Tonight, I made Richard his favorite meal. The whole time, the scent of garlic and rosemary filled the kitchen, but all I could think about was a different, muskier scent. The memory of another man's sweat on my skin, of my face buried in a pillow while he took me from behind, his hand pressed over my mouth to keep me quiet. It’s a dangerous game, tasting one man’s cooking while still savoring the salt of another on your lips. The thrill isn’t just in the act—it’s in the quiet moments after, sitting across from your husband, feeling another man’s cum leaking into your panties, knowing you’re carrying his secret inside you all through dinner. It makes every bite taste like a lie, and god, I’ve never had a better appetite.