Ethan knew this dinner was a mistake the moment he extended the invitation. But declining the boss’s suggestion—no, his command—would have been worse. And so, here they were.
Ethan’s wife, Claire, had been electric all day, her energy humming like an exposed wire. She thrived on power, drawn to it the way ivy clings to the strongest walls. And Charles Mercer, Ethan’s boss, was nothing but power.
Mercer arrived exactly on time. His presence filled the space before he even stepped inside—broad-shouldered, confident, exuding an effortless dominance that made Ethan feel like he was shrinking in his own home.
Claire had greeted him like a hostess at a gala rather than a man’s wife welcoming her husband’s superior. Her smile lingered a beat too long, and when Mercer kissed her hand, her lips parted just slightly.
Dinner was a slow, simmering torture. Mercer’s deep voice took command of every conversation, his eyes holding Claire’s like a lover’s whisper. She responded in kind, laughter a shade too warm, glances that lasted just a fraction too long. Ethan swallowed mouthfuls of wine, stomach knotted with something between dread and resignation.
Then Mercer said it:
“You have a hot tub, don’t you?”
Claire lit up. “We do.”
Mercer smiled. “Perfect.”
The Hot Tub
Steam rose in silken tendrils as they slipped into the bubbling water. Mercer sat between them, his arms stretched lazily along the edge of the tub, the way a lion might lounge beneath a tree, unconcerned, unchallenged.
Claire had changed into a black bikini, one Ethan had never seen before. Her body glowed under the soft patio lights, droplets of water catching on her collarbone, her thighs. Mercer watched her like she was a glass of something expensive.
Ethan barely spoke. He nursed his drink, his fingers clenched too tightly around the glass.
“Ethan,” Claire murmured, her voice honeyed, “could you grab us another round?”
His feet felt like lead beneath him as he climbed out. He moved inside, gripping the kitchen counter for a moment before forcing himself to pour the drinks. His hands trembled, not from rage—he wasn’t sure he even had that in him—but from something darker. A deep, inevitable knowing.
When he stepped back outside, the scene hit him like a hammer.
Claire was straddling Mercer’s lap, her hands tangled in his hair, their mouths fused in a kiss so deep it looked like she was trying to drink him in. Mercer’s hands roamed her body, palms sliding over her hips, her back arching into him.
Ethan froze.
Claire felt his presence before she saw him. Her lips broke from Mercer’s, and she turned her head, her gaze locking onto Ethan’s.
She didn’t blush. She didn’t look ashamed. She simply lifted a hand, extended one perfectly manicured finger, and pointed.
To the chair.
Ethan sat.
His hands clenched around the drinks he had brought.
And then, silently, he set them down.
And he watched.
Ethan sat frozen in the patio chair, the night air cool against his damp skin, but inside, he burned. He had always known Claire was drawn to power, but he had never seen her succumb to it so completely—until now.
Mercer’s hands moved over her body with deliberate possession, fingers sliding beneath the straps of her bikini. With a slow, unhurried motion, he peeled the fabric away, exposing her inch by inch, as if unwrapping something that already belonged to him. Claire let him. No hesitation. No second glance at Ethan.
The top slipped into the water, forgotten. Then Mercer’s hands skimmed lower, his fingers hooking into the thin ties at her hips. Claire arched into him as he pulled, the black fabric vanishing beneath the surface.
Ethan exhaled shakily, gripping the arms of the chair. He should look away. He should.
But he didn’t.
Mercer sat back, admiring his work, his gaze raking over Claire’s now-bare body. Then, without breaking eye contact with Ethan, he reached for his own trunks.
A flick of his wrist, and they were gone.
The water swirled around them as Mercer pulled Claire against him, her legs parting instinctively, her body molding to his as if this had always been inevitable. She let out a breathy sound—somewhere between a sigh and a moan—as Mercer’s hands explored her freely now, no more barriers, no more pretense.
Ethan clenched his jaw. His stomach twisted into knots, but his feet remained planted. He should leave. Walk inside. Slam the door.
But Claire turned then, her head lolling to the side, her gaze locking onto him. Her pupils were dark, her lips parted, her breath unsteady.
Still, there was no shame in her eyes. No guilt.
Only a single word.
“Stay.”
And when Ethan didn’t move, didn’t speak—
She smiled.
Then she closed her eyes, tilting her head back, surrendering completely to Mercer’s touch.
The water rippled, slow and deliberate at first. Then faster.
Ethan sat in the chair, gripping the edges so tightly his knuckles went white.
And he watched.