Sneaking Suspicions

Liv's about to head out when she stops cold. She needs to talk, she says, and Jason catches the weight in her voice. She's been watching him, she tells him straight, and she wants to know if he's stepped out on her. Jason's face twists—why the hell would she think that? So Liv lays out the three moves that look like someone's playing hide-the-ball: late nights with the door locked, sudden browser clears, that quick hang-up the other night when she walked in. Jason swears on everything he's only got eyes, and dick, for her. Liv buys it for now, kisses him, and leaves. But the minute her ass hits the driver's seat the doubt claws back in. She kills the engine, kills the headlights, and slips back inside like she's casing her own house. What she finds stops her cold—Jason's on the bed, pants around his ankles, fist working overtime. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he spots her, but the truth comes out in a rush: he can't stop jerking off, can't concentrate, can't even function unless he's emptied the tank every few hours. It's a stupid secret he's been guarding, too embarrassed to tell his own wife. Liv's mad for half a second—then she's not. Relief hits first. She peels her jacket off, crawls onto the mattress, and wraps her fingers around the same cock he was punishing. 'If you need a hand this bad, baby,' she says, pumping him slow and mean, 'I'm the only hand you get from now on.'