Chapter 6

Laure’s POV

"Amanda, I can't cheat on my husband," I whispered, the word cheat tasting like ash in my mouth, even as my body screamed for the exact opposite.

"Is it really cheating if he abandoned the contract eighteen months ago?" Amanda countered, leaning in closer, her eyes flashing with a dark, persuasive intensity, she took a slow sip of her drink before dropping a casual, devastating bomb.

"Think about it, Laurel, he’s in Chicago right now. You think a powerful, wealthy billionaire tycoon like Leonard Nicholson is spending his nights in a sterile hotel room just reading financial briefs? For all you know, he’s out there right now, sexing some twenty-two-year-old model or executive assistant just because he can."

The words landed like a physical blow to my chest. Leonard with someone else. The thought made my stomach twist, but the alcohol twisted it into something angrier. Something venomous.

If I don't know Amanda to have my best interest at heart I would have thought otherwise, she and Leonard ain’t always cool, they are only surviving each other for my sake, he thinks she is a bad influence, she on the other hand thinks he is selfish and controlling.

"Men like Leonard don't starve themselves, darling," Amanda continued softly, her voice a comforting, toxic lullaby. "They just starve their wives, you are forty years old, at the absolute peak of your sexuality, and you are letting your youth rot for a man who wouldn't even offer you his hand this morning, let me help you find your satisfaction somewhere else, you deserve to feel alive tonight."

I stared at her, the crimson lights throwing dramatic shadows across her face, her words were logical, terrifyingly persuasive, and wrapped in the deepest layers of friendship.

My body was a chaotic war zone of alcohol, intense physical arousal, and a sudden, sharp spike of marital spite.

For one long, breathless moment, I actually considered it.

I looked at the dark corners of the lounge, imagining a man chosen by Amanda, imagining an escape from the prison of my own skin.

"I..." my voice faltered, the internal battle raging behind my eyes as I clutched the edge of the obsidian bar, completely unaware of how deep the quicksand beneath my feet truly ran.

"Amanda, stop," I said, my voice shaking as I firmly pulled my hand out from under hers. I gripped the edge of the bar, using the physical contact with the cold stone to tether my spinning mind.

"I am a married woman. No matter what Leonard is doing in Chicago, no matter how much he freezes me out, I stood at an altar and I made a vow, I won't lower myself to his level, I won't break."

Amanda let out a soft, defeated sigh, raising her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I hear you. You’re a saint, Laurel. A beautiful, starving saint."

….

By the time the town car pulled up to the glittering glass facade of our Upper East Side penthouse, the crimson haze of the lounge had faded into a dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes.

I was entirely conscious, but the alcohol still ran heavy and thick through my veins, making my limbs feel loose and overly warm.

I bid Amanda a quiet goodnight as the driver prepared to take her back to her own downtown apartment, and I stepped into the private elevator alone.

When the doors slid open into our foyer, the silence of the penthouse rushed to meet me like a physical blow.

I kicked off my five-inch stilettos, holding my breath. It was past midnight. I didn't want to wake Lilibeth.

I couldn't risk her seeing me like this, flushed, smelling of gin and sweet vermouth, with my hair slightly wild from the dance floor. If she saw me, she’d ask questions, she'd look for the fractures, and I was too tired, too raw, to keep the plaster over the cracks.

Treading softly on the cold hardwood, I stole past her closed bedroom door, keeping my movements completely silent until I slipped into the dark expanse of the master suite.

Even after twenty-four hours, Leonard’s scent still lingered in the air, a sharp, oppressive blend of expensive leather, cedar, and sandalwood.

It clawed at my senses.

The absolute irony of this room choked me. The only reason we still shared this massive, pristine king-sized bed was to preserve a ghost, we did it entirely so Lilibeth wouldn't see the true, devastating picture of how far apart her "perfect" parents had truly become.

We were actors sharing a stage after the play had already ended. Sad reality.

But tonight, the stage was empty, and the alcohol was making my body wage an absolute war against my mind.

I was so horny it physically hurt.

