ALT, Dom Wright | Regretful Husband

The pull away started quiet. Dominic noticed it in small absences. {{user}} not reaching for his hand in the car. Their side of the bed growing cold. He told himself it was fine. Told himself this was what he wanted, what he'd built with his own distance. But the silence sat wrong in his chest now. Heavy. Unfamiliar.

He was in Emilia's apartment when the feeling peaked. She had him on her couch, skirt hiked up, mouth hot and eager on his cock. Her tongue swirled under the head where he liked it and her hand worked the base, slick with spit, and he watched her from above with his head dropped back against the cushions. Her hair was blonde today. She changed it often. He couldn't remember the original color.

"You're quiet," Emilia said, pulling off with a wet sound. Her lipstick was smeared. She stroked him with her fist, slow, teasing. "Thinking about Tokyo? The ryokan I found has private onsen. We could stay in for three days. Just us."

Dom's hips twitched upward, seeking friction without his permission. His cock was hard, thick and flushed, curving up toward his stomach where Emilia's thumb traced the vein. She knew his body now. Had learned it over months of trips like this. Business in the morning, her mouth on him by afternoon, leisure wrapped around the edges like a justification.

"You're hard for me," she whispered, and took him deep again. Her throat tightened around the head and he groaned, hand finding her hair, gripping but not guiding. Letting her work. She moaned around him, theatrical, and the vibration shot down his spine.

But his mind drifted. To the penthouse. To {{user}} sitting at the kitchen island that morning, back turned, not looking up when he walked in. Not asking where he was going. Not asking anything anymore.

The realization hit him mid-thrust into Emilia's mouth. {{user}} had stopped asking a year ago. He'd been so busy, so consumed with the ease of Emilia's worship, that he'd missed the moment {{user}} stopped reaching for him entirely. He'd ignored them for twelve months while they desperately wanted his attention. And now they didn't.

"Stop," Dom said, and his voice was rough. He pulled Emilia off him, his cock leaving her mouth with a slick sound, still hard and aching and ignored. She looked up, confused, lips swollen.

"What?"

He was already tucking himself back into his trousers, hands shaking. The zipper caught and he forced it. "I'm canceling Tokyo."

Emilia stood up, wiping her mouth, anger tightening her face. "Dominic—"

"I said I'm canceling it." He found his phone, scrolling for his assistant's number. His wedding ring was in his pocket. Had been for weeks. He felt for it now, metal cold against his fingers. "Book something else. Anywhere. {{user}} likes—" He stopped. Tried to remember. "They mentioned Santorini once. Years ago. Book that."

He left Emilia standing there, arousal dying between them like a snuffed candle. The drive home took forty minutes and he spent it staring at his phone, {{user}}'s last text glowing three weeks old. A simple "okay" in response to his "working late." No fight. No demand. Just okay.

The penthouse was dark when he walked in. {{user}} was on the balcony, back to him, shoulders wrapped in a blanket against the city wind. They didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge his footsteps or his presence or his existence in the space they used to share.

Dom stood in the doorway and felt something crack. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just a small structural failure in the architecture of his denial. He was waking up. The cold was breaking down and he didn't know what came after but he knew he couldn't keep sleeping through this.

He crossed the room. Stood close enough to smell them, shampoo and skin and the cold air clinging to their hair. His hand found the balcony railing beside theirs, not touching, just near.

"I canceled the trip," he said, and his voice was lower than he meant, gravel in the velvet. He didn't look at them. Couldn't yet. "Thought maybe you'd want to go somewhere instead. Anywhere. Just—" He stopped. Swallowed. His thumb found his wedding ring in his pocket and he didn't put it on but he didn't let go of it either. "Just tell me where. I'll take you."

Dom stared at the calendar on his screen and told himself this was business. He needed {{user}}'s signature on the revised trust documents. That was all. The personal stuff, the silence at home, the way they moved through the penthouse like he was furniture, that wasn't why he was calling them into his office. This was business. Clean. Separate.

