We continue to spend the evening mingling and visiting with friends and business associates before we retire for the evening and head back to The Legacy. Stepping off the elevator and into the penthouse that Bennett owned when I first met him four years ago, we walk through the darkened living room. The only light is from the moon that’s casting its glow behind the snow-filled clouds outside the floor to ceiling windows that span across the two walls. I enter the master suite behind Bennett, and as I slip off my heels, I look up to see that he has already undone his bowtie and it hangs around the collar of his white tuxedo shirt, which he is now unbuttoning.
His eyes are rapt as they move down my body. I stand there as he slowly approaches and then slides his hands along the length of my sides until he finds himself on his knees in front of me. He runs his hands up my legs through the opening of the slit in my dress, and as soon as his fingers hit my panties, I turn it off.
The steel cage wraps around my heart and before my stomach can turn, I shut down.
Numb.
Vacant.
He drags my panties down my legs and I step out of them before I feel the warmth of his tongue when he slides it along the seam of my *, but I am able to keep myself from entertaining the slightest impulse of intimacy. I’ve been sleeping with my husband for years, but I refuse to allow the pleasure I lead him to believe I’m experiencing.
Why?
I’ll tell you why.
Because I hate him.
He thinks, in this moment, that we’re making love. His cock fills me slowly as I lie beneath him. Arms laced around his neck. Legs spread open wide, inviting him in deeper as he makes a meal out of my tits. He believes everything I want him to. He always has. But this is merely a game for me. A game he foolishly has fallen into. He never questions my love for him, and now my body writhes underneath his and moans in mock pleasure as he comes hard, jerking his hips into me, telling me how much he loves me, and I give his words right back.
“God, Bennett, I love you so much,” I pant.
His head is nestled in the yoke of my neck as he tries to calm his breathing, and when he lifts up, I run my fingers through his hair and over his damp scalp as he looks into my eyes.
“You’re so stunning like this.”
“Like what?” I question softly.
“Sated.”
Idiot.