What Happened When My Husband Saw Me Looking at Another Man

My husband’s company lunch was always held on the first Friday in March, and always at the same unbearable hour: two in the afternoon, too early to be hungry and too late to escape with the excuse of work. I was a designer in the same company’s creative department. I didn’t go to those lunches for pleasure. I showed up because my position, which depended equally on my talent and on my married name, required me to be there.

Lorenzo watched me from the head of the table, dressed in dark gray, speaking in a tone that only I recognized as tense. We had been married for eight years. I knew how to read every gesture of his, every inflection, every way he clenched his jaw when something displeased him. And that afternoon, something displeased him.

The new regional manager, a young man who had been brought in two weeks earlier, kept looking at me with an insistence that went beyond courtesy. Every time he crossed the room, his eyes came back to me. When I poured myself water, his eyes came back to me. When I walked past his chair to greet a coworker, his eyes followed my dress down to the last seam.

My husband noticed. My husband always noticed.

—Are you comfortable, love? —he asked in my ear sometime between dessert and coffee.

—Fairly.

—I’m going to ask you something else —he said, without raising his voice—. Do you like the way that man is looking at you?

I didn’t answer him. I just smiled, spun my glass between my fingers, and let the silence say for me what it wouldn’t have been wise to say out loud. Lorenzo stood up, buttoned his jacket, and walked away with that calm of his that wasn’t really calm at all but a very elegant form of controlled fury.

When they started talking about the evening party on the hotel terrace, I invented a headache and left. I knew he would come home late, and that he would come back different. I had seen it before, and I had learned to wait for it.

***

I got home after eleven. I showered slowly, letting hot water run down my back until my skin turned red. Then I opened the bottom drawer of the closet, the drawer he had given me on some birthday or other and that I only opened when I wanted to tell him something without needing words. I took out the black lace set. The finest piece, the one he had chosen on that trip to Florence. I put it on slowly, like someone putting on an answer.

I went down to the kitchen, turned on only the range hood light, and made myself some tea. I sat on the high stool at the counter, crossed my legs, and waited. Under the lace, I was already wet. I had been wet since dessert, since the moment I understood how the night was going to end.

The wall clock struck two. Then two-thirty. At three sharp I heard the key in the door and a click too soft for someone who had drunk that much whiskey.

Lorenzo came in without greeting me. His jacket hung off one shoulder. His shirt was open to the second button and his tie was half undone, held by two long fingers that at another time had seemed to me like a pianist’s fingers. That night they were the fingers of a man who had spent hours holding himself back.

He stopped in the doorway. His dark eyes went over me from my feet to my mouth with that calculating slowness I knew so well. I kept stirring my tea, careless, as if he hadn’t just spent the afternoon watching another man strip me with his eyes.

—You’re still awake —he said. His voice was rough in his throat. Alcohol and rage.

—I was waiting for you.

He advanced three steps. Only three. And stopped at a distance that wasn’t enough to touch me but was enough for me to feel the heat he carried under his shirt and the hard bulge already marking his trousers.

—Do you have any idea what it was like —he said— to sit there and let another man believe, even for a second, that he could look at you like that?

A humorless smile tightened his mouth.

—He doesn’t work for me anymore —he murmured—. I fired him when I left.

He rested his hand on the counter, beside my hip. Still not touching me. Still measuring. I held his gaze.

—You know how much it bothers me —he went on— when someone forgets their place and thinks they can look at what’s mine. —He lowered his eyes to the lace, to the breasts peeking out between the black edges, and lifted them again—. Did you dress like this for me?

—For who else?

I let the answer hang in the air. I ran my tongue over my lower lip, slowly, without looking away. His pupils darkened at once.

—Do you want to get even with me, sweetheart? —I asked.

—I want to do more than get even with you, Camila —he replied, and in the way he said my name fit all the jealousy of the day—. I want to remind you whose pussy this is, with my cock, not with words.

His hands settled on my waist as if they had never belonged anywhere else. His thumbs brushed the lower part of my breasts through the lace. I leaned toward him just enough for him to feel my breath.

—I like the trouble I get myself into —I whispered.

—You’re playing with fire.

—I know. Fuck me, Lorenzo. Fuck me like you spent the whole night fucking that idea with your eyes.

***

He lifted me onto the counter with one movement, as if I weighed nothing, and stepped between my thighs. The cold marble touched my legs and I pressed my heels against his hips to pull him closer. His erection outlined his trousers with obscene hardness, and the friction, exactly over the soaked lace, made me close my eyes for a second, just a second. A low moan escaped my throat.

—This little outfit —he said, pressing his mouth to my ear— is like you’re asking me to lose control.

—Lose it.

He bit my earlobe carefully and slid his tongue underneath. His hands moved up my back to my nape, then down to my bra and, without warning, tore it. The fabric gave with a sharp sound. My breasts were exposed to the kitchen’s cold air and to the heat of his gaze, which was much more intense. He took them in his hands hard, pinched my nipples between thumb and forefinger until I gasped, then lowered his mouth and took the left one whole, sucking, licking, biting with his teeth until I felt the pull straight in my cunt. When he moved to the other nipple, I was already moaning his name.

