Page 158 of Yearn

Ashamed or sexually liberated.

Don't think about it.

"T-Teyonah. . ." Scott's voice cracked. "Why. . .were you. . .down there?"

"I told you. The toilet." The lie tasted worse the second time.

He stumbled, nearly taking us both down, and I braced against his weight. His body felt foreign—unfamiliar angles and softness where Dominic had been all hard muscle and erotic strength.

Scott smelled wrong too.

Stale beer.

Puke.

Sickness.

How ironic that last night he’d been talking down to me like I was nothing, and now with him thinking he was on his deathbed, he yelled out my name.

If it hadn’t been for my kids, I would’ve let him see Dominic and me in that bed.

For a few seconds, I’d actually wanted it.

I wanted Scott to walk in and choke on the sight of what real desire looked like—what it sounded like when a woman was touched therightway and by arealman.

Not some pretender.

Not some spineless bully.

But a gentleman with a huge heart.

In my head, I could see it so clearly.

Scott standing there in the doorway with that dumb look twisting his face.

Dominic still deep inside me, making me cum harder—louder, freer, and more alive than Scott ever could.

And me smiling through the orgasm.

In fact, if Scott could just see what Dominic carried between his legs, he’d finally understand what he’d spent years trying to shrink in me—the hunger, the joy, the damn right to feel good in my own skin.

Also, he would get extreme penis-envy.

Because there was no comparison. Scott’s cock was average at best—average size, average skill, average effort. He was the kind of man who thought two minutes of missionary with the lights off counted as passion. He'd roll off me and fall asleep while I lay there wondering if this was all there was.

Dominic? He'd studied my body like it was an exam he intended to ace. Found nerves I didn't know existed. Made me make sounds I'd never made. And that cock—thick, long, and exactly right—fit like we'd been designed for each other.

Scott couldn't compete.

Wouldn't even know the game had changed until it was too late.

But more than that, Scott would have to face the truth: he broke something in me he’ll never get to fix.

And that was also why I couldn’t let him see it.

Because a man like Scott doesn’t just lose—he retaliates. He would have twisted that moment into something ugly, drag it through court, use it to rip Oliver and J away from me.

He would have weaponized my pleasure, my body, my motherhood.