Reunited After Midnight: Bertrand Claims His Best Friend’s Wife

I have to tell this the way it happened. I have been lying about it for ten years, and I am done.

The house Casimir built sat above the old river road, pale stone and wide glass. I am forty-two, an architect who lives out of a downtown apartment three states away, and I had not set foot in this town in a decade. I told myself the reunion was only a weekend, a debt to the man who had been my oldest friend since we were boys. Casimir is forty-three, a structural engineer who still trusts me with his front door. He had flown in that afternoon from a job overseas. Jet lag had already taken the color out of his face. He showed me the guest suite with a tired grin, mentioned a conference in the city three weeks out, and climbed the stairs toward the master bedroom before I had unzipped my bag. “Make yourself at home,” he called. “I’m dead on my feet.” A door shut. He was gone.

I turned, and there she was.

Colette. Thirty-eight. His wife. The woman I had wanted since the week they came home from their honeymoon, when she was twenty-eight and newly his and I was the best man who could not stop staring at her mouth. She stood in the kitchen arch barefoot, a silk robe the color of warm sand belted at her waist, dark hair down one shoulder. The second our eyes locked, the air went thin. She did not give me a hostess smile. She looked at me the way she had across their wedding table and on every visit since, quick and guilty and starving, then glanced at the marble as if it could save her.

“Bertrand,” she said. My name in her mouth hit low in my gut. “He said you might be late.”

“Roads,” I said. I had driven slowly on purpose.

We talked while his footsteps died overhead. The renovation. How long I was staying. Every sentence stayed clean. Every glance did not. When she reached past me for a water glass, her wrist brushed my forearm and neither of us moved. Upstairs, nothing. Casimir, oblivious, already half asleep in the bed he shared with her. Down here the old want crackled between us like a live wire we had agreed, for more than ten years, never to touch.

She filled the glass. Her hand shook. I took it, and our fingers met and stayed. She pulled back first. “You should rest,” she said, voice unsteady. “The suite is yours.”

I watched her climb, silk shifting over the curve of her ass, and stood there with my cock already thick against my pants and a decade of not-touching lodged in my throat. On the landing she looked back. Then she was gone, and the house held its breath the way I did.

After midnight the house was all moon and quiet. I could not sleep. I went out onto the terrace in my pants and a T-shirt, barefoot on cold stone, and watched the river go silver. I told myself I was only getting air. I was waiting for her to decide whether the look we had traded downstairs meant what I thought it meant.

The door slid. I smelled her first, clean skin and warm silk. “Couldn’t sleep either,” Colette said. She came to the rail. The robe was the same. The belt had loosened. Moonlight lay along her collarbone and the inner curve of one breast. I made myself look at the water.

“Casimir’s out,” she said softly. “Jet lag. He won’t wake until morning. He never does after a flight like that.”

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Neither should you.”

We stood close enough that her heat reached my arm. Then the decade broke, because I have never been good at leaving a thing unsaid once I am alone with it.

“I have wanted you since the honeymoon week,” I said. “Since you were twenty-eight and brand new to him and I shook your hand and felt it in my cock. Every dinner. Every visit. Every time you laughed at something he said and looked at me instead. I never touched you. I left town so I would not. I still want you so badly I can taste it.”

She made a small sound. Her fingers found the rail beside mine.

“I know,” she whispered. “I have known the whole time. I wanted you that first week, and every year after, and I told myself it was only a look, only a crush on my husband’s best friend, and it never went away. More than ten years. I lie next to him and think about your hands.”

I turned. She was already looking at me, no performance left. I set my knuckles against her cheek. She leaned in. I dragged my thumb across her lower lip, and she opened for it, the tip of her tongue a wet flicker I felt in my spine.

“This would wreck him.”

“I know.”

“Say you want it anyway.”

“I want it anyway.” Her voice shook and held. “I want you. Tonight. I am choosing this. I am sober, I am awake, and I am taking you to bed because I have wanted your cock for more than ten years and I am done pretending I don’t.”

Her hand slid under my shirt and rested on my stomach, warm, trembling. I caught her wrist and brought it lower, pressed her palm to the hard line of my cock through my pants. She gasped and squeezed, once, deliberate.

“Still want to go inside?” I asked.

“More than ever,” she said.

She took my hand. Her palm was hot. She led me off the terrace, through the dark kitchen, down the hall to the guest suite, and shut the door with a click that sounded too loud. In the moonlight through the blinds she faced me and reached for the belt.

“One night,” she said. “Raw. No one between us. If you want that.”

“I want all of it.”

She smiled, small and wrecked and sure, and pulled me in.

She dropped the robe. Under it she was naked, lush, breasts heavy, nipples tight, the dark thatch between her thighs already slick. She looked at the hard line of my cock and made a hungry sound.

“Let me.”

She went to her knees. Her fingers worked my belt and zipper, and she dragged my pants and briefs down together. My cock sprang out thick and flushed, wet at the tip. She stared like she had been picturing it for years.

“Fuck. You’re bigger than I let myself imagine.”

Then she took me in her mouth.

It was not polite. She sucked me with hungry, sloppy devotion, lips stretched, spit slicking her chin, one hand around what she could not swallow, the other braced on my thigh. She bobbed and moaned, tongue working the underside, wet sounds filling the suite. I looked down at my best friend’s wife on her knees, eyes up, and something filthy broke open in my chest.

