Weekend at the Bull’s (Behind Closed Doors Book 12)

Chapter 1: The Drop-Off

Bram

The silence in the car was a fucking monster. It had teeth. It was chewing on the leather upholstery, on the rubber of the tires humming against the pavement, on the last dregs of my sanity. My hands were clamped so tight on the steering wheel my knuckles were bone-white. Every muscle in my forearms screamed. I wanted to break something. I wanted to slam on the brakes, turn this car around, and drive my wife home.

But I couldn’t. Because I was the one who had set this all up. This was my fantasy. My poison. And now I was forcing myself to drink it.

I risked a glance at her. Ania. My Ania. She sat perfectly still in the passenger seat, her hands folded in the lap of her simple blue cotton dress. She was staring straight ahead, her gaze fixed on the endless stretch of highway, but I knew she wasn’t seeing it. She was seeing him. Thiago.

She was so beautiful it hurt to look at her. Thirty-two years old, and she still had that soft, Polish innocence about her, even after ten years of marriage and two kids. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, showing the elegant line of her neck. A neck I loved to kiss. A neck I could already picture another man’s mouth on. Her face was pale, her blue eyes wide and dark with a fear I had put there.

This whole thing had started with whispers in the dark, my shameful confessions into the curve of her shoulder after we’d made love. What if I watched you with someone else? What if another man fucked you? A bigger man. Someone who could give you something I can’t.

At first, she’d laughed, then she’d shushed me. But the seed was planted. It grew in the dark, a twisted little weed in the soil of our quiet, suburban marriage. It became a game, then a plan, and now… now it was this. This goddamn silent car ride to hell. Or heaven. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

My cock was stone-hard in my jeans. I hated myself for it. I hated that the image of Thiago—tall, Brazilian, a fucking bull of a man—pinning my wife to his bed and splitting her open made my balls ache with need. I imagined his thick, dark cock sliding into her pussy. Her pussy. The one I’d claimed, the one that had stretched to give me our children. The thought of another man filling it, leaving his cum inside her, was an agony so sharp it was almost pleasure.

I knew she wasn’t wearing any underwear. I had told her not to. “Let him know you’re ready for him, from the moment you get out of the car,” I’d whispered to her this morning, my voice thick with a desire that felt like sickness. She had just nodded, her eyes hollow. Now, I could picture the soft blonde curls between her legs, her pink cunt lips pressed directly against the smooth leather of my car seat. My fucking car seat. Branded. Claimed before he’d even laid a hand on her.

I swallowed, the sound loud in the oppressive quiet. “We’re almost there,” I said. My voice was a stranger’s, a dry rasp.

Ania flinched, then nodded once, a tiny, jerky movement. She didn’t look at me. She couldn’t. And I was grateful. If I saw the accusation in her eyes, I might fall apart.

Ania

The leather of the car seat felt slick and cold against my cunt. Every tiny bump in the road was a jolt, a reminder that there was nothing between me and the world but a thin layer of cotton. No panties. Bram’s idea. One of his many little instructions that had felt thrillingly dirty in the safety of our bedroom but felt like pure, gut-twisting humiliation out here in the real world.

My heart was a trapped bird beating against my ribs, frantic and useless. I couldn’t breathe. The air in the car was thick with everything we weren’t saying. Bram’s fear. My terror. His raw, ugly arousal. I could feel it coming off him in waves, a scent of sweat and salt and pure, desperate lust. It made me sick. It made my clit throb.

I didn’t dare look at myself in the side mirror. I knew what I’d see. Ania. Mom. The woman who organizes playdates and remembers to buy organic milk. The woman with sensible shoes and a kind smile. My body was soft in the way of a woman who has carried children—a gentle swell to my belly, my breasts full and heavy. Not the body of a porn star. Just a wife. Bram’s wife.

And in ten minutes, I was going to walk into a stranger’s apartment and let him fuck me. For two days. I was going to let him use my mouth, my pussy, my ass. I was going to let him come inside me.

A wave of nausea washed over me, hot and acidic. I squeezed my eyes shut. Why did I agree to this? Because I loved Bram. Because his dark fantasies had become my dark fantasies. Because a part of me, a secret, shameful part, was curious. What would it feel like? To be taken by a man who didn’t love me? A man who saw me as nothing more than a set of holes to be used for his pleasure? The thought was terrifying. And it was making me wet. I could feel the slickness gathering between my legs, dampening the seat.

Bram’s voice cut through the silence. “We’re almost there.”

