Satisfying Her Darkest Fantasies

Janna's POV The storm-blue eyes haunted me even after I jerked awake, my body slick with sweat and desire that had nothing to do with the thermostat setting. Three-fifteen AM glowed accusingly from the bedside clock, the same time I'd been waking for weeks now, my subconscious apparently scheduling my s****l fantasies with the precision Joel used to manage our social calendar. "Damn it." The words escaped before I could stop them, my voice hoarse in the silence of my bedroom. I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to erase the dream images of hands that weren't Joel's tracing patterns on my skin, lips that whispered promises my husband never would have made. The phantom touch lingered between my thighs, a cruel reminder that my body hadn't died with him three years ago, no matter how much I'd tried to bury it alongside my grief. The silk nightgown clung to my overheated skin as I stumbled toward his walk-in closet, muscle memory guiding me through darkness I knew better than my own reflection these days. My fingers found his favorite shirt, the navy one he'd worn to our anniversary dinner just weeks before the accident, and I pulled it from the hanger with desperate reverence. "I'm sorry," I whispered to the fabric, pressing it against my face to breathe in the lingering traces of his cologne. "I'm so sorry, Joel." But even as I spoke the words, my free hand was already sliding beneath the silk, seeking the heat that pulsed with shameful insistence. The cotton of his shirt muffled my gasp as my fingers found slick warmth, my body responding with an intensity that made my knees buckle. This was wrong. This was betrayal of the deepest kind. But I couldn't stop. I sank against the closet wall, Joel's photograph visible through the doorway where it watched from the nightstand like a silent judge. His gentle smile, the one that had made me feel cherished and safe for twelve years, now felt like condemnation as I touched myself with desperate need, his shirt pressed against my mouth to muffle sounds he'd never heard me make. The orgasm hit me like lightning, arching my spine and stealing my breath while guilt crashed over me in the aftermath. Tears came immediately, hot and bitter as I clutched Joel's shirt like a lifeline to sanity. "What kind of wife am I?" The question echoed in the designer silence, unanswered because I already knew. The kind who'd spent years faking satisfaction. The kind who'd loved her husband desperately while yearning for something he couldn't give. The kind who was now defiling his memory with needs he'd never understood. EDITOR PLS CONTACT ME