I sank both hands into her hair and gripped. Firm. She groaned and took me deeper, gagging once, then pushing past it because she wanted to.

“That’s it,” I growled. “Ten years I waited to put my cock in this mouth. You know what this is? This is me finally claiming my best friend’s wife. His. And you’re down there drooling on me like you’ve been starving for it.”

She pulled off with a gasp, spit connecting her lip to my cock, and nodded, wrecked. “Yes. Claim me. Don’t be gentle. I want it filthy. Fuck my mouth, then fuck me raw. Use me.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I held her hair and fed my cock back between her lips, fucking her mouth in short strokes while she sucked and slurped and let me. Spit ran down her chin onto her breasts. She hollowed her cheeks, and my balls drew tight too fast. I pulled out before I lost it. She chased the head with her tongue, looking ruined and nowhere near done.

“On the bed. Hands and knees. I need that pussy.”

She climbed up and looked back, ass tilted, cunt glistening. I stripped my shirt, kicked my pants aside, and ran my palm up her thigh. She was soaked, swollen, hot. Two fingers slid in easy. She pushed back with a broken moan.

“Dripping for your husband’s best friend. Wet since the kitchen?”

“Since you looked at me. Please, Bertrand. Put it in. Raw. I want all of you.”

I lined up and pushed into her in one long, thick stroke. She cried out into her forearm, cunt clenching so tight I had to hold still. She was scalding, slick, perfect, nothing between us, my cock buried to the hilt in the woman I was not allowed to have. I gripped her hips and started to move.

Deep. Possessive. I pounded her soaked pussy from behind in heavy strokes that slapped my hips against her ass. I hauled her back and fucked her harder, each thrust a claim. Her cunt made wet, obscene sounds around me. She grabbed my wrist like she needed the anchor.

“Oh God, Bertrand, you feel so much better than he does,” she moaned. “Casimir doesn’t fill me like this. He doesn’t fuck me like he owns it. You do. You feel better. Don’t stop.”

Hearing his name while I was inside her should have shamed me. It lit me up. I leaned over her, mouth at her ear. “Say it again.”

“You feel better than my husband. Better than Casimir. I’ve wanted this cock for ten years and it’s better than I imagined. Claim his wife. I’m yours tonight.”

I drove into her, deep and steady, watching my cock vanish into that soaked pussy and come out shining. She pushed back, sobbing for more, and when her thighs shook I pulled out.

“On your back. I want your eyes.”

I flipped her. She went willingly, hair wild, breasts heaving, thighs open, cunt flushed and shining. I caught her wrists, pinned them above her head, and pushed back into her in one hard stroke. Eye to eye. Nowhere to hide.

“Look at me.”

She did. Her eyes were wet and sure. I fucked her hard, hips snapping, the wet slap filling the room, her breasts bouncing, her mouth open. I kept her wrists pinned. She tested the hold once, not to escape, just to feel it, then wrapped her legs around my waist so I could get deeper. The guest suite smelled like sex already, like her and me and the thing we were not supposed to do. Every thrust knocked a soft sound out of her throat. I watched her face the way I had wanted to for ten years, the guilt and the greed braided together, and I did not look away.

“You look at me while I fuck you,” I growled. “Remember whose cock is in you. Not his. Mine. My best friend’s wife, taking me raw in his house while he sleeps upstairs. You wanted this. Say it.”

“I wanted this. I want you. Harder. I can take it.”

I gave it to her, deep driving strokes, our eyes locked. I watched her stop being afraid and start chasing the end. Her cunt fluttered. Her heels dug into my back.

“Come inside me,” she begged, shameless, exactly what I had wanted for ten years. “Please. I want your cum. Fill me. Come inside me, Bertrand. Claim me. I want to feel you pulse. I want to walk back to his bed with you dripping out of me. Please come inside me.”

“You want my load in this married pussy?”

“Yes. Give it to me. I’m coming. Come with me. Come inside.”

She broke around me as I buried myself as deep as I could and came. It hit in long, claiming pulses. I groaned and emptied into her, spurt after thick spurt, pumping her full while she shuddered and clenched and pulled every drop deeper. I held her wrists and her gaze and gave her all of it, raw, no pulling out, until I was still twitching inside her soaked cunt. She climaxed around me the whole way through, aftershocks milking me, a helpless sob every time I pulsed, our eyes locked the entire time.

“Mine,” I said, still inside her. “Tonight you’re mine.”

“Yours,” she whispered, and smiled like a woman who had finally taken what she had denied herself for a decade.

We stayed until our breathing slowed, breathless and slick with sweat, my cock softening inside the mess I had made of her. I kissed her once, slow and possessive, and she kissed me back like she was signing something. When I eased out, a warm spill of my cum followed. She did not close her legs.

I dressed while she watched me, hair a ruin, that satisfied, wicked smile on her mouth.

“Our secret,” I said. “Forever. Not him. Not anyone.”

“Delicious and ours,” she said. “I won’t crack.”

I helped her into the robe. We moved through the dark house, my hand at the small of her back until the landing. She went on toward the master bedroom, back to the marital bed, still dripping with her husband’s best friend’s cum. I slipped down the hall to my own room just as the windows began to gray. Dawn was minutes off.

I shut the door and stood in the smell of us, already scheming. One night was the lie we told so we could start. In three weeks he would be at that conference. I would invent a site visit, text her from a number that was not mine, two words only: same terrace. And when she came out in that robe, I would already be hard, already planning the night after that.