Page 49 of My Wife

I don’t expect the same treatment now. I’m almost sure that he decided to fuck my ass out in the open as a punishment for moving on with Tommy. Hell, he probably wishes that Tommy was the one I was forced to kill so the could have sex with me next to my most recent lover’s body.

A lover whocheatedon me.

I can’t forget that. I don’t know if it’s true. Clay’s already proved himself to be a liar. That could be another one, but part of me senses that itistrue. Tommy cheated on me. Doesn’t matter that I did it first, or that—technically—I’m doing it again.

When I think of Tommy and Summer together? I have to do something, and that something is Clayton Rivers.

So I rear back, taking as much Clay as I can. I scream. I don’t know why. It hurts, but I’m used to pain. It feels too intense, but I don’t care about that. I scream because I want to, just like I wanted to fuck Clay.

And now he’s fucking me.

“Oh, Cyn.” He braces his arms on both sides of me, his sweatshirt rubbing against my back as he moves. “My perfect whore. My good girl. My fucking amazing wife. I thought I imagined how good you felt, wrapped around my cock like this. I can’t wait until I can lose the condom and have you hugging my cock again. This… this right here? It was worth the wait. It was worth theblood.”

I’m glad he thinks so.

He ducks his head, burying his nose in my loose hair. “I promise. I’ll make it up to you. I’m back. I’m not going anywhere. Nothing…no one…will separate us again? You understand me?”

I do. Do I believe him?

That’s a trickier question.

When I don’t answer, he reaches around me. He finds my clit, playing with it like it’s his favorite toy, and even if I wanted to deny him giving me an orgasm like this, my traitorous body has other ideas.

I scream again, but this one is pure pleasure. My legs go weak. My nails dig in the dirt as I ride out my climax, all while Clay refuses to release my clit until I finally collapse beneath him and he moves his hand to alter his angle a little. He’s still fucking me, but it doesn’t last. Two more pumps and Clay fists the grass, grunting through clenched teeth as he finishes inside of me.

Only then, when he’s done, does he let his weight settle on my back, keeping me trapped beneath him.

Somehow, we ended up by the knife. He grabs it, wiping as much of the blood off of it on the grass as he can. Once he’s pleased with the blade, he moves it in front of me, our reflections staring back at us.

I look well-fucked. Clay looks well-pleased.

He grins. “Oh, yeah, baby. You understand very well, don’t you?”

I don’t knowwhat’s worse: that Clay ties up the used condom and pockets it, or he gets on his knees behind me, plugging my sore asshole as he checks to make sure he didn’t do any damage while he was fucking me.

Without the lube, he would’ve torn me in half. Even with the lube, he barely could thrust, I was that tight. The sex act wasn’t about pleasure. He made sure I got mine whether I wanted it or not, and he sure as hell got his as evidenced by the load in the condom, but I know better. It was an act of possession, and now that Clay’s proved to himself that I’ll still give in to him even after all this time, something about him… shifts.

He changes.

I see a glimpse of the man I married in the way he assures himself that I’m in as good a shape as can be expected after killing the man, then being fucked in the ass next to his corpse. He palms my cheek, dropping a kiss to the small of my back, then gets to his feet.

He finds my clothes. My panties go in another pocket. He leaves my ruined bra behind, then helps me pull on my jeans before easing my blood-stained shirt over my head. I give no resistance as he threads one arm through, then the next until I’m covered.

Clay disappears his knife back into its sheath. I never for a moment forget that it’s there, and that’s the main reason I allow him to curve my hand around his shoulder as he tilts me back, lifting me in a bridal-style carry.

We abandon my shoes with Chase. Because it’s easier to focus on ridiculous bullshit instead of the very real fact that my husband’s returned from the dead as a psychotic murderer, I’m grateful I have another pair of sneakers back at the cabin. When I run again… because Iwillrun again if given the chance… at least I won’t be barefoot.

I’m not exactly a light-weight, but Clay absolutely refused to put me down again until he’s brought me to the cabin I’ve shared with Tommy these last couple of days. Only then does he return me to my feet, never once giving any sign that he struggledcarried me all this way as he uses the keys who somehow stole from Tommy to let us in.

Closing the door behind him, he jerks his head at the couch. It’s halfway in the middle of the front room, most likely from when Clay used the key to let himself in before he chased me out through the back door.

“Go on, Cyn. Take a seat. Get comfy.”

“Why?” I ask, even as I drop down on the couch. My fingers are trembling nervously. I fist them before Clay can notice. “What are we doing?”

What ishedoing?

He takes up a position near the front door. Crossing his ankles as he leans back against the wall, Clay crossed his arms over his chest. His knife is out again, and the expression on his face would be irresistible if it wasn’t for what he says next.

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