Page 82 of Resist

“I like the glow-in-the-dark wax.”

Sterling nods. “Me too. I watched Santiago pour wax on someone once who has even paler skin than Talia. The wax was black. The contrast of the dark wax on such bright, white skin was beautiful. It’s quite artistic.”

Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to it, it’s creative, expressive, and it’s calling to a dormant part of my soul. When was the last time I made anything?

When we moved Sterling into my apartment earlier, Thor found my dust and spider web covered potter’s wheel. He was talking to Phoenix about it, and she told him I hadn’t made any pottery for a long time. She’s not wrong, I used to make time in my weekly schedule to sit at the wheel and just... create.

Maybe something in the way Jagger poured the wax ignited that creativity inside me, I’m not sure, I guess we’ll see. But I know ‘dust off the potter’s wheel’ will go on my to-do list for the week, and who knows? Perhaps I might even find some time to use the damn thing.

Sterling’s hand is warm against my lower back. “Are you okay staying? Or do you still want to leave?”

Jagger’s finished his clean up, he’s carrying Talia toward the corridor of private rooms where I’m guessing he’s going to have his way with her. I don’t blame him, somehow that demonstration got me a little worked up too.

My body is heavy, but my core is on fire, and the tops of my thighs slick with arousal. If I stay in this building I might end up dry humping my fake husband’s leg, which will only embarrass both of us. I’ve seen his dick protruding into his pants more than once since we arrived at the club, so I put us both out of our misery. “I’m ready to leave.”

CHAPTER 31

Sterling

Turnsout pretending to be sick this morning isn’t that hard considering I haven’t slept for two whole nights and look like shit.

Saturday night, after we got ‘home’ from the club, I went straight to the shower, blew off some steam—quietly—and painted Corabelle’s guest shower walls with my cum.

I settled into bed clean, relaxed, and ready to sleep. Until I heard the unmistakeable hum of a fucking vibrator.

Did I crane my ear against the wall to see if I could hear her getting off? Yes.

Was my hard-all-over-again cock wedged in my palm while I did it? Also yes.

Am I proud of myself? Not really, no. But there’s no way she didn’t know I’d hear, right?

Except it was late. My shower was long. Perhaps she assumed I was asleep, that she’d left enough time between when we got back and turning on her toy.

While I could be wrong, while she could have been using her electric toothbrush, I don’t think I am. No one brushes their teeth for that long. Having the knowledge that Cora wasso wound up about the wax play she watched at the club that she couldn’t go to bed until she got off, has me all turned around.

I could help her, Iwantto help her. But I need to really, really not fucking help her. The lines are blurred enough without crossing them again. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

Ugh.

I turn over in bed and pull the quilt all-the-way over my head. I truly do feel sick. Going through my wife's belongings when she leaves for work, to find some inkling of proof isn’t exactly my idea of a fun time, especially when I like her and respect her a hell of a lot.

“Sterling?” There’s a quiet knock at the door, and for a few seconds, I consider pretending to be asleep and ignoring her.

“Yeah?” My voice is gruff.

The door cracks open, but I stay tucked in my blanket cocoon.

“You okay? I saw your email telling Georgia you wouldn’t be in today.” The edge of the bed dips as she sits on it. “Is there anything I can do? Are you having second thoughts?” The concern in her voice is real, and it nips at my heart, fraying the edges of the stupid organ tucked in my chest just a little more.

I groan, hoping it sounds pained as I turn to face her, pulling the blanket down so she can see my hopefully sufficiently pale and clammy face.

She puts the back of her hand to my head, throwing me back to childhood when Mom wasn’t living inside her own head. She’d check my temp, bring popsicles, and let me watch cartoons on the couch all day when I was ill.

“I’m not feeling well. Could be something I ate yesterday.”

She hums. “You didn’t eat dinner last night. Were you sick?”

I stare at her with sad, please-don’t-make-me-tell-you eyes. She will hopefully think I don’t want to talk to her about such gross things as shit and puke but I really don’t want to add to the list of things I’m lying to her about.