My name is Krystina Jenson, and I'm twenty-four years old. For the past two years, I've been trapped in a marriage that's slowly eroded my soul. My husband has turned my life into a nightmare—his temper explosive, his control suffocating. I desperately crave escape, but fear grips me tightly, especially with our one-year-old daughter caught in the middle.

It wasn't until I reconnected with my old best friend, Taylor, that I remembered what it felt like to be truly seen. Taylor is the kind of man who listens without judgment, who makes you feel safe just by being near. He's never married, but he has two kids of his own—a three-year-old son and a six-month-old daughter—from relationships that mirrored the toxicity I've endured.

Over weeks of late-night talks and stolen moments, something shifted between us. The friendship deepened into a hunger I couldn't ignore. One night, when my daughter was staying with my husband's mother and he was supposedly away on a "business trip" (I knew better, but his absence was a rare mercy), everything ignited.

Taylor called around eight, asking what I was up to. I invited him over to watch movies, my voice already laced with unspoken invitation. He arrived with a case of beer and that devastating smile.

"Hey," he said, stepping inside, his eyes lingering on me a beat too long.

"Hey yourself," I replied, matching his grin.

We settled on the couch with Paranormal Activity—something scary to break the tension. As the film played, we talked, laughed, the air growing thicker with every shared glance. Halfway through the second movie, a jump scare sent me burying my face in his shoulder. He chuckled, low and warm, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me flush against his side.

"It's okay," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "I'll keep you safe."

My heart slammed against my ribs. I tilted my head up, and there he was—inches away, his dark eyes burning with restraint finally snapping. He closed the distance without a word, his lips claiming mine in a kiss that stole my breath. His hands cupped my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks as our mouths moved together, slow at first, then desperate. Tongues tangled, teeth grazed, the taste of beer and raw need flooding my senses. We kissed for what felt like eternity, breaking only when air became a necessity.

"What... what was that?" I whispered, my lips swollen, body already aching.

"Krystina," he said, voice rough, forehead pressed to mine. "I've been fighting this for weeks. I can't anymore. I want you—all of you. I want to worship you, show you how a woman like you deserves to be touched, fucked, cherished."

His words sent heat pooling between my thighs. "Taylor," I breathed, "I've wanted this... wanted you... for so long."

I tugged his shirt over his head, my palms gliding over the hard planes of his chest, tracing every ridge of his abs down to the button of his jeans. He was already straining against the fabric. When I freed him, my breath caught—he was thick, heavy in my hand, pulsing with heat. I met his gaze as I sank down, wrapping my lips around the swollen head, tongue swirling over the salty bead of precum. His groan vibrated through me as I took him deeper, savoring the way his hips jerked, fingers threading gently into my hair.

But he didn't let me finish him there. With a growl, he pulled me up, crushing his mouth to mine as he lifted me effortlessly and laid me back on the couch. His kisses trailed fire down my neck, nipping at my earlobe, sucking at the sensitive spot below until I arched beneath him. Hands roamed my body, teasing under my shirt before peeling it away. No bra—my breasts spilled free, nipples tight and begging. He descended like a man starved, mouth latching onto one peak, tongue flicking and circling while his fingers pinched the other, rolling it until I moaned shamelessly.

Lower still, his hand slipped into my shorts, fingers finding me drenched. He circled my clit with agonizing precision, then plunged two fingers inside, curling them against that spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids. "So wet for me already," he murmured against my skin.

"Yes," I gasped, hips grinding against his hand. "Don't stop."

He didn't. Instead, he stripped my shorts away, spreading my thighs wide. His mouth replaced his fingers—hot, insistent tongue lapping at my folds, delving deep, sucking my clit until my legs trembled. I came hard, waves crashing through me, back bowing as I cried out his name, flooding his tongue with my release. He held me down, licking me through every shudder, his face slick and triumphant.

Then he rose between my legs, the thick head of his cock nudging my entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by torturous inch, stretching me deliciously until I was impossibly full. "Fuck, Krystina," he groaned. "You feel like heaven."

I couldn't speak—only moan as he began to move, deep, measured thrusts that built into something feral. Harder, faster, skin slapping skin, my nails raking down his back. Each stroke hit deeper, sending me spiraling into one orgasm after another, my walls clenching around him greedily.

"You're so tight... so perfect," he panted, driving into me relentlessly.

"And you're ruining me for anyone else," I whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist to take him even deeper.

We shattered together—he swelled inside me, pulsing hot as he came with a guttural roar, triggering my final, blinding climax. He collapsed onto me, both of us slick with sweat, hearts pounding in sync.

Afterward, he pulled me into his arms, kissing my forehead tenderly. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," I confessed, the words freeing something inside me. "I always have."

We fell asleep tangled on the couch, bodies still humming.

But a few weeks later, the bliss cracked. Our secret affair had consequences we hadn't anticipated—complications far beyond hiding from my husband...

...TO BE CONTINUED