My Husband's Best Friend Is Obsessed With Me

14

NADIA

I can’t sleep. I keep tossing, sheets tangled around my legs, body aching for something I haven’t had in too damn long. It’s pathetic how easily my mind drifts back to him—Mystery Man. The only one who ever really knew how to touch me.

Felix and I might as well be flatmates at this point. We move around each other like polite strangers sharing rent. Breakfasts are silent. Dinners don’t even happen anymore. He sleeps in his world. I sleep in mine.

To his credit, he’s tired. He’s said sorry more times than I can count. But every apology just bounces off the wall I’ve built. I can’t unhear the words that came out of his mouth that night. I can’t forget the tone.

The whole thing was his goddamn idea. Then somewhere along the line, he decided to start calling the shots, like I’m some obedient pet waiting for his approval. If he wanted control, he should’ve married a f*****g doormat.

He could’ve asked for my input. He could’ve at least listened. But no—Felix always has to play lord of the house, master of the rules.

He doesn’t get it. I’m not his to own. Not anymore. He can take his apologies and shove them.

Let him rot in his self-made hell.

I push thoughts of Felix aside and take a deep breath. My body’s already reacting, heat curling low in my stomach. I move to the mirror and stare at my reflection. The want in my eyes hits me hard. It’s bold, shameless—daring me to keep going.

My mind never plays fair. It throws him at me—Mystery Man—in flashes that sting. His hands, his mouth, the rhythm of us. The slow grind. The furious snap of hips. The way his strokes always found the right places, as if my body was mapped out just for him.

I peel off my shirt, slow enough to feel the fabric whisper against my skin, then slide my shorts down my legs. My n*****s are already hard, begging for attention. The round, full weight of my breasts rises with each breath—aching, needy, waiting to be touched… grabbed… punished the way I loved.

Reaching for the lavender oil on the dresser, I pour it into my palm—too much, but I don’t care. I rub my hands together, the scent wrapping around me like a fever.

I circle my n****e with a fingertip, eyes locked on the mirror as I watch myself react. My breath quickens, hips shifting on instinct. The slick warmth, the scent, the sight of my own body—it all blends until I can’t tell what’s real and what’s fantasy.

I feel so good. So f*****g good.

I sink down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. For a moment, I just sit there, feeling the pulse beneath my skin — the kind that comes from too many unspoken things, too many nights spent untouched. Then, slowly, I let my hand wander.

The lavender oil glistens on my palms, the scent clinging thickly to my skin. I’d poured it intending just to soothe myself, to rub it over my body like a small mercy. But now, as my fingers trace the curves I’ve neglected, it becomes something else entirely — a trigger. The slickness makes every touch deeper, every glide more deliberate. My skin hums beneath my hand, and the ache swells until I can barely breathe.

The room feels smaller now, the air thick with lavender and arousal, the two scents merging until I can’t tell them apart.

It doesn’t take long before instinct takes over. My body moves without command — urgent, hungry, desperate to be remembered. One hand pinches my n****e, rolling it until I gasp, while the other slips lower, finding my folds slick and ready. I glide over the tender seam, parting it to reveal the heat within, the pulse that’s been begging for attention.

The sight of myself in the mirror arrests me. I look—Good—delectable. My skin flushed, my lips parted, eyes half-lidded and burning. I look like a woman reclaiming something she lost.

A jolt of recklessness hits. I push two fingers into my slit, the wet sound obscene and thrilling. The woman in the mirror arches, her face tightening with pleasure, and that image drives me to spread my thighs wider.

I finger-f**k myself slowly, deliberately, parting my p***y lips with my free hand and dragging a finger along my labia, savoring the contrast of pressure and glide.

I feel myself tightening around my fingers, the tremor threatening to break me, but I hold it back. Not yet. I want to drown in this. To draw it out until I’m emptied of everything—frustration, longing, shame. Until there’s nothing left but release.

I wiggle my fingers deeper, faster, my thumb circling my c**t in lazy, teasing strokes. The tension coils in my belly like a lit fuse. I move the other hand to my hair, tugging it hard as the pleasure spikes through me.

My thighs clamp around my hand. My hips lift, thrusting into the rhythm I’ve built for myself. The climax crashes into me all at once—sharp, merciless. It tears through me in waves, leaving me gasping, lips parted, eyes locked on the stranger in the mirror who looks nothing like the woman who began this.

