Addictive Japanese Massage - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
You are reading Addictive Japanese Massage, Chapter 8: Chapter 8. Read more chapters of Addictive Japanese Massage.
"I have no idea what's happening. A coworker gave me some incense—said it helps with focus. Next thing I know, I'm like this." I let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm losing my mind here. What am I supposed to do?"
"Sweetheart, I'm off in an hour. Meet me at the hotel near my office—I'll book a room," my husband said, his voice thick with urgency.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my things and bolted from work.
As a designer, I had the freedom to slip out early without raising eyebrows.
By the time I pulled into the hotel parking lot, my skin was on fire. Every passing glance from a man sent a jolt of need through me.
A flicker of shame crept in—since when did I react like this to strangers?
But the second I saw my husband waiting in that room, all doubt vanished. We collided, lips crashing together as I kicked the door shut behind us.
He backed me against the wall, stripping off my clothes with rough, desperate hands. His touch burned trails across my skin as we moved from the door to the bed, then to the shower, leaving no surface untouched.
Afterward, we collapsed onto the tangled sheets, breathless and spent.
Outside, the city pulsed with neon lights, their glow seeping through the curtains.
I turned to study my husband's sleeping face, warmth blooming in my chest.
This—us—was better than ever. Even our honeymoon phase paled in comparison.
All thanks to that damn massage.
I thought this was our new reality.
But two weeks later, the illusion shattered.
That night, he didn't walk in until eight.
After his shower, I slid into lace and teased him, watching his eyes darken with hunger. We fell into bed, lost in each other—until barely thirty minutes later, he was done.
I curled against him, trailing my fingers down his chest. "Again?"
He shook his head, still catching his breath. "Can't, babe. Work wiped me out. Use your toy if you need to."
Just like that, he pulled away and headed back to the shower. I lay there, stunned.
This wasn't new.
Lately, it was always exhaustion, an early morning, some excuse to cut things short.
My gaze drifted to the wastebasket. Even that seemed… less than usual.
Something was wrong.
Ever since we'd unlocked this insatiable side of us, we couldn't keep apart.
Now? He barely chased me. Fewer touches. Less stamina.
Once suspicion took hold, I had to know.
I combed through his phone, his bag, even his clothes.
He was careful—nothing on his phone, nothing in his bag. But then I saw it: a faint red smudge on the collar of his white dress shirt.
I rubbed it between my fingers.
Lipstick.
And it wasn't mine.
The shower hummed in the background, steam curling under the warm light.
My heart turned to stone.
My husband… was cheating.
"Sweetheart, I'm off in an hour. Meet me at the hotel near my office—I'll book a room," my husband said, his voice thick with urgency.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my things and bolted from work.
As a designer, I had the freedom to slip out early without raising eyebrows.
By the time I pulled into the hotel parking lot, my skin was on fire. Every passing glance from a man sent a jolt of need through me.
A flicker of shame crept in—since when did I react like this to strangers?
But the second I saw my husband waiting in that room, all doubt vanished. We collided, lips crashing together as I kicked the door shut behind us.
He backed me against the wall, stripping off my clothes with rough, desperate hands. His touch burned trails across my skin as we moved from the door to the bed, then to the shower, leaving no surface untouched.
Afterward, we collapsed onto the tangled sheets, breathless and spent.
Outside, the city pulsed with neon lights, their glow seeping through the curtains.
I turned to study my husband's sleeping face, warmth blooming in my chest.
This—us—was better than ever. Even our honeymoon phase paled in comparison.
All thanks to that damn massage.
I thought this was our new reality.
But two weeks later, the illusion shattered.
That night, he didn't walk in until eight.
After his shower, I slid into lace and teased him, watching his eyes darken with hunger. We fell into bed, lost in each other—until barely thirty minutes later, he was done.
I curled against him, trailing my fingers down his chest. "Again?"
He shook his head, still catching his breath. "Can't, babe. Work wiped me out. Use your toy if you need to."
Just like that, he pulled away and headed back to the shower. I lay there, stunned.
This wasn't new.
Lately, it was always exhaustion, an early morning, some excuse to cut things short.
My gaze drifted to the wastebasket. Even that seemed… less than usual.
Something was wrong.
Ever since we'd unlocked this insatiable side of us, we couldn't keep apart.
Now? He barely chased me. Fewer touches. Less stamina.
Once suspicion took hold, I had to know.
I combed through his phone, his bag, even his clothes.
He was careful—nothing on his phone, nothing in his bag. But then I saw it: a faint red smudge on the collar of his white dress shirt.
I rubbed it between my fingers.
Lipstick.
And it wasn't mine.
The shower hummed in the background, steam curling under the warm light.
My heart turned to stone.
My husband… was cheating.
End of Addictive Japanese Massage Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to Addictive Japanese Massage book page.