The Cripple's Wanton Wife - Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Their climax hit almost at the same moment. Lawrence collapsed onto the bed, her body trembling like jelly, every muscle spent. She lay there gasping, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Nathan Lowell knelt on the floor, rubbing himself while staring hungrily at 's glistening pink folds. "Jesus, ," he croaked, voice thick with desire. "You're fucking perfect down there. Can I keep your panties?"
needed a full minute to catch her breath before rolling onto her side with an exasperated sigh. "Fine. That'll be a hundred bucks."
Nathan didn't hesitate. He scrambled for a crumpled Benjamin under the bed and practically shoved it into her hand.
gave him a tired once-over. This grown man in his thirties was pathetic—willing to pay good money for her used underwear.
With a practiced motion, she hooked her thumbs into the damp fabric, peeled it off, and flung it at him.
Nathan caught the panties like they were made of gold, immediately burying his nose in them. "Fuck, ," he moaned, "you smell incredible. These are gonna make my nights so much better."
Heat flooded 's cheeks. She yanked her pants on so fast she nearly tripped, then bolted from the room before her embarrassment could show.
A grand in one day—plus clearing Nathan's debt—felt unreal, like she'd stumbled into some bizarre fantasy.
As long as no one actually entered her and she stayed true to her husband, figured this was just easy money.
The next morning, after dropping her kid at school, rushed to the factory.
At lunchtime, Roland Blanchet, the plant manager, marched into the workshop making a beeline for her. "Come with me," he ordered. "We need to talk."
's stomach dropped. She'd denied him yesterday—was this payback?
Heart hammering, she followed him out. "What is it, Mr. Blanchet?"
Roland didn't waste time. His hand shot under her shirt, groping roughly before she could react. Then he squeezed her through her pants, right between the legs.
jumped back. "Jesus, Mr. Blanchet! We're at work!"
Roland just chuckled. "Relax, sweetheart. That's not why I called you. Got a client meeting over lunch—I want you there."
crossed her arms. "Find someone else. I don't drink, and I'm not some party girl."
Roland moved closer, his voice dropping. "Five hundred just to show up."
Five hundred? bit her lip. Yesterday's thousand had come easy—just some touching. Where was the harm?
Cheeks burning, she whispered, "You're not screwing with me?"
Roland grinned and flashed the cash. "See? Dead serious."
At the hotel's private dining room, Roland ushered inside where a young man waited.
Early twenties, built like a Greek god, with that rich-kid glow—expensive clothes, perfect skin, radiating confidence.
One look and felt it—that electric pull. Without thinking, she arched her back slightly, letting her curves show as she took the seat beside him.