Chapter 11: Point of No Return!

The elevator hums softly as we ascend, the numbers above the door clicking upwards like a countdown to some unknown destiny. I catch Emma’s reflection in the polished steel — her eyes are wide, anxious — and my stomach clenches. Damn, she looks good. Different. She’s wearing a red blouse with tiny white polka dots and a high-waisted black skirt that hugs her curves just right. Classy, a little retro, with a hint of pin-up girl allure that’s a far cry from her usual jeans and t-shirts. And the effect is dizzying.

“Remember,” I say. “We can back out anytime, okay? This is all...” — what was the word? Consensual? Insane? Self-destructive? — “This is all our choice.”

“I know,” she says, her voice a little shaky. “But that goes both ways, right? If you get...”

“Jealous?” I finish her sentence. “Honey, I’m already there.” I force a grin, trying to lighten the mood and lean in to kiss her neck, the scent of her perfume a heady mix of familiar comfort and dangerous possibility. “You look ... incredible, by the way.”

She shakes her head, her brow furrowed. “I still don’t fully understand why you’re pushing for this, Mike. Why ... why you want us to go through with this? After everything.”

“I know,” I admit, my chest tightening. “I don’t even fully understand it myself. But I think this will help us.”

I kiss her again, a slow, searching kiss that tastes of fear and excitement, a potent cocktail I’ve become all too familiar with in these past few weeks. “Let’s just take it one step at a time, okay? If it gets to be too much — for either of us — we walk away. No questions asked. But if we don’t...” I trail off, my gaze meeting hers. “Let’s just see where this goes. Do whatever feels good.”

She lets out a shaky laugh, her eyes glimmering with conflicting emotions. “That’s the problem, Mike. What feels good ... it’s so far beyond wrong. By any sane metric, it’s completely messed up.”

I don’t have a response for that. She’s right, and we both know it.

The elevator doors slide open, and we step out into the dimly lit hallway, the silence pressing in on us, broken only by the sound of our own uneven breaths. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that echoes the chaos in my mind.

After that strange, unsettling conversation with Marcus at the cafe, I’d told Emma everything. We’d talked, argued, cried — the whole nine yards. About boundaries, about trust, about the sanity of it all. Emma had been hesitant, unsure, but I ... I’d pushed.

There had been tears, moments of raw, agonizing honesty that left us both feeling bruised and exposed.

There were moments when I thought she might walk away, slam the door on this whole mess. But she didn’t. Instead, she’d agreed — hesitantly, fearfully — to try.

For me.

For us.

We hadn’t reached any conclusions.

We hadn’t set any hard and fast rules and hadn’t figured out where the boundaries were.

We were just ... going with it.

I raise my hand to knock on Marcus’s door, but before my knuckles can connect with the wood, Emma grabs my hand, her fingers digging into mine.

“Promise me,” she whispers, her voice urgent, “Promise me that whatever happens tonight, you won’t hold it against me. Not ever. We are going to be good.”

I look into her eyes, and the raw emotion in them- fear, shame, and the strange flicker of something strange battling for dominance- mirrors my own internal turmoil.

“I promise, Em. It’s okay.” I say squeezing her hoping to convey a reassurance I don’t entirely feel myself

But before she can say another word, the door swings open.

“Mike, Emma! Come on in, guys!” Marcus greets us with a gentle smile. It’s warm and genuine, and it does little to ease the knot of apprehension tightening in my gut.

He shook my hand, with a firm, friendly grip, then turned to Emma, his eyes lighting up.

“Emma, you look absolutely beautiful tonight,” he leans in, his lips brushing her cheek in a light kiss.

Emma stiffens, a blush staining her cheeks crimson. I can feel her embarrassment, her wariness. This is the first time they’ve been face-to-face since that night, and the air between them crackles with unspoken tension.

He steps back, his smile softening. “Come on in, both of you. Make yourselves comfortable.”

My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. It’s surreal, stepping back into this apartment, and sitting down on the same couch where everything had gone down just a few nights before.

We settle onto the love-seat, Emma practically glued to my side, her fingers digging into my arm like a vise. Across from us, Marcus lowers himself into massive armchair and seems completely at ease, a stark contrast to the two of us, practically vibrating with nerves.

