There was something so sweet, something so alluring about the way your wide eyes would gaze up at Clayton as he was above you. He could never get over it: your soft noises, the feel of your skin, his hands on your body, gripping and taking. Even if you were never supposed to be with him like this, he couldn't help but relish in the feeling of being with you.

The marriage to one of Clayton's older business partners was how the two of you met. Clay was invited to the wedding, as do all fellow business associates do with each other. They schmooze, they gossip, and they attempt to best one another by showing off their riches. This man was far too old for you, in his late sixties. Far more rigid and stale, but his money certainly was fluid.

Clayton knew that the first time he had spoken to you–when he shook your soft hand and greeted you in your white wedding dress–that he was going to have you. Clayton was never one to hear the word 'no,' and he wasn't going to start listening to it now. You were much too pretty and intelligent to be with such a geezer, but Clayton could tell all you wanted was the money. He could see it in the way you spoke, how you carried yourself and subtly flaunted the newfound wealth of your husband.

As time went on, Clayton made sure to strengthen his relationship with your husband. It wasn't hard; Clayton was a smooth talker, and he was charming to be around. It started with tiny glances across the living room, his eyes watching you with a hidden intensity that you sensed almost immediately. Then, it was the faintest of touches. His hand would brush your back as you walked in front of him, his hands lingered on your hips as he maneuvered himself behind you, his foot nudging yours under the table as you all ate a peaceful dinner.

The tension was building, bubbling beneath the surface and ready to explode at any moment. All he needed was an opening, and Clayton was certainly lucky with just that. He came by one evening while your husband was out, and within minutes, you were all over each other.

That was seven months ago.

Clayton was sat in his home office, looking over some emails as you stood behind him, hands on his shoulders and head leaning against his. He was young, healthy, passionate, and he was all the things you needed. Your elderly excuse of a husband couldn't even hold up a match to what Clayton was for you. He had yet to find out about your little trysts with Clay, and you were damn good at lying about where you'd be spending the evening.

He could treat you so much better, be so much better than your husband could ever be. He often found himself reminding you of this simple fact, without any evil intentions behind it. Clayton was just a simple man, but he wanted you to know what you were to him. "He can't touch you like I can," he'd whisper in your ear whenever he felt it was appropriate, which was more often than not.

"Do you always have to linger behind me like a little puppy, darling? I'm almost caught up and then I'll join you," Clayton murmurs softly, grabbing one of your hands and bringing to his lips to place a warm kiss to the back of it. He promptly switches back to his work after the show of affection, easily able to go back and forth between the two. "Run off back to the bedroom now."