A Married Woman's Forbidden Past Calls
# Rekindled ## Prologue The house held its breath. Outside, the October wind pressed against the windowpanes, but inside, the air was thick with something heavier than weather. Amanda stood at the kitchen island, her phone face-down on th
Chapter 1
The house held its breath. Outside, the October wind pressed against the windowpanes, but inside, the air was thick with something heavier than weather. Amanda stood at the kitchen island, her phone face-down on the granite, its screen dark but still radiating the message that had arrived twenty-three minutes ago.
*I miss you. I'm single now. Really single. Can we talk?*
Marcus.
Two years. Two years of teaching herself to stop looking for his truck in crowded parking lots. Two years of letting her husband's arms be enough, because they were enough — Frank had made sure of that. But now the phone sat there like a live thing, and Megan could feel the pulse of it in her fingertips.
She heard Frank's footsteps before she saw him. He came down the stairs in that unhurried way he had, tall and steady, his beard trimmed close the way she liked. He didn't ask about the phone. He didn't have to.
"Marcus texted," she said, her voice quieter than she intended.
Frank leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. "I saw the look on your face when it buzzed." A pause. "What's he want?"
Megan turned, finally meeting her husband's eyes. Those warm brown eyes that had watched her cry in the shower for weeks after things ended with Marcus. Eyes that had learned the exact shape of her grief and loved her through it.
"He's single now. He wants to talk."
The words hung there. Frank's expression shifted by degrees — not anger, not jealousy, but something more complex. Something Megan had learned to read as love wrapped in pragmatism.
"What do you want?" he asked.
She wanted to say *I don't know*. But that wasn't true. Her body remembered things her mind had tried to archive. The way Marcus's mouth shaped filthy promises against her ear. The weight of his hands on her hips, purposeful and claiming. The sound of his belt unbuckling in the dark.
"I want... I don't know if I should."
Frank crossed the kitchen slowly, deliberately. When he reached her, he took her face in both hands, tilting it up. His thumbs traced her cheekbones. "You're allowed to want things, Megan. Even the messy ones."
"It's not just me anymore," she whispered. "It's us. It's what we built."
"Then talk to him." Frank's voice was steady. "Feel it out. And when you know what you feel, tell me. We decide together."
Megan let out a breath she'd been holding for two years. "You'd really be okay if—"
"I didn't say okay." Frank kissed her forehead, lingering. "I said together. There's a difference."
Later that night, Megan sat on the edge of their bed, the bedroom dark except for the amber glow of her phone screen. Frank was downstairs, giving her space, but she could feel his presence like a hand on the small of her back.
She dialed.
Marcus answered on the second ring. "Megan." Just her name, but it came out like a confession.
"Hi." She closed her eyes. "Two years, and that's all you've got?"
A soft laugh, familiar and rough. "I've got a lot more than that. But I wanted to hear your voice first."
The sound of him — Jesus. It undid something in her chest, unraveled a spool of heat she'd kept wound tight and hidden. She squeezed her thighs together without thinking.
"How's security?" she asked, grasping for normalcy. "Still running private contracts?"
"Same as ever. Bodyguard for people who don't deserve protecting." He paused. "I got married, Megan. Like I said I was going to. And the whole time, I kept thinking about you."
"That's not fair."
"I know. That's why I stopped reaching out. I needed to clean up my own mess first." His voice dropped lower, that register she'd never been able to resist. "It's cleaned now. I'm not asking for anything you can't give. I just— I miss the way you sound when you're about to fall apart."
Megan's breath caught. Her free hand fisted in the comforter. "Marcus."
"Tell me you don't think about it. About the last time. Your living room. while I bent you over the arm of the couch. Tell me you haven't touched yourself thinking about that, and I'll leave you alone. I swear."
She couldn't tell him that. Her silence was its own confession.
Marcus exhaled, and she could picture him — the beard, the tattoos snaking down his forearms, the thick muscle of his chest under a fitted henley. "Then ask him, Megan.
A shiver rolled down her spine. Her panties were damp, the heat between her legs insistent now. She remembered the other women in Marcus's past, the ones she'd watched him charm effortlessly — and the sharp, ugly jealousy that had always twisted in her gut. She hated them. But she'd also imagined it, late at night: Marcus with someone else, while she watched from Frank's lap, his cock hard against her ass, his voice in her ear telling her to *look*.
"Is that what you want?" she whispered. "To come back just to remind me what I can't have all to myself?"
"I want you to stop pretending this is over when we both know it isn't." A beat. "Talk to Frank. Take your time. I'll wait."
The line went quiet.
Megan sat in the dark, trembling, her free hand creeping between her thighs before she could stop herself. She thought of Charles Downstairs, waiting with that knowing patience, probably hard himself at the possibilities already forming. She thought of Marcus, single and hungry and asking for permission in the only way he knew how.
She came with a shudder, biting her lip to stay quiet, her fingers soaked and her mind already writing the next chapter.
Frank found her in the kitchen the next morning, sitting at the island with two cups of coffee and a look he recognized.
"You talked to him."
"I did."
He sat across from her, wrapping his hands around his mug. "And?"
