The husband shrugged, setting his glass down with a soft clink.
"Why would I?" His smile was indulgent, almost fond. "She's happy. I'm happy. And you—"
He nodded toward the man's softening cock, still glistening with her wetness. "You're good at your job."
The woman whimpered then, her thighs trembling as another slow trickle of his release escaped her. The man pressed two fingers back inside, curling them just to feel her clench weakly around nothing.
"Greedy," he repeated, but there was no bite to it. If anything, he sounded pleased.
The man withdrew his fingers with a slick pop, the sound obscenely loud in the humid air of the bedroom. The woman beneath him whined softly, her hips twitching upward in protest, but he merely smirked and wiped his glistening fingers on the rumpled sheets.
"Sorry, Mrs. Davies," he murmured, his voice rough with spent arousal, "but this is it for tonight. I've got another lady waiting, you know."
His tone was light, almost teasing, as he rolled off the bed and reached for his discarded trousers.
The husband sighed from his spot on the couch, his wineglass dangling precariously between his fingers.
"Must you?" he asked, though there was no real heat in it—just the resigned frustration of a man who knew the answer already.
"Can't you just have tonight with her? Only her?" His gaze flickered to his wife's sprawled form, her legs still spread, her cunt still dripping. The sight made his breath hitch, but he didn't push further.
The man barked a laugh as he tugged his pants up over his hips, his cock half-hard again just from the way her pussy clenched around nothing as he moved.
"You want me dead or something?" he countered, shaking his head as he fastened the buttons with practiced ease.
"Mrs. Whitmore's husband isn't as understanding as you are. If I'm late, he'll have my balls nailed to the fucking gate." He said it casually, like it was just another Tuesday, but the underlying tension in his voice wasn't entirely feigned.
The husband exhaled through his nose, swirling his wine before taking another sip.
"Fair enough," he conceded, though his eyes lingered on his wife's trembling thighs. "But next time—"
"There's always a next time," the man interrupted, flashing a grin as he shrugged into his shirt. The fabric clung to his damp skin, but he didn't bother buttoning it all the way, leaving his chest exposed to the stifling heat of the room.
He scooped up his jacket from where it had been tossed over a chair and paused just long enough to drag a thumb through the mess on the woman's inner thigh, smearing it over her skin in a possessive streak.
She gasped, her back arching slightly, but he was already stepping away.
The woman made a soft, protesting noise when he stepped away, her fingers curling weakly into the sheets as if she could pull him back through sheer will.
The man chuckled, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder—cash already tucked inside, courtesy of the husband's discreet hand-off moments ago.
"Don't look at me like that," he said, tapping her thigh with two fingers. "You'll still feel me tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow," the man said, flashing the husband a lazy grin as he adjusted the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder.
The words were casual, but the weight behind them wasn't lost on either of them—this wasn't a goodbye, just a pause.
The husband nodded, his gaze drifting back to his wife's still-twitching body, her thighs glistening under the lamplight.
The man didn't wait for a response, just turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his boots scuffing softly against the plush carpet.
The hallway outside was cooler, the air not yet thick with the musk of sex and sweat.
He inhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders as he walked, the faint ache in his muscles a pleasant reminder of the evening's work.
Servants moved like shadows along the edges of the corridor, their eyes carefully averted, their footsteps silent. None of them spoke, none of them dared to glance his way—they knew better.
The man smirked, patting the bag slung over his shoulder where the husband's payment rested snugly against his hip. Easy money, easy night.
And tomorrow will be the same.
But... tomorrow never arrived for him.
In the dead hours of night he was found—or what remained of him—deep within a blackened cradle of wreckage. His vehicle smoldered in lazy plumes of orange and black, flames already sated, reduced to a low, greasy crackle.
His body had become ash and cinder within the twisted shell of metal; the small fortune he carried in the bag beside him fused into charred bundles, useless now even to thieves.
The architect of this ruin? A truck driver, heavy with liquor and half-lost to sleep, barreling through the dark. The collision came without warning, without time for a single defensive flinch. Metal shrieked once, glass exploded outward like brittle rain, and then silence swallowed the highway again.
Just like that, the man known in certain circles as the Breeding Bull—the swagger, the legend, the carefully counted nights—ended.
And yet… his story was not entirely finished.
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