“Relax, guys,” he chuckles, his voice smooth as always. “You’re as nervous as a pair of cats.”

“It’s just ... a little outside our comfort zone,” I manage to say.

He nods in understanding, his gaze kind. “I get it. How about I fix us all some drinks?”

I open my mouth to protest, remembering all too well what alcohol had fueled last time, blurring boundaries but Emma beats me to it.

“Yes, please,” she blurts out, her voice a little too high-pitched.

“What can I get you?”

“Wine,” she says, her grip tightening on my arm. “Lots and lots of wine.”

He smiles and turns to me. “And for you, Mike?”

“Anything’s fine,” I mumble, already feeling the effects of the situation without a drop of alcohol in my system.

The second Marcus disappears into the kitchen, Emma leans in, her lips close to my ear.

“This is so awkward,” she whispers.

“Why?” I ask, even though I know exactly why.

She shoots me an incredulous look. “Why? Because last time we were here, he was basically...”

Her voice trails off, but we both know the unspoken ending to that sentence.

I reach for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We can leave any time you want, okay?”

She nods, her eyes glued to the doorway where Marcus disappeared.

He returns a moment later, drinks in hand. My glass holds a finger of amber liquid, while Emma’s is practically overflowing with red wine. He takes his seat, watching Emma with an amused smirk as she practically inhales the first few sips.

“Really, you two, relax,” he chuckles. “It’s not like we’re going to war or anything.”

I down my drink in one gulp, needing something to loosen the knot in my stomach. And maybe take the edge off the other thing that’s hardening with every passing second.

Marcus raises an eyebrow and gestures towards my empty glass. I hold it out, and he disappears into the kitchen again to refill it.

Emma leans in again, her breath warm against my ear. “Are you sure about this?” she whispers. “We can still cancel. We can leave.”

“I’m good, Em,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “This is ... for you.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “For me? If this was for me, we’d be halfway home by now. This needs to be for both of us.”

“It is.”

“Mike...” she whispers, her fingers finding purchase in the fabric of my shirt. “Are you really okay with this? Because if you’re not...” She takes a deep breath, her eyes pleading. “If you’re having second thoughts, we can walk out of here right now. No questions asked.”

I open my mouth, but she barrels on, the words tumble from her in a desperate torrent.

“I mean, are you doing this for me? Because if that’s the case, we’re leaving. This...” She waves a hand vaguely as if the whole situation is too big, too overwhelming, to articulate. “This should be for us. Both of us. Together. You can’t do this for me, Mike. Don’t you see? It has to be something ... something we both...”

“It’s fine,” I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intended.

Her anxiety, her need for reassurance, is pushing me to the edge, to a place where I don’t want to go. I’m not ready to dissect my own motivations, to confront the mess of desires that’s driving me.

Slowly, I pry her fingers from their grip and lace them with my own, raising her knuckles to brush a tender kiss against them.

“Didn’t I say? I’ll tell you if it gets to be too much.”

She searches my eyes for a long moment, then nods slowly, squeezing my hand again.

Marcus returns, placing a refilled glass in front of me along with an entire bottle of wine. And it’s only then that I realize Emma has also drained her first glass, just like I did, the wine vanishing in a few quick gulps.

“Here you go, Emma.” He sets the bottle down on the coffee table. “Pace yourself.”

Emma murmurs her thanks, her fingers already reaching for the corkscrew. I watch as she pours herself another generous glass, her movements unsteady, a little too quick.

The tension in the room is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Then, out of nowhere, Marcus asks, “So, how’s the gym going, Emma? Still hitting it hard?”

The question catches us both off guard.

“Oh, uhm ... y-yeah,” she stammers, taking another quick gulp of her wine, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass. “It’s going ... good. Really good.”

“I can tell,” he says, his gaze lingering on her. “You look amazing.”

Her cheeks flush. She ducks her head demurely, bringing the glass to her lips and draining another healthy swallow.

I feel a sudden urge, to fill the awkward silence. “Yeah, she’s become a bit of a gym rat,” I add, trying to make a joke out of it. “Up at the crack of dawn, lifting weights like she’s training for the Olympics.”

