Expecting Him

EXPECTING HIM

Written
and Published by Scarlet Corrine © 2013

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events or locales is coincidental. These characters are purely of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

This
book contains sexual material not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

Expecting Him

A dark, erotic tale of infidelity.

By
Scarlet Corrine

If you are offended by tales of adultery and dubious consent
fantasies, this may not be the story for you.

Not all people like pain with their sex, nor enjoy a
devious partner messing with their mind. In this story, Ana craves what only Martin can give her and becomes wrapped up in a violent love affair. He drags her down into the depths of her darkest fear, hurting her both physically and emotionally. Yet she finds herself yearning for more of his depravity.

What would you do if your
spouse wasn’t giving you what you needed in bed? Would you call on that
one
person you knew could satisfy your wicked, most sinful fantasy?

Definition of
a
mind fuck
:

1-
    
Playing psychological games, messing up somebody's clear thought process to either twist what they were thinking, or have them convinced of something totally different.

2-
   
The act of messing with someone’s mind, usually to an extreme

I
knew it was going to happen, but when the knock on the door announces him with thundering, cocksure boldness, it makes my heart pound. Standing on unsteady legs I rush to open it. The baby is sleeping. I'm afraid another resounding knock will wake him, or worse, draw attention from the neighbors. He’s standing there smiling, leaning against the door frame as if he belongs here. He’s wearing that sinister, all too knowing grin that makes me weak, though his eyes are dark—deadly even, as he looks me over.

My eyes drift over him, drinking in the sight of his tall, lean form that fills out his faded blue jeans
with such perfection it makes my thighs impulsively rub together.

"
Hey, I was in the neighborhood," he smiles again. It's not even the least bit true. His gaze moves past me to the faintly lit house beyond, as if examining it.

"I take it your
husband isn’t at home tonight?"

There’s a lump in my throat making it hard to swallow. I move back
shaking my head as I hold the door open wider in an unspoken invitation. He doesn't step in.

"You—
you know he's not," I stutter. I want to risk a look up and down the street to see who might notice him standing there, but I refrain. I don't dare take my eyes off him. Not even for a second.

His lips twist into a smirk
. His laugh is a brief snort through his nose, and he nods in agreement. "I know he's not."

My arm is
heavy, still holding open the door. I find myself wanting to slam it on him, but wanting to drag him inside as well.

He arches his eyebrows at me
in question, "And…?"

I
tilt my chin up at him with hesitation. It's unfair, what he's doing. He knows I can’t resist even though I know I should. Through trembling lips, I whisper, "Would you like to come inside for a little while?"

He cocks his head towards me with a
searching gaze as if he didn’t hear me. “What was that? Speak up, girl.”

Clearing my throat, I feel my skin heat with a blush. He’s going to make me beg.
Bastard
. “Please. Please, come inside and stay with me for a bit.”

He straightens up at
once. His smile is devastating as he steps past me close enough to brush against my already aroused body in the narrow space. The earthy scent of leather and spice lingers around me after he passed me by. I breathe it in deep. A hint of a smile tilts the corner of my mouth.

He is
inside the house before I can change my mind. I know I should have slammed the door on him. I
should
have turned the deadbolt, and kept him out.

Like I need too.

Like I can't.

I close it behind
him swiftly, leaning my quivering form against the solid oak door. Locking it. Twice.

By the time I turn around
to face him, he has already made himself quite comfortable, sitting on the couch in my husband’s usual spot. His eyes wander over my body as if he owns it. My heart races as I approach.

Why am I not running away?

I’m like a moth drawn to the flame. I know it will burn. It will hurt. But the heat and attraction is too great
resist.

"May
I get you something to drink?"

Help me escape. Give me a reason to leave the room and regain my sanity before
I allow this to happen.

“No,” h
e shakes his head, dismissing the question as if he knew I was looking for a way out, his dark eyes staring with intensity into mine. "How have you been?" he asks.

