Chapter 5
I have a lawyer draft divorce papers and send them to the hospital for Marcus. When he can’t be found, I try calling him – straight to voicemail. Blocked. I open Instagram, thinking maybe I can message him about signing the papers there. The moment I open the app, his latest post hits me in the face. My hands shake as I tap the photo…
The raw intimacy makes me sick. There they are on some private beach, her tiny bikini leaving nothing to imagination. His hand grips her bare thigh possessively, fingers digging into soft flesh as he pulls her against his bare chest. Her nipples strain against wet fabric as she arches into him, head thrown back to expose her throat to his hungry mouth.
She’s writhing against him like some desperate lover, all bedroom eyes and parted lips. His muscled chest glistens with sweat or seawater, their bodies intertwined so intimately it’s practically pornographic. That pristine white bandage on her finger is like a trophy of conquest.
And Marcus? The naked finger where his wedding ring should be might as well be giving me the middle finger.
Their raw sexual chemistry sets my screen on fire. So public, so deliberately erotic –
like they’re filming their own private show.
His caption: [So grateful that every time I turn around, you’re still here.]
My heart feels like it’s being ripped out. I can’t breathe through the pain. Tears splash onto my phone screen, blurring the image.
He said those exact words to me once.
The night Ray left for abroad, I found him drunk in some dark corner. His body burned against mine as I struggled to get him home.
I barely got him through the door before he pressed me against it. His face was flushed, shirt already torn open. His eyes devoured me, dark with raw need. “Thank god you’re here,” he growled.
My core clenched as I helped strip off his soaked clothes. His body was pure sin – rippling muscles, that perfect V–line disappearing into his jeans. My fingers traced
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every hard ridge, feeling him shudder under my touch.
He grabbed my hips roughly, yanking me up against his arousal. His mouth claimed mine brutally, tongue invading deep as I moaned into him. I locked my legs around his waist as he carried me to the bedroom.
His hands were everywhere – squeezing, stroking, making me arch and gasp. He marked my neck, my breasts, moving lower until I was crying out his name. We tore at each other’s clothes desperately. The rest of the night blurred into sweat–slicked skin, animalistic groans, and waves of ecstasy that left the sheets
torn and both of us bruised.
–
Dawn found us still tangled together, bodies sticky and marked. What started as pure lust became something deeper – or at least I was naive enough to think so.
Now look how things have changed. I’ve become the obstacle in his path to “true
love.”
20
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