I jumped, my body rigid. I couldn’t speak. I could only nod, my eyes fixed on the gleaming, sterile skyscrapers that were rising up to meet us. One of them held him. Thiago. We had only seen pictures, exchanged a few sterile emails. He was a professional, a ‘bull’ for couples like us. The word itself felt obscene on my tongue. He was tall, powerfully built, with dark eyes that seemed to see right through the screen and into the dirtiest corners of my mind. He looked like a man who took what he wanted. And for the next forty-eight hours, he wanted me.

Bram pulled the car to the curb in front of a glass-and-steel monstrosity that scraped the sky. He cut the engine. The monster of silence came back, bigger and hungrier than before. This was it. The point of no return.

“Ania.” Bram’s voice cracked.

I finally turned to look at him. His face was a mask of torment. His eyes were pleading. Pleading for me to go through with it, pleading for me to forgive him.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” I choked out. The words felt like a lie. How could this be love?

He leaned over and kissed me. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was desperate, hungry, his teeth scraping my lips. It tasted of fear. He was trying to brand me one last time, to remind me who I belonged to before I gave myself to someone else. He pulled back, his breathing ragged. “Go on,” he said, his voice thick. “He’s waiting.”

Bram

My hand was shaking as I hit the button to unlock the doors. The click echoed in the car like a gunshot. A death sentence. Or a starting pistol.

Ania didn’t move for a second. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath, opened the door, and got out. She smoothed down her simple blue dress, the movement betraying her nerves. I watched her grab her small overnight bag from the back seat. In it were three sets of lingerie I’d picked out, a toothbrush, and nothing else. No books, no phone, no connections to the outside world. To me.

She shut the car door and stood on the pavement, looking small and fragile against the towering building. She looked back at me, her face unreadable. I gave a small nod, a gesture that felt pathetic and hollow. I’m letting you do this. I’m making you do this.

Then she turned and walked towards the glass doors. I watched the sway of her hips under the dress, knowing she was naked underneath. Knowing every man on this street could be imagining what I was imagining. My wife, walking to get fucked by another man. My pride and my shame were tangled up so tight I thought my heart would explode.

A man appeared at the entrance. Tall. Dark hair. Broad shoulders filling out a simple black t-shirt. Even from here, I could feel the aura of pure, predatory confidence radiating off him. Thiago.

He didn’t smile, not a friendly smile anyway. It was a smirk. A look of ownership. He opened the door for Ania, his eyes raking over her body, from the top of her blonde head to the sandals on her feet. She hesitated on the threshold, a final moment of indecision. He said something I couldn’t hear, and then he reached out and took the bag from her hand. It was a simple, possessive gesture. You won’t be needing this. I have you now.

Ania stepped inside.

The glass door swung shut, reflecting the empty street back at me. She was gone. He had her.

I sat there for a long time, staring at the door. Alone on the curb. My cock was still painfully hard, pressing against my zipper. A single, hot tear of shame and exhilaration rolled down my cheek. It was done. The weekend had begun.

Ania

The door clicked shut behind me, the sound final. It sealed me in. The lobby was cool and quiet, smelling of expensive cologne, leather, and him. It was a clean, masculine scent that was utterly foreign and overwhelmingly potent. It filled my lungs, invaded my senses.

He stood in front of me, a mountain of a man. Thiago. The pictures hadn’t done him justice. He was at least six-foot-three, with a chest and shoulders that strained the fabric of his black t-shirt. His arms were thick with muscle, covered in dark, intricate tattoos that snaked up towards his neck. His face was handsome in a brutal way—a strong jaw, a straight nose, and dark, almost black eyes that were looking at me not like a person, but like a piece of meat he was about to devour.

He hadn’t said hello. He hadn’t introduced himself. He just stood there, watching me, that faint, cruel smirk playing on his lips. I felt my entire body flush with heat. I was a mouse in a cage with a panther.

My hands trembled. I clutched the strap of my purse, the only thing that felt familiar.

He took a slow step towards me. Then another. He circled me, like a shark. His gaze was heavy, a physical weight on my skin. He took in my simple dress, my sensible sandals, my neatly tied hair. I felt plain and boring under his inspection. I felt like a lie.

He stopped directly in front of me, so close I could feel the heat coming off his body. He was silent for what felt like an eternity, just looking, dissecting me with his eyes. I could hear my own blood pounding in my ears. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream for Bram. But I was frozen, pinned by the sheer force of his presence.

Finally, he moved. He lifted a hand, slow and deliberate, and tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind my ear. His fingers were warm and rough against my skin. My breath hitched. Then he cupped my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek for a moment before his grip tightened, tilting my head up, forcing my gaze to meet his. His eyes were black holes, promising nothing but oblivion.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low, deep rumble that vibrated through my bones. It was laced with an accent I couldn’t place, something dark and smooth and dangerous.

“You can forget your husband’s name until Sunday,” he said, his thumb pressing into the soft skin under my chin. “For now, you’re mine.”