Taking Inventory
There is a specific look a husband gives you when he’s opening his front door to let you break his marriage. It’s a mix of terror, sickening arousal, and total, broken submission.
David had that look down to a science.
"She's upstairs," David muttered, keeping his eyes glued to the hardwood floor as I stepped past him. He was a small guy, dressed in a soft sweater that made him look completely out of place next to my frame.
"Good. Get the camera ready," I told him, throwing my leather jacket onto the banister. "And make sure the lighting is better than last weekend. I want every inch of her covered in high-definition."
"I updated the rig," he said quickly, almost eager to please me. It was pathetic, but it fueled the fire in my gut.
I didn’t wait for him. I walked up the stairs, pushing open the master bedroom door. Vanessa was waiting on her knees at the foot of the bed, dressed in nothing but white thigh-high stockings and a breathless expression. She looked up at me, her eyes tracking the breadth of my chest, her lips parting as she took in the scent of a man who didn't ask for permission.
Behind me, the soft patter of David’s socks entered the room. I heard the click of the tripod adjusting. I reached down, gripping Vanessa by her hair, tilting her face up to mine.
"Tell your husband what you want, Vanessa," I ordered, my voice booming in the quiet room.
She looked right past my hip, looking directly into David’s camera lens. "I want him to watch you ruin me, Julian. I want him to see how much I can take."
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