—I’m going to make you scream my name —he said, hoarse, with my nipple still between his lips—. All fucking night.

—Start.

I sank my nails into the back of his neck. He kissed me like he wanted to leave a mark. His tongue came in without asking permission and mine received it without apology. His hand slid down between my legs, pushed aside the wet lace, and two fingers sank into me at once, to the knuckles. I cried out against his mouth. He pulled them out slowly, shining, and ran them over my lips.

—Look how wet you are —he murmured—. Is all of this for me or for the way he was looking at you?

—For you —I gasped, sucking his fingers—. Always for you.

—Good answer.

When he broke the kiss, both of us were breathing too fast. His fingers went back between my legs, three this time, and started pumping at a brutal rhythm while his thumb rubbed my clit in circles. The marble counter creaked beneath me. I gripped his shoulders so I wouldn’t fall.

—You’re pushing me to the edge —he growled—. And I’m going to give you everything you ask for.

—With your tongue —I begged—. First with your tongue.

He traced a path with his mouth: neck, collarbone, sternum, belly. He slid me to the edge of the counter and knelt between my thighs. He tore off the bottom piece with the same ease with which he had yielded the bra, and it ended up in shreds between his fingers. He brought it to his nose, smelled it, growled, and let it fall to the floor. His hot breath reached me before his tongue did. When he started licking me, he did it slowly at first, the tip of his tongue tracing the full length of my cunt, bottom to top, tasting me as if he hadn’t eaten in years. Then with the hunger of several hours. He opened my lips with two fingers and drove his tongue between them, sinking into me, fucking me with it while his nose rubbed my clit.

—Fuck, you taste like something that drives me crazy —he murmured against my flesh, and the words vibrated inside me.

His fingers dug into my hips to hold me steady. He sucked, licked, drew the clit into his mouth until my back arched on its own and my legs started trembling on his shoulders. He slipped two fingers inside me again, curved, looking for that spot only he knew, while his mouth kept working me from above.

—Lorenzo… I’m going to come… —I gasped, tugging at his hair.

—Not yet, love.

He straightened just as I was about to come, his mouth shining with me, beard wet, and the cruel smile of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. He wiped the back of his hand over his lips without taking his eyes off me. I almost insulted him. The belt hit the floor with a dull thud. The trousers opened, and when he freed his cock, hard, thick, the tip already gleaming with pre-cum, my mouth watered. He lifted me down from the counter with the same authority with which he had put me on it. I understood what he wanted without him having to say it.

I knelt in front of him on the cold tiles. I wrapped my hand around the base and looked up at him before sticking out my tongue and running it slowly from his balls to the tip. He hissed through his teeth. I caught the drop shining at the top with my tongue, savored it, and only then took him into my mouth. First the tip, tasting it with my tongue, circling the head. Then a little more, while he tangled his fingers in my hair with that contained desperation of a man at the brink.

—Fuck, Camila… like that, like that… —he whispered.

I looked up at him from below, eyes bright with saliva and held-back tears, and swallowed him down to the base. The tip hit the back of my throat. He groaned from his chest, a low sound that raised goosebumps on my skin. He started moving my head with his hand, setting the pace, thrusting with his hips, fucking my mouth without asking permission. Saliva ran down my chin. My mouth filled with him, with his smell, with the taste of salt and man and whiskey from his skin. With my free hand I stroked his balls, squeezed them gently, and he growled each time I did it.

—Look at me while I shove it down your throat —he gasped.

I looked at him. He pushed deeper. Tears filled my eyes and he noticed and groaned at the tears. When I felt him getting close to the edge, when his cock swelled even more against my tongue, he pulled me back gently by the hair.

—No —he said, panting—. The first one I’m going to swallow inside that pussy. Get on the counter.

I obeyed.

***

I braced myself on my elbows, legs spread wide, displayed for him over the marble like a plated dish. He positioned himself at my entrance. He ran his cock, hard and shiny with my saliva, along the full slit of my cunt, top to bottom, soaking himself in me before fitting the tip in. He pushed in slowly, measuring me, checking how far he could go before sinking in. The head entered me with an obscene splash. He stopped. He looked at me.

—Say it.

—Fuck me.

—Again.

—Fuck me, Lorenzo, all the way.

And then he sank in all at once, all the way to the hilt, until I felt his balls slap against my ass. I screamed. The whole kitchen echoed my scream. I had to bite my lip so I wouldn’t wake the neighbors.

—You’re mine —he said, his forehead pressed to mine, not moving, letting me feel every inch of him filling me—. Only mine. This cunt is mine.

—Only yours. Only yours.

He started moving slowly to withdraw almost completely—I watched him come out, shining with me, the vein standing out—then filled me again with a deep thrust that made the lights above the counter dance on the ceiling. The second thrust was the same. The third was harder. His fingers dug into the inner sides of my thighs, spreading them wider, forcing me to take all of him.

—Say it again —he demanded, thrusting—. That you’re mine.