Frank nodded slowly. "What do you want?"
There it was again — the question that had always been the axis of their marriage. Not *what should you do* or *what will people think*, but what she wanted. He'd asked it the night they first discussed opening their bed to someone else. He'd asked it when she admitted, crying, that she'd fallen for Marcus harder than either of them planned.
"I want to watch him lose control," she said quietly. "But I want you there. I want your hands on me while I do."
Frank's eyes darkened. "And if the old feelings come back?"
She reached across the island, covering his hand with hers. "Then we navigate that. Together. Like we always do."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together, and squeezed.
"Then call him back," Frank said. "Invite him over."
Megan's stomach dropped and rose in the same breath. "Are you sure?"
"What I am," Frank said, rising from his stool and pulling her to her feet, "is hard. And you're going to take care of that before our guest arrives." He kissed her then, deep and searching, his hand tangling in her blonde hair. "Because once Marcus's here, we all do this properly."
She moaned into his mouth, already picturing the living room, the same couch, the same weight of Frank's gaze. But different now. Two years of longing sharpening every edge.
"Call him," Frank repeated against her lips. "Tell him to come tonight."
Megan picked up the phone.
Chapter 2
The knock came at eight.
Chapter 3
The knock came at eight.
Megan's hand trembled on the doorknob. Through the frosted glass, she could see the outline of him — broad shoulders, the same stance she'd memorized years ago. She opened the door.
Marcus filled the frame. His beard was thicker now, shot through with a few strands of grey, and the tattoos on his forearms had multiplied. But his eyes were the same. Hungry. Fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"Megan." His voice was gravel and want.
Behind her, Frank's footsteps approached. She felt her husband's hand rest on the small of her back, a brief, grounding pressure. Then he spoke, his tone calm and deliberate.
"She's been thinking about this for two years. Don't make her wait."
Marcus's jaw tightened. His gaze flicked to Frank, something passing between them — acknowledgment, permission, a transfer of authority Megan felt in her bones. Frank's hand left her back.
Then his footsteps retreated toward the stairs.
Marcus stepped inside. The door clicked shut. His hand found her hip, fingers digging in with the kind of possessiveness she'd only ever let him have, and he walked her backward until her shoulder blades hit the wall.
"Frank said you're mine tonight," he growled, his thick cock already hard and pressing against her belly through his jeans. "That true?"
Megan's breath stuttered. "Yes."
"Good." He didn't kiss her. He spun her instead, one hand fisting the back of her shirt, the other guiding her down. "On your knees. Now."
She dropped without hesitation, the hardwood biting into her knees. Marcus's hands found her hair immediately, tangling in the blonde strands, pulling just enough to tilt her face up toward him.
"Two years," he muttered, unzipping his jeans with his free hand. His cock sprang free — thick, flushed, the weight of it making her mouth water. "Two years since I've felt this pretty mouth. Open."
Megan opened.
He didn't ease in. He pushed deep, hitting the back of her throat in one rough thrust, and she moaned around him — a loud, shameless sound that vibrated through his shaft. Marcus hissed, his hips already moving.
"That's it. Fuck, I missed that sound." He pulled her hair tighter, controlling her rhythm, fucking her throat with slow, brutal strokes. "Missed those lips wrapped around my cock. Missed you gagging for me."
Megan's eyes watered. Her thighs pressed together, cunt throbbing, slickness soaking through her panties. She moaned again, louder, the sound filling the room because she didn't have to be quiet. Didn't have to hold back.
Frank was gone.
This was Marcus's now.
"You feel that?" He pulled out just enough to let her breathe, slapping the wet head of his cock against her tongue. "That's what you do to me. Every fucking time." He shoved back in, deeper, his balls brushing her chin. "Now take it. Take all of it."
Megan's fingers clawed at his thighs, nails digging into denim, and she let him use her mouth exactly the way he wanted — rough, relentless, her moans turning into desperate, choking cries that only made him fuck harder.
Chapter 4
Marcus pulled out of her mouth with a wet pop, a thick strand of saliva connecting her lips to his cock. He hauled her up by the hair, spun her around, and shoved her against the same wall she'd been pressed against minutes before.
His palm cracked against her ass — sharp, stinging, the sound ricocheting through the hallway. Megan cried out, her cheek flat against the cool drywall. He didn't wait. Another spank landed on the opposite cheek, harder, the heat blooming across her skin.
He delivered four more in rapid succession, each one forcing a gasp from her lungs, her ass burning and striped pink under his hand. Her cunt clenched around nothing, slick trailing down her inner thighs.
"You're mine again."
The words rumbled against her ear as he kicked her ankles apart, bent her further at the waist, and notched the thick head of his cock against her soaked entrance. No preamble. No gentleness. He slammed home in one brutal thrust.
Megan screamed.
Her fingers scrabbled against the wall for purchase as Marcus fucked into her from behind, his hips snapping forward with punishing rhythm. Every stroke bottomed out, his balls slapping against her clit, the angle driving him impossibly deep. Her tits bounced with each impact, nipples scraping the drywall.
