I couldn’t eat. For two weeks straight all I kept thinking about was fucking his brains out. Riding him until he orgasmed. Making him want me over and over again. Sometimes it was embarrassing that my mind would wander to such toxic, filthy thoughts.
But maybe Dylan was right about me. I was like Miley in a way. I did have an addictive personality too, only mine wasn’t to drugs or alcohol. It was an addiction to sex and attention. I could never get enough of it, and once someone showed any interest in me, I sucked it dry until I got bored with it. He was right. So, so right.
Instead of eating, we went up to the attic and fucked.
And then fucked again.
We fucked every single day until my husband returned—in the kitchen, in the den, in the relaxation room, in mine and Roland’s bedroom, and even in our shower, and when my husband returned home, I fucked him too, and I was purposely loud. It made Dylan jealous, and when Roland was at his golf course again the next day, Dylan took the first opportunity he could to grab me by the arm and drag me into the nearest closet, wrapping a hand around my throat and fucking me like he owned me.
This was sinful, deceitful, and completely ridiculous. . . but I couldn’t stop. Because for the first time since being married, I truly felt like I was living. But then everything changed four months later.
Roland got into a car wreck.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Roland was alive and I was so happy about that, but his injuries were severe and doctors had already warned that it would take him months to heal.
At first, it was nice having Roland home more often. He’d broken his arm and fractured his shinbone, which meant I had to be his limbs and help him. I didn’t mind doing for him. In fact, I enjoyed being the one he called when he needed assistance. He requested Dylan here and there, but not as much as he did me. I guess he didn’t want to look weak in front of Dylan—some kind of pride issue. I never questioned it.
But I noticed that as the days passed and shifted into weeks, Roland was changing. He was becoming bitter, in a sense. He’d gotten injured right before a huge championship game. He felt he could’ve won, and I knew he would have, but the trophy didn’t go to him because he was forced to miss it. And as it always is with business, companies canceled contracts for endorsements with him, to jump on the new golf champion.
Before long, Roland was pissed about everything.
Pissed at his arm for being broken.
Pissed at the driver who’d hit his car and injured him.
Pissed that I didn’t make his soup hot enough.
Pissed about how I prepared his alcoholic drinks.
He even got mad once about the way I sucked him off.
“Just get off me,” he grumbled one night, pushing my head away.
“Oh my God. What is wrong with you, Roland?” I snapped, wiping my mouth with the back of my arm.
“I’m just not in the mood.”
“You’re never in the mood anymore.”
“I have a broken arm and leg, Samira. Only so much I can do right now,” he grumbled, pulling his boxers up.
“Okay. Sure. Whatever.”
I turned over with my back to him and shut the lamp off. Roland shut his off too and, several minutes later, I heard him snoring.
I looked back at my sleeping husband, then I climbed out of bed and tiptoed up the stairs.
I gave Dylan’s door a knock. Then I heard quick footsteps and some giggling. I frowned at the door, grimacing deeper when he swung it open, shirtless, standing in only his briefs.
“Mel!” Dylan smiled at me.
I peered over his shoulder and noticed a woman with thick, curly black hair sitting on the middle of his bed in only a pink bra and panties. She waved. I snatched my gaze away, putting my focus on him again.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
“Oh—this is my guest, Willa. Met her at the bar. She’s staying the night with me.”
All I could do was stare at him.
“What?” he asked, cocking his head. “You said promise not to sleep with Miley. You didn’t say anything about hooking up with other people.”
I shook my head, giving him an incredulous stare before turning my back to him and storming back down the stairs.
Roland had been home for weeks, which meant I spent less time with Dylan. And he’d put his attention elsewhere—on another woman—and she was in my house stealing that away from me.
I didn’t go back to bed with Roland. I went to the relaxation room and stewed about the whole night, from my husband’s rejection to Dylan’s arrogance.
And then I realized that Dylan was just like all the guys from before. They’d sleep with me. Beg for me. Then they’d pretend I meant nothing to them after they’d had enough of me.