My Husband’s Jealousy That Night in the Kitchen

Marcos’s company’s annual management meeting was being held in the ballroom of the Meridian Hotel, with that peculiar atmosphere of corporate events: pressed suits, calculated smiles, and conversations that went nowhere. My presence was non-negotiable. I had been in the design department for three years, too close to management to come up with a convincing excuse.

I sat where they directed me, across from the head table, with the glass of wine I had no intention of finishing and just enough conversation to seem present. Marcos was three seats farther down, between the financial director and an outside partner who laughed far too loudly at every joke he made.

The problem began twenty minutes in.

The new executive’s name was Adrián. They had hired him from a rival consultancy three weeks earlier, and he had the kind of confidence that came from knowing you were the recent addition everyone was talking about. He looked at me from the other end of the table with a calmness that wasn’t innocent. Once could have been distraction. Twice, carelessness. But he kept staring throughout the entire evening with an insistence that left no room for generous interpretations.

I was wearing a conservative navy-blue dress, my usual small earrings, my hair pinned up. It wasn’t an outfit designed to attract attention. But some eyes choose their target regardless of how hard you try to go unnoticed.

Marcos noticed before they cleared the first course.

I know my husband better than he thinks I do. I know how to read the tension in his jaw when he clenches it without realizing, the way his eyes turn cold when something truly bothers him. He said nothing during dinner. He made no visible gesture. He simply found my gaze from across the table with an expression that left me without an appetite.

I invented a headache at ten-thirty. I said goodbye with my usual smile, kissed Marcos on the cheek—he held my hand a second longer than necessary—and left before anyone could ask anything.

***

At home, I showered leisurely, dried my hair, and took the black lace nightgown I had bought on a trip and barely worn out of the drawer. I put it on. I studied myself in the bathroom mirror for a moment, assessing what I saw. Then I went downstairs to the kitchen, made myself an herbal tea, and sat at the counter with my legs crossed, waiting for it to cool on its own.

I didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for. I did know that Marcos wouldn’t be coming home calm.

The kitchen clock read quarter past three when the lock clicked.

He came in with the same restraint he would have used in a shareholders’ meeting: slow steps, controlled posture, his jacket hanging from one shoulder as though he had just remembered he was wearing it. His tie was half loosened. He smelled of single-malt whisky and that combination of irritation and exhaustion that settles in when someone has spent hours holding himself back.

He searched for me with his eyes as soon as he crossed the threshold.

He found me.

I stayed exactly where I was: sitting at the counter, the cup between my hands, my legs crossed, not moving. The extractor light illuminated the kitchen at a low angle, and the black lace caught that light in a way I had calculated without quite meaning to.

—You’re still awake. —His voice had the characteristic roughness of alcohol and restrained anger.

—I wasn’t tired.

He came closer slowly. It wasn’t the slowness of someone hesitating; it was the slowness of someone who wanted to arrive in a specific way.

—Do you know what it’s like to sit through that dinner watching one of my own executives act as if you hadn’t come with me? —He planted one hand on the counter beside me, without touching me yet. His dark eyes traveled up and down the lace before returning to my face. —He doesn’t work for the company anymore.

I raised an eyebrow.

—Tonight?

—Before they served dessert.

Something moved through my veins that wasn’t exactly surprise. I shouldn’t like him doing that so much. But I did. I felt my pussy grow suddenly wet beneath the lace, that immediate reaction I couldn’t hide from him.

—And did that calm you down?

His mouth formed a humorless smile.

—Not particularly. —His fingers brushed my waist, barely, testing the ground. —Did you put this on for me?

I set the cup on the counter.

—Who else would I have put it on for?

Marcos’s pupils darkened. It was that fraction of a second I knew so well, that moment when he stopped thinking and started deciding. He took me by the waist with both hands and lifted me onto the counter in one smooth movement, positioning himself between my knees. His hands were firm and warm on my hips, his thumbs tracing the lower edge of the nightgown with a pressure that wasn’t accidental.

—You’ve been driving me crazy since eight tonight, —he murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed my earlobe. —And I hate being driven crazy in public.

—And in private? —I asked, noticing that my voice had dropped an octave.

He pulled back just enough to look at me.

—In private, I do what I want. And tonight I want to fuck you until you forget what that son of a bitch’s name was.

He kissed me before I could answer. Marcos kissed with intent, without unnecessary pauses, as if he knew exactly where he was going. I tangled my fingers in the back of his neck and moved toward the edge of the counter, drawing him to me. I felt the rigidity of his body, the tension accumulated over hours turning into something else. I lowered one hand and squeezed his cock through his trousers: it was hard as a rock, pressing against the fabric.

—You’ve been like this all night, —I murmured against his mouth.

—Since I saw you walk through the door of that ballroom, —he replied, biting my lower lip.

He moved away to trail his lips slowly down my neck, without any hurry, biting the skin just below my ear until he drew a moan from me.

—I want to remind you who you belong to, —he murmured against my skin—. Whose pussy this is.

—Yours, —I said without thinking—. It’s yours, Marcos.

—Say it again.