The heavy bass from the club, the phantom sensation of the stranger’s proximity, and

Amanda’s toxic reminders about Leonard’s potential infidelities had mutated into a feral, consuming urge.

I wanted to be ruined.

I wanted to be fucked badly, to be devoured, to have a man’s weight pin my frame into the

mattress until I couldn't think.

Moving like a woman possessed, I marched over to the fruit bowl where I had hidden the contraband this morning.

My hands were trembling as I snatched the sleek black box and brought it back into the master bedroom, locking the door behind me.

I popped the lid.

The soft-silicone red rose gleamed under the pale moonlight cutting through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I pressed the power button, and the low, deep, pulsing hum vibrated right into the meat of my palm. The sound alone made a hot spike of moisture pool between my thighs, I needed to know what it felt like.

I couldn't wait another second.

Tearing at my clothes, I stripped off Amanda’s tailored wool vest, kicked off my trousers, and ripped my silk camisole down over my arms until I was completely bare in the center of the dark room.

I fell back onto the edge of the mattress, my legs spilling open automatically.

The moment I pressed the suction mouth of the rose directly against my swollen, pulsing core, my head slammed back against the pillows.

A violent tremor rocked my entire body. It was an explosive, hyper-intense sensation, nothing like the old, standard toys I kept hidden in the drawer.

It felt alive.

Desperate for friction, desperate for a deeper invasion, I drove two fingers of my free hand deep inside myself, finger-fucking my own slick, starving heat in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm.

My other hand flew up to my breast, my fingers twisting and pulling at my turgid, aching nipple, trying to simulate the hands that Leonard had denied me for eighteen months.

The pleasure built too fast, too violently, supercharged by the alcohol in my bloodstream, I lost control.

The boundary between restraint and reality shattered.

As the climax hit me like a physical collision, a loud, unbridled scream tore from the very bottom of my throat, echoing sharply against the high, bare ceilings of the bedroom.

"Laurel..." I gasped out, my own name a ragged sob as my hips arched violently off the bed.

I screamed again, a high, desperate release of pure physical ecstasy and buried grief.

Then a knock on the door.

"Mom? Mom, are you okay?!"

Lilibeth’s voice shattered the darkness like a brick through glass.

I froze, my heart leaping violently into my throat.

The rose vibrator was still humming loudly against my thigh, in my intoxicated, desperate state, I hadn't realized how loud I was being, I hadn't realized the sound would carry down the hall.

Panic, cold and suffocating, instantly flooded my system.

I fumbled frantically for the power button, killing the vibration, and shoved the toy under the duvet.

"Mom?!" the doorknob rattled. "I heard a noise. Are you crying?"

I swallowed hard, desperately trying to smooth the ragged, breathless edge out of my voice as I pulled my silk robe over my bare, sweating body. I walked to the door, opening it just a crack, keeping myself hidden in the shadows.

Lilibeth stood there in her oversized pajamas, her eyes wide with genuine, sleepy alarm.

"I'm... I'm fine, sweetheart," I stammered, forcing a breathless, tight smile through the dark. "I'm so sorry, I had... I had a horrible nightmare about the hospital again, I didn't mean to wake you."

Lilibeth searched my face in the dim light, her

shoulders slowly dropping from their defensive stance. She let out a long, heavy sigh. "God, Mom, you scared me, you sounded like you were in pain."

"I'm okay, I promise, go back to bed, Lili," I whispered softly, reaching out to gently brush a stray hair from her forehead. "I'm just going to take a warm shower to clear my head."

She nodded reluctantly, turning back down the hallway with slumped shoulders.

I closed the door, locking it safely, and leaned my back against the wood.

Tears of pure frustration and humiliation pricked my eyes, even after that explosive, shattering release, I still didn't feel satisfied.

The emptiness inside me hadn't changed, it had only been magnified.

My body was still yawning, desperate to be genuinely touched by another human being, my skin was still starving, my nipples still ached to be sucked, to be held in a mouth that belonged to someone who actually saw me.

Turning on my heel, I walked blindly into the master bathroom and stepped into the shower, letting the scalding water blast over my face to wash away the sweat, the gin, and the bitter taste of my own loneliness.