That night, around 11:30pm, I jerked awake feeling so cold. The damn air conditioner in this guest room was blasting so hard, my nipple was literally cutting through the thin black lingerie I wore, hoping Victor would notice before sleep took over.
"Big house, big problems."
I mumbled under my breath, rubbing my arms thoroughly to make myself feel warmer; my skin was covered in goosebumps, my feet felt stiff, and my lace was way too open now that I wasn't half asleep or horny anymore.
I needed water.
My throat was dry as hell; I crept out of bed still foggy, my eyes still blurry from the nap. I walked barefoot down the hallway towards the kitchen, the house so quiet except for the low hum of the AC and my feet dragging lazily against the tiles.
Then I heard it.
"Give it to me, baby. I want you. Fuck me, my baby."
My stomach dropped. I froze mid-step, my heart started hammering, and my stomach tightened.
A part of me wanted to turn right around and just pretend I heard nothing, but my feet kept moving quietly like they had a mind of their own until I was close enough to peek through the half-open doorway to the kitchen.
"They didn't even make it to the bedroom."
Victor had her upon the kitchen counter, her silk robe shoved open, her legs spread so widely apart, her head thrown back, and her dark hair spilling everywhere. His hands were clamped on the inside of her thigh, holding her open like he owned every inch of her, and his face—fuck—his mouth was buried between her legs.
I watched his tongue slide in deep, slowly at first. Then he fucked her faster with it while she whimpered and rolled her hips up to meet him, her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his face like she couldn't get enough. He groaned into her pussy slowly and hungrily. She reached for his hard, veiny cock with her hands, slid down from the counter as he moaned, and tucked it inside her throat. She thrusts his cock back and forth inside her throat as he groans, pulling her head in for more. The sound was vibrating right through me even from where I stood behind the curtain. He let out a deep groan as he let out cum, which she swallowed like a lollipop. He carried her onto the counter, he cupped her breast, and he brushed her nipple with his thumb until it was hard, and she arched and moaned his name.
"Oh yeah, Victor… That spot… right there… Oh God, yesss…"
My chest burned; jealousy hit me so hard I couldn't even breathe.
I remember this scene so well; he had me up on this same counter years ago, on his wedding night.
This was supposed to be my version of him, the rough, greedy, no-holds-barred one, not this tender worshipping shit he was giving her right now.
He looked like he was savoring her, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And me? I crouched in the shadows like some pathetic slut, thighs squeezed together. Pussy was already so wet just from watching; my clit pulsed every time she gasped and every time his tongue disappeared into her again. I hated it, I hated him, and I hated her. I hated her for getting this side of him, hated him for giving it so easily, and hated myself most of all because I couldn't look away and I was getting wetter by the second.
My hands slipped between my legs without thinking, pressing the lace against my swollen clit. Rubbing in circles while I stared, I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood to keep myself from making a sound.
When she finally went limp, panting, he lifted his head and kissed the inside of her thigh so gently it made my stomach twist even worse, then he stood up straight and pulled her into his arms and kissed her lips. like she was precious. I stumble back from the curtain like my legs forgot how to work, tears still hot on my cheeks, pussy still twitching from the ugly orgasm I just forced out of myself on the floor. My head's spinning—jealousy, shame, and leftover heat all crashing together.
I just need to get back to the guest room before I break completely. Before I do something stupid like march in there and scream at them both.
I turn too fast. My bare foot catches on something small and hard—Lily's tiny pink sneaker, lying sideways in the middle of the damn hallway like it was waiting for me. I tripped. My knee slams into the floor first, then my palm smacks down loud—way too loud in the dead-of-night quiet.
A sharp gasp from the kitchen.
Then Elena's voice, startled and high: "What was that?"
Victor's already moving—I hear his footsteps heavy and quick. My heart slams into my throat. I scramble up, but it's too late. He rounds the corner, robe half-tied, hair messed from her fingers, lips still glossy from her.
Our eyes lock.
He freezes mid-step.
I'm standing there in nothing but the black lace thong and bralette, hair wild from sleep and crying, one knee red and scraped, tears streaking down my face. I look wrecked. I feel wrecked. And he sees it—all of it.
Disappointment hits me like a slap. Not anger. Not even lust right now. Just this deep, hollow ache because he was just down on his knees for her, giving her everything soft and sweet, and here I am again—the messy, broken sister who can't stop bleeding into their perfect life.
"Oh… Alysa," he says. His voice comes out low, rough, and almost surprised. Like he didn't expect the guilt to look this real on me.
I don't say anything. I just stare back at him. My chest hurts so bad I can barely breathe. I want to hate him. I want to hate her. I want to disappear.
From the kitchen, Elena calls, voice shaky now, "Anyone there, honey?"
I swallow hard. Force the words out, small and cracked. "Yeah… it's me, sis."
Silence for a second. Then her footsteps—quick, embarrassed. She appears behind him, robe pulled tight around her, cheeks flushed from coming and now from getting caught. Her eyes go wide when she sees me standing there half-naked, looking like I've been crying.
"Oh God, Lys…" She sounds mortified. "I'm so sorry. thought we didn't hear you. Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?"
I nod jerkily. "I just… came for water." My voice is barely above a whisper. It sounds pathetic even to me.
She rushes forward a step like she wants to hug me, then stops, glancing at Victor. "I feel awful. We should've… I mean, it's late, we didn't think…" She trails off, cheeks burning redder. "I'm sorry, baby sis."
Victor hasn't moved. He's still staring at me. His face is unreadable—jaw tight, eyes dark, something flickering there that could be guilt, hunger, or anger, or could be all three. I can't tell. I don't want to tell. I just feel small and stupid and used up.
Elena tugs at his arm. "Come on, Lette's… Let her get her water." She gives me one last worry. "Are you okay? "Are you sure you're okay? Your knee…"
"I'm fine," I mutter. Lie.
She nods, embarrassed all over again, and hurries back toward their bedroom. Victor lingers another second—eyes still on mine, heavy, searching. Like he wants to say something. Like he knows saying anything would make it worse.
Then he turns and follows her. The door to their room clicks shut softly behind them.
I stand there alone in the hallway, Lily's shoe still tipped over at my feet. My scraped knee stings. My thighs are sticky from earlier. My heart feels like it's been kicked in.
I didn't go for the water again.
I just limp back to the guest room, shut the door, and crawl into the bed that still smells like their laundry detergent—clean, perfect, nothing like me.
I pull the covers over my head and let the tears come again. Quiet this time. No sound.
Because the worst part isn't that they caught me watching.
It's that even now—after seeing him give her everything I crave—he still looked at me like I was the one thing he couldn't quite let go of.
And I hate how much I still want his damn cock.