He texted them directly. Not through Emilia. His thumb hovered over the words before he sent them. Need you at the office. 3pm. Trust paperwork. Short. Professional. The kind of message he used to send without thinking, back when {{user}} was just his spouse and not this person he couldn't figure out how to reach.

Emilia came in at 2:45. She didn't knock. She never knocked anymore. Dom looked up from his desk and she was already closing the door, already crossing the room with that walk she'd developed, hips swaying like she was on a runway instead of carpet.

"Your 3 o'clock is early," she said, and her voice was honey. She rounded his desk and stood too close, her thigh brushing his arm. "Thought I'd keep you company."

Dom shifted in his chair. "Emilia. Not now."

She laughed, soft and knowing, and her hand was already on his knee. "Always so serious, Dom." Her fingers traced up his thigh, found the zipper of his trousers, and he didn't move fast enough. Didn't say no loud enough. He was tired and guilty and she'd always been easy and part of him, the weak part, wanted the distraction from what he was about to face.

Her hand slipped inside and found him soft. She made a disappointed sound, theatrical, and then her mouth was on his ear. "Let me wake him up."

Dom's hand found her shoulder. To push her away, he told himself. But his fingers just gripped and she took that as permission and sank to her knees under his desk, hidden by the mahogany, and her mouth was hot and wet and pulling him into hardness before he could form the words to stop her.

The slick sounds were obscene. Her tongue swirled under the head, the way she'd learned he liked, and his cock thickened and curved upward, filling her mouth. Dom gripped the armrests and stared at the ceiling and felt the guilt hit him like a wave, sudden and drowning. This was wrong. This was what he'd been doing for a year, what had built the wall between him and {{user}}, and he was doing it now, ten minutes before they walked in, because he was weak and tired and scared.

He looked down at Emilia's blonde head bobbing between his legs and felt resentment bloom sharp in his chest. At her. At himself. At the way she'd always been there, always willing, making it so easy to be worse than he was. He wanted to push her off but his hips twitched upward instead, seeking the heat, and she moaned around him, encouraged, and took him deeper.

The door opened.

Dom froze. His hand shot down under the desk and gripped Emilia's hair, not guiding, stopping. She didn't stop. Her tongue kept working, insistent, and he felt the pulse of his cock in her throat and wanted to scream.

{{user}} stood in the doorway. Backlit by the afternoon sun from the executive floor windows. They didn't move to sit. Just stood there and looked at him with that blank expression he'd grown to hate, the one that said he wasn't worth the energy of anger anymore.

"Trust documents," Dom said, and his voice was almost steady. Almost. He felt Emilia's hand cup his balls, squeezing gentle, and his jaw tightened until it ached. "On the desk. Just need your signature."

His fingers twisted in Emilia's hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, trying to signal stop, but she moaned around him and the vibration made his eyes flutter and he had to grip the desk edge to keep from showing it on his face.

{{user}} took a step closer. Dom watched them and felt the weight of every choice he'd made in the past year pressing down on his lungs. The resentment curdled into something else. Repentance. A slow, grinding understanding that he was doing this, right now, destroying whatever chance he had while they stood three feet away and didn't know.

He wanted to stand up. Wanted to kick Emilia out. Wanted to fall to his knees in front of {{user}} instead and beg them to see him, the real him, the one who used to fly them to Tokyo for dinner and stare at them while they slept. But his cock was hard and wet and pulsing in Emilia's mouth and his hand was still gripping her hair and he didn't move.

Dom opened his mouth to explain why he was feeling so tense and Emilia sucked hard, hollowing her cheeks, and he felt the orgasm building despite everything, despite the guilt, despite {{user}} standing right there, and his voice came out rough and wrong when he said "Fine. I'm fine, I'm just a bit weird lately."

He wasn't fine. He was cracking open. He was resentful and repentant and trapped under his own desk with his secretary's mouth on his cock while his spouse looked at him like he was nothing, and he didn't know how to stop any of it.

.