“Shut up, Mike.” she punches me lightly on the arm.

Marcus chuckles. “That’s what fitness is all about, Mike. Repetition. Gotta keep at it.”

It’s so mundane, so out of place, that it actually breaks the ice a little. Emma stammers out a response, then another, and soon enough, he’s managed to steer the conversation toward safer, neutral territory — work, hobbies, the latest Netflix show everyone’s talking about.

He’s good at this, I realize, at putting people at ease, at creating an illusion of normalcy. It’s almost impressive. And terrifying.

He must have done this many times before, smoothing things over, easing couples into...

I stop that thought before it could fully form.

As Emma downs more wine, her responses become less guarded, her laughter a little too loud, her gestures more expansive, her words flowing a little too freely. I watch her, my anxiety growing with each sip she takes.

Maybe we should have gotten drunk before we even got here, I think to myself. The idea had crossed my mind earlier, a way to blur the edges, to ease the tension, to make this whole situation a little less real. But then I realize that a sober, nervous Emma is probably better than a drunk, uninhibited one in this situation. Yet, despite my reservations, here we are.

But even with the conversation and laughter, it’s impossible to ignore the undercurrent of tension in the room, the way Marcus’s eyes linger on Emma a beat too long. And I see the way her gaze flickers to his crotch, subtle but unmistakable. At one point, he catches her looking and smiles, a knowing smirk that makes her blush.

Part of me — a big part, actually — just wishes he would grab her, kiss her, get this whole thing started. At least then, the anticipation would be over, and I could start to understand what I’m feeling. I don’t know how much longer I can handle the small talk, the forced smiles, the waiting.

I wanted to scream, ‘Just do it already!’ But I sat there, frozen, trapped in the tangled web of my own conflicting desires.

“So, uh...” I clear my throat, the words catching awkwardly in my throat. “How does this ... usually go?”

The unspoken question hung in the air, thick with a tension that made my skin prickle.

Emma shifts beside me, her leg brushing against mine, and a jolt of awareness shoots through me.

It feels strange, almost clinical like we are discussing the logistics of a business deal rather than ... well, this.

It almost felt like they were waiting on me — the husband — to set things into motion.

“Can’t say I have a handbook for this sort of thing, Mike” he rumbles with a low chuckle. “We’ll just have to figure it out as we go.”

“A guidebook on how to seduce couples?” Emma pipes up, her words just slightly slurred from the wine. “Now that would be an interesting read.”

Marcus arches an eyebrow. “You think so, huh?”

“Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“No need to apologize.”

“No, Mike told me,” She continues, her words tumbling over each other. “They come to you, right?”

“Pretty much,” Marcus confirms, his gaze flickering to me for a moment before settling back on my wife.

She takes another gulp of wine, her eyes glued to him. “So, Rhonda and Chris ... they came to you?”

“They did.”

“How did they even ... know?”

A slight furrow creases Marcus’s brow as he considers her question, “Well, word of mouth, I suppose. I haven’t been with any couple since my wife passed, but the ones I was with before ... one of them seems to know Rhonda and Chris. They have seen me in parking lot when visiting them. Next thing I knew, they were at my doorstep.”

“So, they just ... offered themselves to you? Just like that?”

Marcus shrugs, but he doesn’t elaborate further. The silence stretches out, broken only by the clinking of Emma’s glass as she pours herself more wine.

“So,” she begins, then hesitates, biting her lip, her eyes darting between Marcus and me. “How’s Rhonda in bed?”

Even I’m taken aback by the bluntness of the question.

Marcus throws back his head and laughs a deep, resonant sound. “I can’t answer that, Emma.”

“Why not?”

“Now that’s just information I can’t be sharing. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Besides some things, my dear,” he continues, his voice laced with a playful reprimand, “are better left to the imagination.”

Emma seems deflated by his answer, but she doesn’t let it deter her for long. After draining her glass and refilling it yet again, she turns back to Marcus.

“So, how long have you been ... you know ... doing this?”

He leans back, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. “Since college, I’d reckon.”

“Wow,” she breathes. “That’s ... that’s a long time.”

“I suppose it is.”

“You must have ... seen some really weird couples over all those years.”