—It’s yours. Everything of mine is yours.

He slipped the straps of the nightgown from my shoulders. The lace fell to my waist, and the cool kitchen air brushed my breasts in contrast with the heat of his palms. He gripped my tits firmly, his thumbs drawing slow circles over my nipples, which hardened instantly, and I arched my back involuntarily. He lowered his head and took one into his mouth, sucking it with the methodical calm he applied to everything he considered important, running his tongue around it before biting me gently. He pinched and stretched the other nipple with his fingers until pleasure edged into pain.

—Marcos. —His name came out on its own, without my deciding to say it.

He switched to the other breast and repeated the ritual, slower, crueler. I could feel my pussy clenching around nothing, already wetting the insides of my thighs. I grabbed his head and pressed him against me.

—Don’t stop.

—I’m going to do much more than that.

He continued downward, pushing the lace aside, dragging his mouth over my stomach, biting my hip slowly. He spread my legs with both hands, without asking permission, and pushed me back until I was completely open before him on the kitchen counter, my pussy soaked and pulsing beneath the low extractor light.

—Look at you, —he said hoarsely—. All wet. You were already like this when I came in, weren’t you?

—Yes.

—Say it properly.

—I’m dripping for you. I’ve been like this since I heard you put the key in the lock.

His hot breath reached me before his mouth did, and the contrast made my whole body shudder. When his tongue found me, I propped myself on my elbows so I wouldn’t fall backward. He started at my clitoris, with the tip of his tongue, drawing precise circles that tore a long moan from me. Then he moved lower, spread my lips with his fingers, and pushed his tongue inside me, fucking me with it, tasting me as if he had spent the whole night thinking about exactly that.

—Fuck, you taste so damn good, —he murmured against me, and the vibration of his voice made my legs tremble.

He returned to my clitoris, this time sucking all of it into his mouth, wrapping it with his lips while he thrust two fingers into me. He curled them inside, finding the spot without hesitation, and began moving them with the precision of someone who knew the entire map. His tongue never stopped working me on the outside, and his fingers pounded me from within, the two sensations building until my legs began to shake over his shoulders.

—Marcos, I’m going to come, —I moaned, gripping the edge of the counter with one hand and his hair with the other.

He lifted his head. He withdrew his fingers. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

—Not yet, —he said, straightening. His chin was glistening with me, and his eyes were completely black.

I almost screamed at him. My orgasm hung an inch away, throbbing in my belly, my pussy clenching around nothing. I slid off the counter on unsteady legs and knelt on the cold tiles. I undid his belt without my fingers trembling, pulled down his trousers and underwear in one tug, and his cock sprang hard against my face, thick, the tip already wet.

I took it in my hand first, measuring what I already knew, squeezing him from base to tip in a slow movement. I ran my tongue over the head, collecting the drop there, and heard him hold his breath for a second before releasing it slowly.

—Put it in, —he said, his voice changed—. Suck the whole thing.

I opened my mouth and took him in as far as I could, feeling him fill me to the throat. I began sucking him slowly, moving up and down, playing my tongue along the underside, letting my saliva run down his shaft to his balls. I grabbed them with my other hand, squeezing them gently while I kept sucking him.

His fingers found my hair with a gentleness that didn’t last long. He clutched it in his fist and guided the rhythm, his eyes fixed on me despite being half-lidded, following every movement with the concentrated attention he gave to what he considered valuable. He pushed a little farther in, until I felt my throat open, and I held steady.

—That’s it, fuck, —he muttered—. That’s how well you always suck me.

I liked knowing that everything that had happened that night—the jealousy, the restrained anger, the executive fired before dessert—was all condensing in my mouth in the kitchen at three in the morning. I quickened the pace, hollowing my cheeks on the way up, letting the tip strike my palate on every downward stroke. I felt his thighs tense.

—Stand up, —he said suddenly, gently pulling my hair upward—. If you keep that up, I’ll come in your mouth, and I want to do it inside you.

He lifted me onto the counter again. He shoved my legs apart and positioned himself at the entrance without preliminaries. He ran the head up and down over my soaked lips, rubbing it against my clitoris, and tore a moan from me that I couldn’t hold back.

—Ask me for it, —he said.

—Put it in me.

—How?

—Put the whole thing in me, Marcos. Fuck me already.

He moved forward slowly, letting me adjust as he filled me inch by inch. When he was completely inside, he rested his forehead against mine and stayed still for a moment, eyes closed, feeling my pussy tighten around him.

—Fuck, —he murmured—. You’re burning inside.

I began moving before he did, rocking my hips to feel him slide in and out just a little. That drew an unexpected guttural sound from him. He gripped my hips and began setting the pace: long and deliberate, each thrust withdrawing almost entirely before plunging back in to the hilt, hitting my cervix in a way that made it impossible to think about anything else. I braced my hands behind me on the counter and crossed my ankles around his waist, forcing him to stay deeper.

—You were the only person I cared about in that room, —he said without stopping his thrusts.

—I know.

—He acted as if that didn’t exist. As if this cock wasn’t yours. As if this pussy wasn’t mine.

—You’re never invisible to me, Marcos.

