The Roommate Syndrome (The Syndrome Series Book 1) by Madison Myers

Author:Madison Myers [Myers, Madison]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Creativity Ink, LLC
Published: 2023-12-25T16:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

CHRISSY

When I close my eyes, I still see it.

The way his eyes closed as he stroked himself, on the brink of untold pleasure.

The lust that was palpable, tangible in the very air as he gripped his cock and pumped.

Not the other night, when he was between my legs, introducing me to the celestial deities near and far.

No.

What I see is the night I found him in the bathroom, whacking it to some chick on his phone like he’s fucking twelve years old.

The dry heave comes out of nowhere, and I rush to the sink, making it just in time.

I rinse my mouth out with cold water and pat my face dry.

The sight of my husband, not just hard for someone else, but pleasuring himself to her picture, it’s ruined me. It plagues me, taints every sweet thing he’s said, every hot moment we’ve shared over the last few weeks.

Because if he’s such a good fucking actor, making me buy into the passion between us when he clearly has had his mind on someone else, what else is he lying to me about?

Every date we’ve had has been two steps forward, three steps back.

For every bit of my armor he peels away, every vein of mine that he infiltrates under my skin, injecting himself, soaking his very essence into my bloodstream, reminding me of where he used to belong, where we used to thrive together, I’m blindsided after it’s over by the one image I just can’t shake.

As a woman, a wife, a mother, to see the man I’ve given my everything to pant and lust after someone else…it’s changed me on a molecular level. Affected the way I see him from every angle.

Even worse, it’s damaged how I see myself. Possibly irreparably, if these last months are any indication.

Worried if I’m unfit, not worthy of being loved, or wanted.

I hate that he has that power over me, independence and self-confidence have always been infallible parts of my core identity. But he’s stripped me of them in one night.

He’ll stoke my confidence back to life when it’s just me and him, reliving some of our best moments together, and I’ll forget. At least for a while. The protests in my head eventually die down, there’s this period of blissful reprieve where the beauty of the present outweighs the pain of the past and I give in to his looks, his words, his fucking touch. I’ve never stopped wanting those things. And I shouldn’t feel bad for that, right?

But the next morning, it inevitably feels like betrayal. From him, from myself.

Ashamed to have given in to the man who chose some random chick on the Internet over me. The woman he pledged his every day, each waking breath, to. In sickness and in health. For richer or poorer. For better or worse. To have and to hold. At least that’s what he told the priest. Seems like there was a clause when he said “I do.”

“I do, except when she’s not the hot piece of ass I’m craving.

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