“I have,” he chuckles. “ And honestly? It has ... taught me a lot about relationships.”

“How so?”

“You see a lot of couples, you know? So many different dynamics ... And looking at them from the outside ... well, it gives you a different perspective.”

“But you’ve only seen a very specific kind of couple,” she points out.

“I don’t agree with that,” he studies her a moment before replying. “From my experience, there’s no such thing as ‘weird’ couples. We all have our ... issues, our hangups, our kinks if you will. Some folks are just more open about exploring that sexual side than others. That’s all.”

She drains her glass, pours herself another, and then, without missing a beat, dives back in.

“Throughout all of that though ... did you ever get ... you know ... attached to any of the women you have been with? Catch feelings?”

I have to hand it to Emma — she’s tenacious when she wants answers, a dog with a bone.

The heavy silence that follows tells me this is no simple question.

Marcus’s expression turns pensive, contemplative, as he mulls over how to respond.

“Can’t say I never felt anything for some of them,” he admits at last, so low I have to strain to catch the words. “I’m only human, after all. But the thing is...” His gaze strays to the framed photos lining the wall, eyes lingering on the bright smile of the woman I can only assume was his late wife.

“I already had Gia back then,” he continues softly. “Whenever it happened, I was always honest about it with her. And she...” A rueful chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Well, let’s just say, she knew how to remind me real quick where my heart belonged. Where it always belonged and where those feelings needed to be directed at.”

It’s clear just how much Marcus still misses his wife, despite the years that have passed since her death.

“Okay, but what about them?” Emma presses, leaning forward, her gaze unwavering. “I bet those women ... they fell for you all the time, right?”

I shoot her a puzzled look. Why all the questions? Is she trying to talk herself into — or out of — this whole thing? I can’t tell if it’s morbid curiosity or a strange form of self-sabotage.

Or is she, without even realizing it, voicing her own deepest fears?

Either way, Marcus seems unfazed.

“It happened on occasion, I suppose,” he admits with a casual shrug. “Things would start out purely physical — Wild, no-strings-attached sex to fulfill their fantasy. But sometimes, those lines get blurred. And they would ... well, let’s just say they would get ... caught up in the moment. See it as something more than just a fling.” He pauses. “But then again, I always knew exactly what I was there for.”

“And what ... what are you there for?” Emma asks, leaning forward, her eyes bright with a mixture of curiosity and something else I can’t quite place.

“To take care of the lady, of course,” he replies smoothly, his eyes holding hers. “And to make sure her husband gets the show he came for. They both need something from me. From the situation.”

“You sound like some expert.”

Marcus sighs. “That’s because I am one, Emma’.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, fidgeting with her wineglass. “I’m asking too many questions...”

“It’s alright,” He offers her a reassuring smile. “I get it. You’re curious.”

“It’s simple, really,” he continues, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s just say a couple have had a fantasy, something they want to explore. And I’m there ... to help them achieve it, to make it real.

He leans forward, his voice earnest. “I had a philosophy. I understood the role I played in these people’s relationships. I wasn’t looking to steal someone’s girl. Quite the opposite. It was about ... aiding them to see each other in a new light. Showing the husband just how wildly uninhibited she could be when given the chance to let go,” He pauses, then continues, his voice softening. “ And for the women, it was a chance to let go, explore those desires, and be free ... even if it was for a few stolen moments. At the end of the day, that’s all it ever was and is.”

“That simple, huh?”

“Of course.” His response is immediate, unwavering. “The kink starts and ends in the bedroom. Whatever happens there, it doesn’t bleed into their everyday life. Their marriage, their love for each other ... that’s sacred.”

“And Gia ... your wife?” Emma asks, her gaze drifting towards the photographs on the wall. “She ... she was okay with all this?”

He chuckles, a fond smile lighting up his face. “More than okay — she encouraged it. Loved watching me ... you know ... with other women. It turned her on.”

“So she was with ... other men?” The question bursts from my lips before I can stop it, a jealous curiosity overriding my better judgment.

He doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at his hands, his fingers drumming a silent tattoo against the tabletop. I think, for a moment, he’s not going to respond. But then, he sighs, his shoulders slumping.