When it’s over, I collapse onto the bed, one foot still on the floor, breath shallow. The quiet slips back in like an intruder, and for a moment, I just lie there, dazed. But guilt doesn’t come. Not for doing this while my husband sleeps in the next room.

Instead, regret hits me—hard and sudden. Regret that it wasn’t Mystery Man watching. He would have loved this. The way I came. The way I broke.

Maybe I would’ve made him touch himself too, matching me stroke for stroke. The thought makes me laugh softly, the sound cracked and wild, before I roll fully onto the bed, nearly falling off like a clumsy potato.

When I finally still, I draw my fingers out. They’re coated in creamy slickness—evidence of everything I just released. The thought of sucking them clean flickers through my mind, wicked and tempting, but I push it aside. Instead, I reach for my phone, tilt it toward the light, and take a photo. I zoom in on the glistening spots, the messy proof of what I just did.

Something about capturing it feels… necessary. Like a confession I’ll never send.

Or I might someday. Soon.

The next morning, sunlight creeps into the room and settles across the sheets. I stretch, slow and lazy, my body sore in places I’d forgotten could ache. The faint scent of lavender still clings to my hands.

After a quick use of the toilet, I throw on a robe, tie it securely, and pull open my bedroom door.

I don't know what time it is, but from the stillness in the house, I can tell Felix is out already. It's Friday, which means he has to round up for the week, go through the report from each department, and set new goals for the upcoming week.

Except he's changed his routine, because we barely talk about work or anything anymore.

I attempt to keep the stillness in the house at bay by humming a tune under my breath as I walk into the kitchen, but the sound is cut short the second my eyes spot Felix — standing bare-chested and flipping a pancake. He looks at me over his shoulder with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Good morning!”

Too sweet. Obviously fake. What's going on?

I nod at him and mumble something incoherent back, absently tugging the robe tighter as I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water.

It's not that I have an issue with him being here. I just didn't expect to see him.

Most mornings for the past three months, he gets out of the house before I wake up, and in the evenings, he doesn't come home until after midnight.

I can count the number of times we've bumped into each other in the hallway, kitchen, or balcony on one hand.

My eyes catch something colorful from my peripheral vision. Wait. Is that why he's still at home?

I turn around to fully stare at the collection of flowers on the coffee table— red roses, white lilies, pink tulips — all carefully arranged. The kind of bouquet that speaks of love, patience, and devotion.

Why didn't I notice them when I walked in?

You were distracted by the sight of your husband... naked... yummy.

“Shut up.” I mutter under my breath and move closer to the table. The flowers look fresh, deliberate — like someone took their time picking each one.

I reach out, pluck a rose from the bunch, and bring it close to my face.

Maybe I should forgive him. Move past the hurt and betrayal and—

“So, he knows where you live, huh?”

What? I almost drop the flower but quickly compose myself and turn to face Felix.

“What are you talking about?”

His face twists with disgust. “The flowers. Your lover obviously sent them.”

Wait—he’s serious? “These aren’t from you?”

He smirks. “I’m a busy man, Nadia. I don’t have time for things like this.”

Of course.

Right there, on one of the stems, is a small note carefully tucked in. I pull it out, and my heart skips. If I’d seen it earlier, there’s no way I would’ve thought they were from Felix. I was stupid to even let that cross my mind. This man isn’t capable of loving anyone.

He uses people.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Felix says, voice sharp.

“What question?”

“Why does he know our house address?”

“I gave it to him. Just in case.”

His eyes darken. “Just in case of what? You need a quick f**k on our balcony?”

Damn. I never thought of that!

I smirk. “Now that’s something I’ve never considered, darling. You’re a genius.”

I make myself coffee and stand over the flowers to sip it. My fingers weave through them wistfully.

“So you’re really going to do that? f**k him on our balcony?”

The words slice through the air, sharp and ugly.

I want to laugh in his face, tell him to go screw himself, but I don’t. As much as I hate to admit it, I still respect him—at least a little.

Instead, I let out a dry chuckle, grab the flowers and the note, and tuck them under my arm. “No, Felix,” I say, calm and deliberate. “I’m going to put this away and get ready for work.”

I flash him a quick grin, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes, and head for the door. But just before I step out, I glance over my shoulder.

“You really need to stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” I tell him softly. “Remember the rules you wrote?”

I let the silence hang for a beat, watching the flicker in his eyes—guilt, anger, maybe both—before I turn and walk away.

Whatever this is—we’re past saving.

And I don’t feel a damn thing.