and groaned.
He heard it all—Olivia begging for more, commanding her husband to give it to her deeper. Her whispers became increasingly frantic until she cried out, a single muffled scream that caused Ryan to spurt onto his own belly, her orgasm mixing with his as Carly snored peacefully beside him.
He never forgot that night. Never forgot those sounds of love that haunt him even to this day. He longs to hear those words, soft melodies that alighted from her lips.
Ooooooooh.
Ahhhhhhh.
Mmmmmmmn.
Yeahhhhhhhhhhhh.
Sounds of love…
From this woman…
The object of his obsession…
Another man’s wife.
The huge, warehouse-like space is littered with cubicles and conference tables made of steel, mesh, and chrome. Four elevated offices located in the four corners of the building; the domain of management—hers—Olivia’s diagonally across from his. The staff, he recalls with a smirk, calls them birdcages, and that is exactly the way he sees his office, as a cage—because everyone, all the staff, can watch the intimate actions of their superiors just by glancing up at the elevated space and four sheets of glass.
While sitting in his cage, re-reading an e-mail thread from a throng of engineers, his cell rings. He absently glances down and notices he has three missed calls. Answering on the fourth ring, he notes the time. Well past 3:00 P.M.
Miles. No preamble.
“I waited for close to ninety minutes…”
Ryan clenches his teeth and swears.
“Oh, shit, man, I totally forgot. Got tied up with this defect shit.”
“Whatever. We need to talk. It’s about Olivia.”
This stops him dead in his tracks. He is silent.
“Hear me?” Miles demands.
“Yeah.” A million scenarios run through his head at warp speed. Of course, she told him. Ryan would have been naïve to think otherwise.
What to do?
Deny it?
No, she has the letter…his words on a page.
He wonders if Carly knows yet.
If not, it would only be a matter of time.
Oh, Christ.
“I have to take care of a few things,” he hears Miles utter, “but will be free later on. We need to talk. Tonight—can’t put this off any longer.”
“Okay.”
Miles provides the when and where, then hits End. Ryan stares at the cell in his palm. Glancing up, apprehension covering his face like stubble, he peers toward her office. It sits vacant.
He punches the switch angrily, bathing his cage in privacy.
Men always focus on the physical to a fault.
He does that now.
Reliving, in excruciating detail, how she took him—inch by delicious inch—into her awaiting mouth.
He recalls with razor-sharp clarity the feeling of absolute pleasure he took in slipping inside her mouth. The feeling was so exquisite and overpowering, as he knew with a surety he would not last, couldn’t hold back the passion surging forward like a wailing, out-of-control sandstorm. No longer caring, his mind ceased to perform the analysis, to evaluate what he was doing there and then, or the dire consequences of his actions.
When exactly did he compromise his marriage? He should have paused to consider this simple question.
But he could not.
Was it months back when he began, seemingly unconsciously, to notice her in a different light—looking forward to the times when she sashayed into his cage, flashing her signature smile, her touch alighting on his shoulder in passing, but the feeling remaining for several hours?
When was it?
She had kissed him that night—and that single act had changed him. His internal fire turned up high—no longer smoldering, but an all-out four-alarm blaze; he was no longer able to contain his emotions.
Was it minutes or hours earlier when Miles’ gruff voice interrupted their pleasure?
He did not know. Nor did he care.
The two of them, Olivia and Ryan, had scattered like rats, retreating to their separate lairs to wait—he knew—counting the seconds until her husband’s snoring returned to normal. Then creeping back up the carpeted steps slowly, hands extended in front of him as he moved stealthily, his mind a daze, no longer thinking of her—his wife, Carly, who lay sleeping and unaware below.
When he reached the first floor, he found it bathed in darkness. No matter how long it took, he would feel his way, inch by inch, foot by foot. He did so, fingers outstretched, remembering where the couch and other furniture lay. Found the couch quickly and sat down slowly, aware of every movement and every sound his body and the fabric made. He willed his breathing to return to normal, but it would not comply. He was that fired up.
Then he heard her.
Every sense was tuned to an ultra-high frequency.
Progressing down the stairs—he was sure.
Returning to him.
He squeezed himself and stifled a moan. His heart raced. Soon now—nothing else mattered. It was messed up—this situation—if one could call it that—if he allowed himself one split second of reasoned thought to consider—but he did not.
He was too far gone for that.
She approached. He silently inhaled, smelling her scent. It was overpowering—the musk that accompanies passion—raw, primal sex smells. His fist rushed to his mouth. She was ready for him, meandering around furniture silently, footfalls light on the thick carpeting.
A woman’s touch. He felt it on his face and chest, moving downward, experiencing the fingernail as it grazed skin and navel before ending at the top edge of his boxers. He held his breath, and held his cock in his palm, as in offering. Take it, he willed her, before I go insane.
Then he alighted from the couch as she silently complied, taking him gently inside.
The feeling was indescribable. Her mouth was an oven and he thrust toward the back of her throat as he reached for her locs, the ferocity within causing him to tremble. Toes curling on the cool carpet, legs outstretched, holding her head in his hands while bucking his hips slowly. Darkness had settled around them like a blanket. Occasional house creaks and groans interrupted the otherwise silent hush of the night.
He bucked harder, increased his thrusts.
