipe on a plate when a piercing scream shattered the silence.
It came from across the hall.
I dropped the sponge. Grabbed the keys. My legs moved before my mind could even catch up.
Someone was in trouble.
I found the door slightly ajar. The scream had come from inside. "Hello?" I called out.
No answer.
Another muffled yelp. Bathroom. Farther in.
I pushed the door open and followed the sound. As I reached the steamy bathroom, the smell of floral soap and damp heat hit me first—and then I saw her.
Chloe.
Madeline's best friend.
Naked. One hand clutching a towel against her chest, the other pointing toward the corner.
"Spider!" she cried out dramatically, jumping behind me like I was her personal bodyguard. "It's huge. And I swear it looked at me."
I was about to roll my eyes—until I actually saw it.
Damn thing really was big. I grabbed the nearest slipper, struck it fast, and flushed it down.
"That was horrifying," she said, relaxing slightly. Her voice had changed—less panicked now. Softer. More deliberate.
"You're safe now," I said, already backing toward the door.
But then her hand slid around my wrist.
"Don't go," she said, looking up at me from under wet lashes. The towel had loosened just slightly, exposing the edge of a curve that pulled at something primal in me.
I should've stepped away.
But her fingers slid down my arm, her body pressing up against mine, warm and damp from the shower.
"You know…" she whispered, "You've got this new… energy about you. Ever since you became hers."
I froze.
"Chloe—this isn't a good idea."
"Then why aren't you stopping me?" she said, pulling the towel away completely and guiding my hand to her waist. "Why did you come running when you heard me scream?"
My throat was dry. My pulse thudded everywhere. Her body was a storm against mine—soft skin, hard truths, dangerous intent.
I didn't answer.
Because she was right.
My hands were already on her hips, steadying her. She leaned in, her breath brushing my lips. Our mouths met like we'd done this before. Like we were already past the point of return.
She tasted like soap and sin.
And I gave in.
Her back met the bathroom wall with a soft thud, her legs curling around me like she'd been waiting for this moment. The steam in the room clung to our bodies as we moved—fast, messy, hungry. Her moans echoed off the tiles, a mix of satisfaction and surprise.
I knew this was reckless.
But I couldn't stop.
Not now.
Not when her body was begging for mine. Not when I finally felt wanted in a way I didn't have to earn.
---
She pulled back from the kiss, just enough to look at me—eyes heavy, lips swollen, breath uneven.
"Come with me," she whispered.
Still dripping, still bare, Chloe grabbed my hand and led me out of the bathroom. Her skin glistened in the hallway light, every step revealing more of her rhythm, more of the silent heat she carried in her hips.
We reached her room.
Dark curtains. Soft lighting. A bed that looked too inviting.
She didn't wait. She backed into me, slow and deliberate, her bare back pressing against my chest. I felt everything. Her curves. Her warmth. Her intention.
She arched slightly—like she knew what she was doing. And man, she did.
I ran my hands along her waist, down her hips, then back up, tracing the outline of her body like it was a map I needed to memorize.
She let out a soft sound as I pressed closer.
My lips found her neck—wet kisses along her shoulder, her pulse racing under my mouth. She leaned her head back against me, sighing as my hands explored her curves, my grip tightening just enough to make her shiver.
"Touch me like you want me," she murmured. "Not like you're asking for permission."
That flipped a switch.
I turned her around and kissed her again—this time deeper, rougher, hungrier. Her fingers clawed at my shirt until it was off. My hands slid down, gripping her from behind, pulling her hard against me.
She gasped.
And then she guided us to the bed.
She climbed on, all smooth skin and inviting eyes. When I moved behind her, she pressed her hips back, slow, teasing, pushing into me like she already knew what I needed.
"Don't hold back," she breathed.
And I didn't.
I pressed into her—firm, deep—letting my hands explore the dip of her back, the curve of her hips. She moved with me, every motion a silent plea for more. Our rhythm built fast, hard. Her body was soft heat, and mine was fire meeting oxygen.
She pushed back harder.
I gripped her waist tighter.
The sound of skin on skin filled the room. Her cries were muffled by the pillow as I drove deeper, unable to stop, unwilling to slow down. She was all around me—hot, slick, eager—and I was too far gone to think straight.
My hand slid around her front, found that sensitive spot, and worked her in time with every thrust. Her moans became cries. Her cries became screams.
And when she came—shaking, gasping, collapsing under me—I followed right after, crashing into her like a wave that had no choice.
We stayed there. Breathing hard. Skin against skin. Her hand lazily tracing my arm.
"I didn't plan that," she whispered.
"Neither did I," I said, still inside her.
But I didn't move.
Because part of me wondered if this was the real reason I was brought into this life.
And if Madeline wasn't the only one I was meant to belong to.
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