Unfaithful by Devon Scott Page B

hands, her throat. So, you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t make a conscious decision to stick your dick in another man’s mouth—it just happened.”
    “Damn, Reese—do you have to be so graphic?” Ryan asks, and then laughs.
    “I’m just saying…so chill, man. It’s gonna be fine. Doesn’t mean you’re whole demeanor has changed. Doesn’t mean you’re suddenly gay!”
    Reese is watching Ryan, observing his eyes.
    “Yeah, you’re right,” Ryan says, sitting up, taking a long sip, nodding as he swallows. “I’m not gay. That shit ain’t me. Nothing to worry about,” he says surely.
    “So, do you truly believe that, or is this just a bunch of lip service?” Reese has suddenly stood, stepped away from the table so she can remove her robe. Her nipples are the size of quarters. They are dark and push against the thin fabric. For a moment, Ryan does not answer. He stares, allowing himself to drink in her features. And she allows him, letting his gaze paint her body with its intensity. Finally, as she returns to her seat, he answers.
    “No lip service, Reese.” His eyes have not wavered from her bosom. “This is real.”
    She nods, tugging at the stud in her eyelid. Licks her lips absentmindedly. The act is not lost on Ryan. “Good,” she says, “gotta get back in the saddle, then. Get some pussy and claim it as your own. Tame the beast; forget all about this thing that’s got you unnerved. You know?”
    “Love it when you talk dirty.” Ryan grins. Reese just shakes her head.
    “Got any more piercings?” he asks suddenly.
    Reese considers his words. Her head is cocked to one side, taking in this new persona—and Reese likes what she sees.
    “Perhaps,” she replies, drawing the word out as if it were a magician’s scarf, its length seemingly without end.
    “Where?”
    He has placed the mug down and stands to remove his tie. He flings it to the chair beside him. Another button to his shirt undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
    “Aren’t we the inquisitive one?” she whispers, their stares locked in a tug-of-war.
    The pulse in his forehead, neck, and chest is a syncopated fury that is exhilarating. Ryan remains standing, glaring at her silently.
    “Well, let’s see. There’s this one,” Reese says, pointing to her eyelid, “and another,” she adds, feeling for the stud in her nose, “and another,” she grins, a half second pause before uttering, “between my sugar walls.”
    Reese recites these words in singsong.
    Ryan closes his eyes for a brief moment before pulling a chair over the bare hardwood floors with a scrape until only inches separate them. His fingers find the smoothness of her thigh, lightly running upward toward her panty line.
    She does nothing to stop his advances.
    “Show me,” he whispers, his breath a hot flash on her cheek.
    Reese is unblinking as she counts the rhythmic seconds to her own pounding heart, the muscle threatening to tear her apart.
    But she remains whole, and breathes deep.
    Slowly, silently, Reese leans back, fingers hooked under white cotton fabric, legs parting leisurely, sugar walls coming unhurriedly into view…

Chapter 18
    “WHERE WERE YOU?!?”
    The sound reverberates across the expanse of bathroom floor tile, Madagascar African stone, to be exact. Its rich, brown-indigo hues contrasting with the shiny, off-white porcelain wall tiles and glass shower stall. Ryan has his back to her—shampoo-adorned head thrown back when he hears the sound. He was in the midst of recalling his wonderful, stress-relieving morning and late decadent lunch, when she came in, messing up his revelry.
    “Excuse me?” He turns slowly, soap on his face, hanging like a beard from his smooth chin. He lets a stream of water beat down over his forehead, cleansing his eyes. Carly stands on the other side of the shower glass, its water-laden streaks muting her visuals. She is beautiful; two piece olive suit, thin framed rectangular glasses, not a hair out of