Something in his face changed. He squeezed my hips harder, leaving his fingers imprinted on me, and increased the pace until it became a series of hard thrusts that made me slide across the counter with every push. The kitchen filled with the sound of us, skin striking skin, the wet slapping of my pussy swallowing him whole, our moans mingling in the silence of the early morning. He slipped a hand between our bodies and found my clitoris with his thumb without losing the main rhythm for even a moment.

I choked back a cry.

—Don’t hold back, —he said—. Scream it.

—The neighbors, —I replied, knowing it was an absurd objection by that point.

—I couldn’t care less about the neighbors. I want them to hear you come with my cock inside you.

His fingers became more precise, drawing quick circles over my swollen clitoris, and the combination pushed me to the edge sooner than I expected. I clung to his shoulders, dug my fingers into his wrinkled shirt, and let go. The shock ran from my feet to the nape of my neck, my pussy clenched in waves around his cock, and the cry that tore from my throat was anything but discreet.

—Yes, just like that, —he growled—. Squeeze me tight.

He kept moving, making use of every contraction, driving into me to the hilt with short, hard thrusts, until I began gently pushing at his chest because I couldn’t take any more.

—Not yet, —he repeated.

He pulled out suddenly and turned me over on the counter until I was facedown, my tits pressed against the cold surface and my ass toward him. He opened my legs with his knee and thrust into me from behind in a single push, drawing a moan that escaped from deep in my chest.

—This is how I should have had you all night, —he muttered, gripping my hip with one hand and my hair with the other, pulling it back just enough to make me arch my back.

He began fucking me from that angle, deeper, more brutally, and every thrust made me rise onto my toes. He dug his fingers into my hip and pulled my hair and drove his cock all the way inside me again and again, and I felt the cold counter stick to my nipples and a second orgasm begin to form somewhere different from the first.

—Marcos, again, I’m going to come again, —I panted against the marble.

—Hold it.

He changed the angle slightly, held me by both hips with both hands, and searched for a different spot, deeper, with a slower movement that made every muscle in my body tense at once. One of his thumbs moved backward, slick from how wet I was, and began massaging my ass with increasing pressure, pressing against my entrance with that patient firmness I found impossible to resist.

—Marcos. —This time it was a warning.

—I know what I’m doing, —he replied without stopping. His cock kept hammering inside me, and his thumb continued opening me slowly, sinking in just to the first knuckle.

I knew he did. The new pressure and the main movement at the same time made me arch my back until only my stomach touched the counter. His thumb continued with that patient firmness, opening me slowly, going a little deeper with every thrust, and the double sensation—filled in front and filled from behind at the same time—took me somewhere where nothing else existed but that. I dug my nails into his forearm without realizing it.

—You’re squeezing my cock like crazy, —he panted without slowing—. Come, fuck. Come for me again.

The second orgasm came from a different direction, deeper and slower than the first, a spasm that began in my lower belly and rose to my chest, taking me so completely by surprise that I screamed his name twice against the marble before I could control anything. My pussy clenched around him in long waves, my ass tightened around his thumb, and my entire body shook between the counter and him.

He came immediately afterward, thrusting to the hilt, and I felt his cock swell one last time before unloading inside me with a guttural sound that resonated across the tiles. I felt the hot stream fill me in pulses, his hips pressed against mine, his fingers digging into my waist until he finished completely.

He stayed inside me for another moment, breathing heavily against my back. When he pulled out slowly, I felt his semen begin to run down my thigh.

The silence that followed had a weight of its own.

***

We stayed still for a moment, tangled together on the counter, catching our breath. Marcos’s forehead rested between my shoulder blades, one hand spread across my lower back. My legs were still dangling, and the nightgown had become a scrap of lace around my hips.

—You should have told me when you left, —he said.

—I sent you a message.

—I didn’t see it.

—I know.

He helped me sit up. He lifted his head and looked at me with the expression he wore when he had acknowledged something he would rather not acknowledge.

—I’m not going to apologize for the way I am.

—I didn’t ask you to.

Something in his face settled.

He lifted me into his arms with the ease of someone accustomed to doing so and began walking toward the bathroom. I rested my head on his shoulder and let him carry me.

—I have a meeting at eight tomorrow, —I said.

—Today, —he corrected me. —It’s after four.

—Today, then.

—There’s plenty of time. —He turned on the shower with his elbow. —But rest first. —He left me standing at the edge of the bathtub and looked at me for a second. —Because if I spent the whole night thinking about you, today isn’t going to be easy either.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

He stepped into the shower with me without taking off his socks. It was so typical of him that it was more tender than ridiculous. The hot water began washing away the accumulated hours, and Marcos held me around the waist without saying a word, standing beneath the spray with his eyes closed.

—The next company gathering, —I said after a moment—, I’m staying home.

—No, —he said without opening his eyes. —You’re coming. But you’re staying by my side all night.

—Is that an order?

—A firmly worded suggestion.

I rested my forehead against his chest. The hot water fell over both of us, while outside the city continued its early-morning rhythm, completely unaware of everything that had happened in our kitchen.