Page 51 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“See for yourself.”

“Is it going to mess me up the rest of the day?”

She shrugs. “I think it’s sweet.”

Curious, I make my way over. One of the couples watching is whispering to each other in voices too low to hear above the music. The club is mostly empty at this hour, a safe place for people having affairs to meet before work. But the pairing behind the glass shocks me to my core.

One of my best friends—Fischer Elliot—a primetime anchor on a popular cable news network is taking a urethral sound practically out in the open for anyone to see. The person coaching him through it, whispering into his ear and holding him with so much tenderness it makes my heart feel like it’s being ripped from my chest is his brother. Another doorman of mine from The Eastmoor down the block.

Jesus Christ.

Not only have I never seen Fischer so much as hint at wanting to be with a man, but he looks enraptured. And more than that—deeply, deeply in love.

Matthew—my doorman—glances at the glass as he tightens his arm possessively around Fischer and whispers something in his ear.

Fischer—looking both pained and achingly vulnerable, kisses him deeply, begging him for something.

Matthew removes the sounding rod, and I’m faced with the jarring sight of one of my oldest friends ejaculating, his body twisting in ecstasy.

I haven’t taken a breath in at least a full minute, so when I do, it flows in with a gasp. And I’m not the only one gasping.

Sounding is shocking and deeply kinky, but it’s the brother part I’m struggling with most. I go back to Emilia who’s grinningbecause she knows me well enough to know I don’t get surprised easily. “You thought that wassweet?”

“So sweet I walked away. I’m surprised your friend didn’t use a more private room.”

“They’re brothers,” I hiss.

“Adopted,” she says.

“Really?” I suddenly feel immensely better.

“Did you not know Mr. Elliot was adopted? How am I the one telling you this? Didn’t the two of you grow up together or something?”

“We went to college together, and maybe he told me that. I don’t remember.”

“Ah, the good old days,” she says. “Back when Marianne was all yours.”

It’s a low blow, but she’s not wrong. When I think of my college days, it isn’t Fischer I think about.

“I’m never going to unsee that, you know?”

“I assumed you’d be happy for your friend.”

Frustrated and awkwardly aroused, I run a hand through my hair. I catch the time and notice I’m late for breakfast with my wife. “Will I see you tonight?”

“More than likely,” Emilia says.

I give her a nod and head for the elevator. When I pass the glass room again, I can’t help but look. Matthew’s topping Fischer, but it’s more than that. They’re making love.

Jealousy has become such a familiar creature inside me, fed and watered daily by Marianne’s sex-sated grins and images just likethat. I swear to God, I can’t go to the restroom in this city without seeing two people wanting each other with their entire beings.

Now that I’m home, back in the real world and not some Roman fever dream, I’ve been returned to my place, which is to say that I serve at the pleasure of my wife, who I doubt will everwant me again—unless she needs me to help her ruin someone in my spare time.

She’s dressed and all done up when I arrive in the dining room, a departure from her usual silk robe and sex-mussed bun. “Good morning,” she says with a smile, unbothered by my rumpled appearance.

“Good morning.” I walk behind her, plant a soft kiss on top of her head, careful not to mess up her hair, and take my seat. “Where are you headed looking so beautiful?”

Her smile tightens, and she spears a slice of banana with a fork. “Avery’s attorney’s office. She asked for moral support.”

---