Companion Story to
Peter got out of his car. He was home late. Again.
But this time he had a good reason.
It’d been several months since he’d last checked his website; fully automated, it rarely needed him at all. But he liked to keep his hand in it, tweaking and maintaining it. And he liked to read Kat.
He used to check near daily, eager to read her thoughts and words. But now he tended to wait, store up her stories, reading masses of them during rare spare moments.
Today, after talking to Hayato and between his other meetings and jobs, he’d logged on, curious what he’d missed in his wife’s life.
He’d scrolled down to the last post he’d read more than three months ago, an interview with Lyndsey Wayne, a student from one of the local colleges who’d been outed. He’d read the next post. And then the next. The one after that and the one after that.
He kept reading until his phone rang—a client whose appointment he’d missed. After contacting Janie, giving her detailed instructions to handle things for the rest of the day, Peter took his laptop and locked himself in his car.
It took him the better part of the afternoon to finish reading everything and the effort had left him weary, worried, and nervous. He needed to head home. Needed to head toward Kat.
But he had a mission first. He couldn't go back to her with things the way they, apparently, were.
Kat’s stories were always hot. Sexy. Fun. She had the ability to turn him on and make him swell with affectionate, admiring pride.
But these stories she’d posted—the poems she’d left—were different. His heart ached at the crushing disappointment and looming loneliness weighing down each word. Even though she never said his name, never mentioned him at all, he could read himself between the lines of her prose.
Even her fans—her devoted followers—could see something was wrong. Concern and questions had commandeered her comments.
Are u ok? : (
Why so sad?
He had to fix this.
He’d thought he had; clearly, he hadn’t.
But he would. Somehow, he would. He had to.
So, after making a quick stop on his way home, Peter grabbed his bag from the car, slinging it over his shoulder, and headed into their house, his almost weightless gift heavy and meaningful hidden inside. He patted the bag and headed up the steps to the door.
He’d gotten her a gift to make up for it. A heart-shaped pearl and silver pendant on a thin silver chain. A pretty, little bauble, shiny with sincerity. The perfect gift to a wife from a husband who’d screwed up. He was sure of it.
Peter paused. His hand hovering over the lock, his keys jingling loosely in his hand, Peter stopped and stared.
Hanging on the door was a photo. Kat, glossy and prim in crisp linen and pinstripes on the page, lay on the lawn. Her head was cocked to the side as her fingers pressed into the keys of her computer. Her pink tongue peeked out to slide across smooth, full lips. One stiletto pump hung limp from her toe, coyly toying with the idea of falling to the ground.
Peter pulled the taped picture from the door, staring intently at her face. God, he knew that look. The hot flush that rushed her cheeks. The wide, hazed gaze of her sly, slanted eyes.
She’d been writing. Sex. She’d been letting her characters run rampant and ravenous all over her screen, their passions rolling around in her head as they poured and pooled onto her page.
God, he knew that look. Intense and intent, seeking ecstasy as it stretched and reached for release. That look—not all that different from the look she wore during sex, that look that often led to other, even hotter looks—heated his blood and fired his brain.
He opened the door.
Scattered like breadcrumbs along the floor, photos lay face-up like a brightly colored path leading up the stairs. More pictures of her writing. Ones of her reading. He gathered each one up, a small stack building in his hand.
He hesitated, his hands unsteady before he gripped the image laying on the top step of the staircase. It was Kat half-covered in white lace with green silk—familiar as their first time—draping down her body. His mouth—open and dry—gaped as he touched the picture’s smooth finish.
He looked up, seeing the trail of laminated paper lead to his office, one tucked half-under the door, urging him to enter. He stared at the trail.
They weren’t dirty pictures. Not really. Like the ones already in his hand, she wore clothes. See-through lace lingerie and a swath of silk that would always remind him of sex, sure, but all but fully covered.
No, the pictures weren’t dirty. They were almost innocent as she peeked coyly up from her book or grinned invitingly over her laptop screen. They were—like Kat herself was—provocative. Tempting. Teasing with just a taste that taunted you to take.
Peter smiled like a fool. A happy idiot.
Stooping low to gather all the pictures up in one swoop, he swept them all toward his office door. He’d look at them—really look—later. Maybe with Kat. Maybe they’d pour over her photos—over her—together.
But, for now, urgency rode him. Turning the knob, he wanted—needed—to know what was behind the door.
He expected to see Kat waiting behind his desk. Or maybe sitting in one of the office chairs. Or maybe spread out on his desk.
Hell, he’d have taken her just standing inside.
But the room was empty.
Peter blinked blankly at the dark quiet filling the room and frowned. He didn’t understand. A trail that led nowhere? What kind of game was she playing at?
He stepped inside the room, a flicker in the large window beckoning. It was faint, but unusual. He stepped closer when he heard a sound—a soft moan purring distantly. He walked toward his desk, turning the corner.
There, taped to his screen, was another picture of Kat. In this one, she looked directly—unabashedly and daringly—at him. Her black eyes sparked with excited, even foolhardy, challenge. A close-up, he could only see from the very tops of her breasts up. But he could tell that she was on her knees, leaning forward, her breasts pressed tight together creating a sultry, shadowy cleft that drew the eye. He knew that look. He knew it intimately well.
