Patricia Morrison's hands shook so violently the steering wheel vibrated under her palms, knuckles white, manicured nails digging crescents into leather. The key card burned in her lap like a live coal—matte black, silver letters glowing under the garage's sickly light: C.G PENTHOUSE - PRIVATE ACCESS.
One swipe and she'd be his. One swipe and twenty-three years of being a ghost in her own marriage would detonate.
Her cunt throbbed, swollen and slick, the seam of her lace thong soaked through and glued to her folds. Every pulse of the engine under her seat felt like his tongue dragging up her slit, slow and deliberate, the way he'd looked at her in that hallway—like she was prey he'd already decided to ruin.
Forty-five years old. Twenty-three years married to a man, jerking his limp cock while whispering her name—Peter's dead mother, the escort who'd broken him so completely that Patricia's living, breathing body might as well have been a blow-up doll.
