Page 182 of Yearn

Scott stumbled off the last step and almost collided into the wall. He was so weak and sick.

But it was his face that held me captive.

I'd seen trauma before—in the ER, in psych rotations, in the mirror after my parents died. Recognized the physiologicalmarkers: pupils constricted to pinpoints despite the dim light, mouth slack, breathing arrested mid-inhale.

This was different.

This was a man watching his entire reality collapse in real time.

His eyes—glassy from the drugs but sharp with sudden, terrible clarity—tracked from Teyonah's face to mine, then down to where our bodies connected.

The exact moment comprehension hit, his expression fractured.

Horror, yes.

But beneath it. . .

Humiliation.

Rage.

And something that looked sickeningly like grief.

His hand reached out, grasping air, as if he could physically stop what he was witnessing.

His fingers trembled—fine motor control deteriorating, probably from the adrenaline spike hitting his already compromised system.

"No," he mouthed, but no sound came out. His throat worked, swallowing against what might have been bile or words or both.

Lovingly thrusting into Teyonah, I watched Scott with clinical fascination even as pleasure coursed through my veins. Watched the way his knees buckled slightly, how he had to brace against the wall on the way to the kitchen to stay upright.

Mmmm.

“Oh, baby.” Teyonah moaned. “Fuck me good.”

“Always, Mommy.”

Scott stumbled.

His whole body was rejecting what his eyes reported and his ears heard.

This wasn't just a husband discovering infidelity.

This was a man realizing he'd already lost badly.

Past tense.

Done.

He swayed, and for a moment I thought he might pass out—blood pressure probably plummeting as his parasympathetic nervous system struggled to process the compound trauma.

Physical illness from what I was doing to her pussy, surely he’d foolishly thought this pussy was still his.

Emotional devastation.

Complete loss of control.

It all showed on his face.