Weak kneed
, I sink down into the nearest chair, though if I were honest with myself, I’d rather crawl to him like a bitch in heat.  Across from him, keeping some distance between us, I tuck my hair behind my ears. I feel like I can regain my strength. Find a way to resist.

"I've been
okay. Busy! So very busy..." I laugh like we’re two old friends catching up.

This is a
little better. I can do this.

"He's growing so fast.
My little boy is crawling now and into everything! I can barely keep up at times. It's a game changer. Every single day is something new and…"

He cuts
me off. "Looks like your tits got bigger."

I can't help
but glance down, shocked. But I quickly drag my eyes back up to meet his snide look. Somehow, I resist the urge to fold my arms across my chest. Instead, I curl them across my stomach self-consciously. "I—uh—yeah. Yes. Everything did, really."

He is staring at my
breasts with such heat I feel fire on my skin and I shift in my seat. I hate that he makes me remember how much I miss having a man look at me like I’m a desirable woman. I resent that he reminds me where my husband is failing.

"You’re s
till breastfeeding?" He props his booted feet on my coffee table and drapes his arm over the back of the couch. I abhor how badly I want to sit next to him. Breathe in more of his scent. Feel his heat warm my shaky body. Feel his fist wrap the length of my ginger hair and give it a sharp yank.

My lips part
so I can lick over my dry lips. I hesitate before answering. "Yes."

"Good," is the
simple response he grants me.

"Uh,
y..yes, it’s good. They say it's best for the baby for the first year, you know," I stammer again, trying so very hard to keep the conversation in familiar, friendly territory. Not down the dark path he’s trying to drag me.

The path I want him to
force me down…

He is watching me
with such intensity in his eyes. His expression is not anything one could call pleasant.

"Show me," he demand
s. “Show me now.” He leans forward, waiting for me to obey, twining his fingers together as he rests his elbows on his knees.

I
take a shaky breath in and let it out in a whoosh. It inadvertently makes my breasts lift and fall under his gaze as I hug my arms around myself.

"No," I whisper. His laughter is a sharp
barking sound that makes me jump as if he’d reached out and slapped me. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hit me when I didn’t do what he asked.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it on purpose just so he would strike out.

He’s the only one that understands the perverted side of me. He
gets
me. Martin is just as fucked up as I am.

No, he’s worse.
Much, much worse. There is a darkness that lingers inside him like nothing I’ve ever seen. It scares me. Yet it makes me wet.

Leaning back into the couch,
he crosses his leg to rest casually on his knee. He tilts his head to the side when he questions me, "So, he's away tonight, is he? Out of town, I’m guessing?"

Ever so slowly, I nod. "Yes. Just overnight. He’ll be b
ack tomorrow."

He doesn't respond
but continues to stare at me. The silence is unnerving, and I speak up again trying to bring back the friendly tone.

"He
—I mean, I hate it when he has to travel. I'm not used to being alone at night. I get so—so scared. It's, it was nice of you to stop by and check on me while he’s out of…"

I trail off.
He has stopped smiling, but amusement tugs at one corner of his mouth in the form of a smirk. My gaze slips to the floor as humiliation sets in. He lets me sit there in uncomfortable silence for a moment, then says my name to make me look at him.

"
Ana, I want you to tell me something. Your husband, is he fucking you?"

I exhale
with a shocked gasp through my open mouth at the forwardness of this question, but the few moments of silence before I can come up with a good answer tells him all he needs to know. I have never been able to lie to him.

"No," I admit, very quietly.

He waits. The smirk on his sensual lips is even more pronounced now. My cunt weeps for him. I hate myself for it. Truly, I do.

"He—
I mean,
we’re
afraid I'll get pregnant again. I can't take birth control while I'm breastfeeding and he—I don't know. It seems like since the baby was born…"

"And that's why you called me
, isn’t it? Because you know I'll fuck you. I’ll fuck you like you need to be fucked."