His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, pulling her back onto his cock, meeting his thrusts with equal force. The obscene wet sounds of their fucking filled the hallway — skin against skin, her pussy squelching around his girth, her breathless wails climbing higher.
The first orgasm hit her like a freight train. Her cunt spasmed violently around his shaft, milking him, her whole body convulsing as she shrieked his name. Her knees buckled. Marcus's grip kept her upright, kept her impaled, never slowing his pace.
He fucked her through it, riding the clenching waves of her climax, then drove her straight into the next one before the aftershocks had faded. Her vision whited out. Her screams turned ragged, hoarse, as the second orgasm ripped through her — wetter this time, her release gushing around his pistoning cock, splattering the floor beneath them.
Her legs shook uncontrollably. Still he pounded, relentless, growling against her sweat-damp hair as her pussy fluttered and gripped and surrendered completely.
Chapter 5
Marcus yanked free of her with a wet, sucking pop, his cock slick with her thrill. “Mirror,” he commanded, fist in her hair. He hauled her down the hall to the full-length glass and shoved her down. “On your knees. Watch.”
Megan’s knees met the hardwood again, the sting already live in her skin. She stared at the wrecked woman in the reflection—flushed face, wild hair, her ass pink and battered. Marcus crouched behind her, one tattooed forearm snaking around to grip her jaw and force her gaze forward. His other palm cracked across her left cheek. The sound split the silence, and the bloom of fresh heat painted a bright handprint across her skin. She gasped, but he didn’t pause—spank after spank landed, hard and measured, each blow a searing punctuation. Her ass turned from pink to a furious red, the mirror showing every new mark. Megan’s whimpers pitched into deep, guttural moans as her empty cunt clenched around nothing, slick trickling down her inner thighs.
“Look at that pretty red ass, Megan. That’s mine now. Every fucking inch of it,” Marcus growled against her ear, his beard scraping her neck. He let go of her jaw only to pull her upright by the hair, march her to the couch, and bend her over its arm—the same couch where he’d claimed her years ago. Her chest mashed into the cushions, her burning rear thrust high and offered. “You’re gonna take every stroke I give you.”
He notched his thick cock at her soaked entrance and slammed home in one brutal drive. Megan screamed, the fullness a white-hot invasion that stole her breath. Marcus fucked into her with raw, hammering strokes, his hips punishing, each thrust jolting her forward against the arm. The wet, clapping rhythm of their bodies filled the room. “That pussy’s already milking me. You’re gonna cum for me again, aren’t you, Megan?” His voice was a possessive rumble, each word punctuated by another savage plunge.
“Oh god fuck you’re making me cum again please don’t stop. Fuck you feel so good,” Megan moaned, loud and shameless, the words spilling out in a ragged stream. Her cunt fluttered around his cock, the pressure building to a blinding precipice. Marcus’s hand twisted in her hair, yanking her head back until she could see the mirror across the room—their reflection raw and brutal: him pounding into her bent form, her mouth gaping, her tits swinging, his hand cracking down on her red-ass again to reignite the fire.
“Almost there. I can feel you right on the edge,” he hissed, driving harder, deeper, his balls slapping her clit. Megan hovered on the razor’s edge, every muscle coiled, the scream lodged in her chest—but he didn’t let up. He drove her higher, ruthless and knowing, keeping her suspended in that blinding, quivering almost.
Chapter 6
Marcus's hips drove into her with a final, brutal rhythm, his fingers digging into the reddened flesh of her ass. "You gonna cum with me, Megan? You gonna let me fill that pretty pussy while you scream?"
"Yes, yes, fuck, Marcus, I'm right there—" Her voice cracked, breaking into a sob of pure need.
He felt her cunt clamp down, the fluttering squeeze starting deep and spreading outward, and that was all he needed. With a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt and let go, his cock pulsing hot and thick inside her as she shattered around him. Megan's orgasm ripped through her in wave after blinding wave, her vision going white at the edges, her scream muffled by the couch cushion. She felt him throbbing, releasing everything he had, and the sensation tipped her further into the abyss—legs giving out completely, body sliding off the arm of the couch onto the cushions in a boneless heap.
Marcus pulled out gently, and she collapsed fully, sprawled on her stomach, every muscle quivering. Her legs wouldn't stop shaking—violent, involuntary tremors running from her thighs down to her calves. She pressed her forehead into the fabric, gasping, trying to find oxygen that didn't exist anymore.
"Fuuuuuuck," she moaned, the word drawn out long and trembling, her voice vibrating with the trembling in her legs. The sound came from somewhere deep in her chest, raw and wrecked.
Marcus sank down beside her, one hand coming to rest on the small of her back, feeling the aftershocks rippling through her body. "Breathe, Megan. Just breathe."
She turned her head, eyes glassy, face flushed, a sheen of sweat on her brow. "That was so fucking good," she whispered, her voice still quivering. "Jesus Christ, Marcus."
He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips—gentle now, the storm passed. "Thank you," he murmured against her mouth. "For tonight. For trusting me again."
Megan's eyes fluttered closed, her breath still coming in shallow hitches, legs still trembling faintly against the couch cushions. "Thank Frank," she managed, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips. "He's the one who said yes."