—Only yours, Lorenzo. Only you fuck me like this.

—No other man —he growled, driving in harder with each word— is going to touch you. Ever. No bastard who looks at you is going to know what I know.

—No one —I gasped—. Only you.

He lowered his head, bit my right nipple hard enough to make me cry out, then licked it afterward to soothe the bite, and kept lowering the rhythm with thrusts that no longer measured anything. The counter creaked beneath me. The bowls trembled on the countertop. He grabbed the back of my neck with one hand to force me to look at him, and with the other kept holding my hip, driving me onto his cock.

—Watch how I fuck you —he said—. Watch how it goes in and out.

I looked. I dropped my eyes and saw how his cock entered and left, shining, soaked with me, how our skin blurred together with every thrust, how the man who had smiled all through lunch at the head of the table lost his composure. His balls slapped against my ass with a wet sound. One of his hands slid down my belly to my clit and started rubbing it in fast, precise circles, all the while keeping up the same pace with his cock.

—Come for me —he ordered—. Come on my cock.

And I came.

I came arched against him, screaming a sound that wasn’t even a word, while my whole body shook and my cunt clenched around him in waves I felt rising inside me to my belly. He didn’t stop. He kept driving into me with deep thrusts while I came, stretching the orgasm until I could no longer tell where one ended and the next began. Until the last shiver faded, and then he came out slowly. His cock emerged shining, even thicker, still not having come.

***

—Turn around —he said.

I pressed my chest against the cold marble. My nipples hardened on contact. I lifted my ass for him, still trembling from the first orgasm. I felt his hand, wet with my own arousal, slide down the slit to the other side. One finger. I felt it circle slowly, moisten me, press. It sank in without resistance. Then another. I bit my lip. He leaned over my back, his lips against my nape, while his fingers opened me from within.

—I want you to see how far I take you tonight.

—Everything —I begged into the marble—. Take me to everything.

He curved my neck with his other hand, tugging my hair just enough to arch me backward. I no longer measured time. He withdrew his fingers. I felt the tip of his cock, still soaked with my cunt, press against the other opening. When he entered from the other side he did it slowly, centimeter by centimeter, letting me adjust to the thickness, stopping each time a gasp escaped me, then pushing a little more. It was slow and it was too much and it was exactly what I had been after when I put on the black set and went down to the kitchen to wait for him.

—Fuck —he said, once he was all the way in, pressing his forehead to my shoulder blade—. So tight. You were made for me.

He started moving. At first carefully, with short, shallow thrusts, while two of his fingers slid down to my cunt and sank back in, filling me from both sides at once. I screamed into the marble. Then, when he heard me beg him for more, when my body had loosened completely around him, not so carefully. He drove deeper. The fingers of his other hand were fucking my cunt at the same rhythm, and I no longer knew where one sensation ended and the other began.

—Tell me how it feels —he gasped into my ear.

—Full —I gasped—. I’m all full of you.

—That’s how I want you.

I moaned into the marble, cheek pressed against it, mouth open, unable to stay quiet. He groaned against my nape. The whole kitchen filled with the sound of the two of us, the slap of skin against skin, the smell of whiskey and cold tea and sweat and sex. His balls hit me again, this time against the fingers he himself was driving into my cunt.

—I can’t hear you —he murmured, biting my shoulder hard enough to leave a mark—. My name.

—Lorenzo.

—Again.

—Lorenzo, Lorenzo, Lorenzo…

He came out of me with a sudden motion, turned me over on the counter again, spread my legs around his waist, and entered me from the front in one thrust. His cock, wet on both sides of me, sank to the bottom of my cunt. I screamed his name again. This time he didn’t last long. His rhythm turned erratic, brutal, more animal than human. He grabbed my hips so hard he would leave the imprint of his fingers on me for days.

—I’m going to come inside —he growled—. You’re going to feel every last drop.

—Inside —I begged, pressing my heels into his back—. All of it inside.

He drove in one last time, all the way, and came with a roar unlike any other sound he had ever made. I felt the hot pulse inside, his cock emptying in waves, semen filling me while he kept thrusting slowly, prolonging it, until the last contraction. I came with him. The second time. The one I hadn’t been expecting. A long, deep orgasm that tore his name from my mouth in a broken moan.

We stayed like that for a while, him bent over me, still inside, feeling him soften slowly, me with my back against the marble, both of us breathing. When he pulled out, I felt the hot spill run down my thigh, and he looked at it, and smiled with that proprietary smile of his. He leaned down, ran two fingers through my slit, gathered some of what was his mixed with mine, and brought it to my lips. I opened my mouth and sucked his fingers clean without looking away.

—Good girl —he murmured.

Then he stood up fully, barely fastened his trousers, and lifted me in his arms against his chest as if I weighed nothing.

—We’re going to give you a bath —he said, and his voice was already different, much lower, much more mine—. And to bed.

—And tomorrow?

—Tomorrow I’ll do it again. And the day after. Until you forget there’s another man in the world.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him carry me. The range hood light was still on, and the tea on the counter had gone completely cold.

***