I think, right at that moment, I hated my husband Steve more.

But really, who was worse? Steve knows I love him, he knows women flirt with him because he's intelligent, and witty and handsome and intriguing. He takes me for granted, just because he takes good care of me, and he can fuck me for twenty minutes and make me come three times. But he thinks it's more fucking amusing to get me all hot and bothered so he can catch me masturbating.

So here I am, I've met Kyle out shopping on a Saturday first time I've seen him in ten years, and I invite him home for lunch, because I know Steve will be home, and when it's time for Kyle to go, Steve will ask him to go. But my goddamned husband is getting so fucking amused watching me stare at Kyle, and he's so fucking confident about himself, that he asks Kyle to stay for dinner.

God I hate them both. Why the hell wouldn't Steve listen? He has no fucking idea why I hate Kyle so much. He has no fucking idea that I look at Kyle and I look at Steve and my brilliant gorgeous husband who I really do love just pales completely. I look at Kyle's olive skin and his lean 6'4" frame with the tight ass and the thin hips and the long legs and the strong back and the wide chest and the dark hair and the chiseled face and the big brown eyes and the muscular arms and the square jaw and that voice like honey. He's definitely the type that gets me hot. The type that gets me out of control. The type that my fucking arrogant husband thinks is so goddamned amusing.

But Kyle isn't just a type. I've hated him since before I even met him, listening to all the other girls at college talking about him, when they were sure their boyfriends couldn't hear. I hate that kind of arrogance, that expectation, that look, not just like he can make you come any time he wants, hell, my husband gets that look. It's that look like he knows he will make you come, because as soon as you get the chance and your boyfriend or your husband is out of the way, you'll rip off his clothes and rip off your clothes and beg him to make you come and come and come again the way nobody else ever has and nobody else ever will.

I don't think Steve has ever suspected why I'm so adamant about hating Kyle, or he wouldn't have told Kyle he could crash in the guestroom when we all realized it was getting late. I know Steve believed my stupid story ten years ago, because in his own quiet unassuming way he's just as arrogant as Kyle, except, and I hate this, I hate this, I hate saying it, in Steve's case it's not justified.

Maybe I needed to punish Steve for it. Maybe as I lay there, next to my husband, dripping wet, with my nipples hard, not even wondering whether he was really asleep or just faking so he could watch me play with myself, with my hand between my legs, remembering, remembering 10 years ago when we were still all in college together and Steve and I had been dating for just over a year, remembering Steve's voice calling my name, remembering the rattling doorknob of the locked lounge door, remembering Kyle's massive cock sliding in and out, in and out, of my dripping wet pussy as I lay across the back of the couch on my stomach as he stood behind me those perfect hips moving back and forth like a fucking perfect fucking machine, remembering coming for the fifth, or the sixth or the seventh time that evening, as I heard Steve's footsteps receding down the hall. Remembering another hour of coming again and again before finally calling Steve to tell him I'd fallen asleep in the lounge, and how the door was locked when I woke up, and how yes, we could go to a movie now.

God I hate Steve. I needed to punish him so fucking bad, and that's why, at 4 in the morning with my husband snoring, or maybe faking snoring, in our bed, I was searching through the drawer for the sexy little nightie that I hadn't worn in years.

That's why at 4:05 I was standing in front of the mirror and playing with myself again, remembering how I had fallen asleep in the lounge and woken up to find Kyle sitting on the opposite couch, staring at me, how I had gotten up, and walked to the door, and closed and locked it myself.

That's why, at 4:10, I was padding barefoot out of the bedroom.

That's why, at 5:25, flat on my back, and glistening with sweat, and out of breath with the nightie God only knows where, when I heard my husband trying not to make noise outside the guestroom door, I turned and said for the fourth time, in an hour, this time loud enough to be heard in the hall, "I still hate you Kyle. Now fuck me again."