Between Mr. & Mrs. Marshall
Passion Exclusive
Steamy
7.5K
Description
Stella Ortega was supposed to be the perfect student-eighteen, brilliant, untouched. Until she made a mistake: flirting with her married French professor to get revenge on her ex. What started as a game turns into something darker when Professor Dominic Marshall doesn't just flirt back-he offers her submission, secrets, and control wrapped in velvet and command. And his wife? She doesn't walk away-she joins in. Now trapped in a triangle of pleasure, punishment, and power, Stella learns that surrender isn't weakness... it's everything she's ever wanted. But in a school where rumors ruin lives, someone knows their secret-and they're ready to burn everything down.
Chapter 1
Aug 1, 2025
POV Stella
"Fuck, Becca... right there."
Jake's voice cuts through the room like a chainsaw through my self-esteem. Deep, hungry, vibrating with the kind of desperation he's never shown for me.
Not once in eighteen months of dating.
Becca moans like she's auditioning for a porno, head thrown back, blonde hair cascading as she rides him like she's breaking in a stallion.
Her fingers dig into his hair—my boyfriend's hair—and her hips move with this confident rhythm that makes me want to crawl under the bed and die.
Meanwhile, I'm perched on the edge of the mattress in this tragic red lingerie set that I panic-bought off a sketchy Instagram ad that promised I’d “unleash my inner goddess.”
Right now, I just feel stupid.
The thong is literally trying to bisect me. I shift, attempting to save my circulation, and the movement makes the cheap lace scratch against my skin like discount punishment.
"You cool with her touching me there?" Jake asks, breathless, like he's checking if I want extra cheese on my pizza.
Not like another girl’s fingers are currently wrapped around his dick.
I watch Becca's hand move with practiced expertise—slow and confident. Like she knows exactly how he likes it.
The pressure. The rhythm. The little twist at the tip that makes him groan.
All the shit he never taught me because I was apparently too "sweet" to handle advanced techniques.
"I, um... yeah," I mumble, my voice barely registering above the sound of my dignity dying.
"See?" Jake grins at her like she just validated his entire existence. "Told you she'd be chill."
Chill. Right.
Because nothing says "chill" like watching your boyfriend get the best handjob of his life from someone who isn't you.
Becca laughs—this low, sultry sound that probably makes men weak in the knees. She doesn't even glance my way. I'm furniture. Sexy furniture that agreed to be in the room while the real adults have fun.
My thong has officially achieved new levels of anatomical impossibility. I'm pretty sure it's trying to reach my ribcage. Every movement sends the scratchy lace deeper into places lace was never meant to go.
"She's so pretty," I whisper, because apparently my mouth has decided to work against me.
Jake’s eyes light up like I just handed him a trophy. “Right? I told you she was perfect.”
Perfect.
He’s never called me perfect.
I’ve been “cute”, “sweet”, “such a good girl.” Always like I’m a puppy he’s tolerating, not someone he actually wants to fuck senseless.
I reach for his chest, trying to remind him I exist, but he jerks away like I burned him.
"Wait," he mutters, eyes glued to Becca's bouncing tits. "Let me finish with her first."
Finish with her first.
Like I’m the second course. The leftover.
That's when I grab the sheet and escape to the bathroom, my dignity trailing behind me like toilet paper stuck to my shoe.
I lock the door and stare at myself in the mirror. Mascara streaked. Lipstick smeared. A girl who tried so hard to be desirable, she agreed to watch her boyfriend fuck someone else.
The real kicker? This whole thing was supposed to be for us. To "spice things up" and "bring us closer together."
Every time I'd suggested trying something new, a different position, literally anything beyond missionary with the lights off, or something I saw in books or late-night porn clips, Jake would laugh.
“You?” he’d scoff. “But you’re not like that, sweetie. You don’t give the kind of girl who likes being tied up or spanked or whatever crazy shit you read about.”
He said it like it was a compliment. Like being boring was my brand.
“You want rough stuff?” he asked once, smirking. “Babe, you couldn’t handle it. You’re too soft. Too innocent.”
I asked if we could try doggy style. Once. He told me missionary was "classic" and "romantic." When I suggested going down on him while he stood up, he shook his head. "That's porn-star shit. Not you."
But this threesome? This he wanted. Only if it was his idea, his rules, his choice of participant. And of course he picked Becca—blonde, curvy, experienced.
Everything I'm not.
"Becca's down for it," he'd said, eyes gleaming like he'd won the lottery. "This could be good for us, baby. Maybe it'll loosen you up."
So I agreed. Because I was tired of being the girl who asked and never received. Because he promised it would make us stronger.
That it was just "something fun."
But watching him worship Becca's body like it's the eighth wonder of the world, I finally get it.
This was never about us. This was about him getting permission to cheat with an audience.
I splash water on my face, but it doesn't wash away the ache in my chest. He's never touched me like that. Never looked at me like he's looking at her. Never made those sounds for me.
I gave him permission to leave me. And he did. Without ever walking out the door.
* * *
Morning hits like a hangover, except I'm stone-cold sober and wishing I wasn't.
The smell of bacon guides me to the kitchen, where I find the world's most insulting tableau: Becca perched on my counter in my oversized shirt, laughing while Jake flips pancakes in his boxers like he's auditioning for "Domestic Bliss: The Musical."
They look like a couple. Like I never existed.
"Morning," Jake says casually, not even turning around. No guilt. No remorse. Just a sleepy grin and a spatula.
Becca doesn't acknowledge me. She sips orange juice like she pays rent here.
I stand there, barefoot and broken, watching the boy I gave everything to play house with the girl he actually wanted.
"Smells good," I say, my voice paper-thin.
Jake shrugs. "Yeah, Becca was craving it. Figured I'd be nice."
Nice. He's making her breakfast. When I lived here, I was lucky if he remembered to buy milk.
"Cool," I manage.
Cool. That's what I was supposed to be, right? Chill. Open. Down for anything as long as it didn't threaten his comfort zone.
I gave him permission to leave me. And he took it. Without ever walking out the door.
Between Mr. & Mrs. Marshall
30 Chapters
30
Contents
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