Carefully, he peeled the page away from the screen, his eyes focused on the photo. But a flicker of motion distracted him. That same soft hiss, sounding sweet in the air, seeped into his senses.
He looked at the screen. Not asleep as it should be, his computer was open to his security surveillance program. The house was quiet inside and out except for two rooms. His office where he watched himself stand stooped over the screen. And the bedroom.
Peter choked on a breath as the photos fell from his hands, spilling out to scatter at his feet. Uncaring, he leaned in close to peer at the screen.
Kat was lying on the bed—their bed—with every toy, from floggers to whips, from paddles to belts, from clamps to cuffs, everything was spread out like a buffet on the bedspread. And her.
His breathing became labored. He sank down into his office chair dumbly. His jaw dropping, he stared wide-eyed and struck.
Framed by the large, thick, oak bedposts, Kat lay on her back, stretched and arched on the soft, fern-colored spread, her long, thin legs parted with her knees bent. Facing the camera, her hands furiously worked between her thighs, a long, thick vibrator whirring as she fucked herself with it. And she was fucking herself, there wasn’t another word for it. He watched her fist thrust—unmercifully pound—against her pussy, making her writhe and moan while her other hand ground at her clit.
She looked wild, needy, almost senseless, her head tossing her dark, tangled hair about her and her almond-shaped, heavy-lidded eyes held wide. The sounds—muffled by the minuscule microphone—were raw and ragged, purring roars of pleasure that even electronically stifled made him hard as hell.
Peter’s eyes flicked to the other, shadowed, almost eerily still image, where he saw himself perched, practically leering at the large LCD screen. His shoulders were hunched and his face was set in hard, hungry lines.
He sat back and tried a deep, heaving sigh. Christ, he couldn’t go to her like this. Not raving, ravaging, half-hanging off a very precarious edge.
She was his wife. His fucking wife. In their bedroom. In their bed. The symbol of their marriage, of their lives together. Their past, yes, but their present and future too. She deserved better from him than some horny beast. Some crazed man with the control of a teenager.
She deserved better than the lustful man he’d been when they first met. He wanted to be the man who loved her now. Who would love her forever.
He shut his eyes, his resolve strengthening.
But then he heard it, just a brief silence—an almost audible tightening of muscles—before he opened his eyes to see Kat come. Her hips pumped in tantric abandon and her mouth gaped open, heavy, heaving breaths panting from those pretty, parted lips.
He stood, stepped over the spill of pictures, and stalked straight to the bedroom.
Kat jumped when the bedroom door smashed open, banging with frightening force against the wall. Her heart—still pounding from her orgasm—raced even higher as her hand, still wet and clutching the huge, blue, whirring vibrator, clasped her chest.
Peter stood in the doorway, his chest heaving. He almost glared at her with a fierce fire burning behind his alter ego glasses. Her eyes widened as she took him in. He looked enraged, his nostrils flaring and his fists clenched. He looked like he wanted to devour her.
“You’re home.” Kat lay back on the bed, her hands spreading the toys around her as she pushed them out of her way. “I’ve been waiting.”
He gave an almost harsh sounding scoff while his eyes scanned the bed. “I can see that.” He stepped into the room, his body fluid as an animal as he prowled through their dark green, forest-like room. She bit her bottom lip as he stalked closer and closer. He dropped his bag on the hardwood floor with a loud thud. “You’ve been a busy girl, haven’t you, Kat?”
Uh-huh. “I was looking for something.” Her eyes widened in mock innocence.
“You were, huh?” His eyes continued to flick all over the bed.
“Yep.” She set the vibrator aside. Reaching under a rich, bronze pillow, she pulled out a ruler. One of those sturdy twelve-inch wooden ones. She lifted it to him, presenting it to him. “Do you like it?”
She smiled when his eyes flared. “You’ve made quite a mess, Kat.” Tsking, walked to the bed. “First the photos left all over the house—even one left tacked up to the front door where anyone could have seen it—and now this.” He shook his head. “Do you know what happens to little girls who don’t put their toys away properly?”
Kat smiled—grinned really. “What?”
“They get their asses spanked.” He took the ruler from her, the wood biting into his palm. “Come here.”
Kat didn’t move, waiting.
“I said, come here, Kat.”
Still she stayed put. She wouldn't move until he said it.
“Katherina,” he ordered between gritted teeth. “Come.”
Her smile widened, warmed, instantly. “Yes, Peter.” She scooted down the lush, green bed until she knelt on the edge between his legs.
He gripped her by the waist and swiftly twisted her, flipping her over face-down on the spread with her legs dangling off the edge of the bed as her toes dug into the rug’s deep green wool and her ass pushed up.
“Not a sound, Katherina,” Peter warned, his hard hand pressing deep into her flesh. “Don’t move or speak or do anything, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Peter,” she said, earning her first swat. Kat gasped, choked on a rush of air when the ruler smacked across one cheek in a quick swing. He stuck her again, a matching blow mirroring the other cheek.
“Widen your legs.” He dipped the ruler between her thighs, smacking the sensitive inner skin, urging them to move. “I want to see you get wet for me.”
Kat spread her legs, hissing at the sting before her skin heated sweetly. Yes.
Read Part Two Here