I can’t help but notice how he’s
looking very comfortable on my couch, in my home, in my husband’s place. His voice is low, a primitive growl almost. “You know I’m not like your husband. I don’t care that you’ve had a baby. That your body has changed, that your curves are more prominent and your cunt needs more attention. Rough. Hard. Attention.”

I look away
before I answer, dropping my head so that my ginger colored curls fall in my face, brushing my burning cheeks. I am looking down at my breasts again, bigger since the last time he saw me.

"You can't, Martin. You can’t
fuck me," I whisper.

"You know I’m going to
fuck you." His tone is blunt and determined from across the room. I can hear him move, catch the rustle of him standing, and my pulse quickens.

I feel my juices flow even more, beginning to slip down my inner thighs.
"And you let me in, Ana. You
want
me in."

It is only a few steps to my chair
with his long stride. He is standing over me. He waits, but I refuse look up and into his eyes. He would know what’s on my mind with a mere glance. Briefly, I wonder if he smells my arousal.

As always, he goes for the shock factor to get my attention where he wants it.
"You know I don't give a fuck if I get you pregnant," he continues, relentlessly. "....
again
."

I leap from the chair,
bumping my chest into him by accident. I teeter, but keep from falling. My fists balled at my sides, jaw snapping as I gasp into his face, "Oh, fuck you! Fuck you, you hateful bastard!"

His slap catches me
sharply across the cheek, knocking my face to the side hard enough it makes my neck ache. I yelp, losing my balance, falling back into the chair as he leans in over me. I instinctively shield my face with my hand, whimpering, yet scowling up at him boldly as his eyes flash with a warning.

"Want to
reconsider your words, girl?"

"You can't
say things like that to me. That’s awful. Terrible…" I protest as he leans over me, his hands bracing on the arms of my chair, effectively trapping me.

"Tell me that you want me to leave
," he says, perfectly reasonable. "Go ahead and change your mind. This is your home, Ana.
Tell me
to leave. If you don’t want this, I’ll walk right back out that door and we’ll never see each other again."

I turn my reddened cheek to him, staying
silent.

"Better yet," he grins as he pushes
his face down close to my ear. "Tell me it's not true. Tell me he isn’t my son."

My
breathing is shallow under the resentful jut of my chin. I say nothing. Not a single word. In that moment, I detest him even more than I want him to stay.

He
straightens to his full height, and tells me, "Stand up, girl." I hate when he calls me that. He knows it. That’s why he does it when he orders me around. It never fails to sting.

I have barely got
ten to my feet and he grabs a fistful of my blouse from where it’s buttoned at my neck, sharply ripping it down along with my bra on the down stroke, exposing my heaving breasts. I stand still, shaking with my arms at my sides as he slaps one, then the other. Without waiting for my reaction, he grabs one, squeezing it in his hand as if it belongs to him, pinching and kneading the flesh in his strong fingers.

"Please, d
on't leave bruises," I whimper as anxiety kicks in full force.

He stops at
once. His fingertips go white, sinking into my breast like a vice. "What was that?"

It's not
really a question. He is simply daring me to have the nerve say it again and suffer the consequences.

I know when to keep my mouth shut.
I’m not stupid.

I remain
still and silent as he handles my soft flesh with brutal intentions—to hurt me, bruise me, leave his marks on my skin.

I've let him in, and now it feels good to endure, to suffer like this.
I’m twisted. Wrong. Full of sin. Still yet, I’m lusty for more of what only
He
can give me.

"Look at me," is his low command. I shake my head obstinately, and he twists a
plump nipple between thumb and forefinger until my knees buckle. I grasp his muscled forearm to keep from falling to my knees. I know it’s a punishment for making him repeat himself, one that I know I deserve. He’s taught me better than that. Martin hates when I fight him, but he adores it too. Why? It gives him more reason to inflict pain, in doing so, it makes him rock hard.