Drugged His Partner to Claim Me - Chapter 9: Chapter 9
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The moment our lips met, I worked him with practiced skill, drawing out soft moans that left us both shaking with desperate need. Electricity crackled through my veins, every nerve ending alive with anticipation.
Ethan's hands wandered lower, slipping past the waistband of my panties to explore the slick heat between my thighs. My breath hitched—I hadn't forgotten the others just outside, but God help me, I couldn't pull away. My pulse hammered wildly as his fingers found their mark with unerring precision.
"You want this?" he murmured, teasing circles that sent liquid fire pooling between my legs.
"Please… stop…" The protest was weak, half-hearted, my body betraying me with every shuddering breath.
Then—a sharp rap at the door.
My husband's voice boomed through the wood. "Ethan, you training for the Olympics in there or what?"
Ice flooded my veins. We froze, my hand flying to my mouth as panic clawed up my throat. One wrong move, one creak of the door, and everything would unravel.
But Ethan just smirked, adjusting his pants with infuriating ease. "Sorry, man. Your wife's cooking hit me hard—might be a minute."
The flattery worked. My husband laughed. "Take your time. She's something else, isn't she?"
As footsteps faded, I sagged against the sink, glaring. "This is your fault."
"My bad, sweetheart." He stole one last searing kiss before releasing me.
Later, rinsing with mouthwash in the kitchen, I slipped into the bedroom—only to jolt at the sight of my husband sprawled on the bed.
"Shouldn't you be with our guests?" I forced a smile as he pulled me close.
"They're fine. You're amazing." His proud kiss tasted like bourbon and oblivion.
I nipped at his lip playfully. "Then go be a good host."
The moment he left, I exhaled. Crisis averted—for now.
But once became twice.
Ethan's next visit dialed his boldness to reckless. Right across from my husband, his fingers traced slow, secret circles along my inner thigh as the men laughed over scotch. Flames licked through me, but my smile never wavered.
One smoldering glance. A silent pact.
The bathroom. The mirror. Clothes shoved aside just enough. We came together in frantic, breathless heat, the slap of skin harmonizing with my husband's drunken snores.
And just like that, my double life began—torn between two men, dancing on the edge of disaster.
Ethan's hands wandered lower, slipping past the waistband of my panties to explore the slick heat between my thighs. My breath hitched—I hadn't forgotten the others just outside, but God help me, I couldn't pull away. My pulse hammered wildly as his fingers found their mark with unerring precision.
"You want this?" he murmured, teasing circles that sent liquid fire pooling between my legs.
"Please… stop…" The protest was weak, half-hearted, my body betraying me with every shuddering breath.
Then—a sharp rap at the door.
My husband's voice boomed through the wood. "Ethan, you training for the Olympics in there or what?"
Ice flooded my veins. We froze, my hand flying to my mouth as panic clawed up my throat. One wrong move, one creak of the door, and everything would unravel.
But Ethan just smirked, adjusting his pants with infuriating ease. "Sorry, man. Your wife's cooking hit me hard—might be a minute."
The flattery worked. My husband laughed. "Take your time. She's something else, isn't she?"
As footsteps faded, I sagged against the sink, glaring. "This is your fault."
"My bad, sweetheart." He stole one last searing kiss before releasing me.
Later, rinsing with mouthwash in the kitchen, I slipped into the bedroom—only to jolt at the sight of my husband sprawled on the bed.
"Shouldn't you be with our guests?" I forced a smile as he pulled me close.
"They're fine. You're amazing." His proud kiss tasted like bourbon and oblivion.
I nipped at his lip playfully. "Then go be a good host."
The moment he left, I exhaled. Crisis averted—for now.
But once became twice.
Ethan's next visit dialed his boldness to reckless. Right across from my husband, his fingers traced slow, secret circles along my inner thigh as the men laughed over scotch. Flames licked through me, but my smile never wavered.
One smoldering glance. A silent pact.
The bathroom. The mirror. Clothes shoved aside just enough. We came together in frantic, breathless heat, the slap of skin harmonizing with my husband's drunken snores.
And just like that, my double life began—torn between two men, dancing on the edge of disaster.
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