Across the Street

Morning in the Weston House

Luke Weston stood in the doorway, coffee cooling in his hand.

The bedroom smelled faintly of perfume and the sharp, chemical hint of the window cleaner Jenna had used yesterday. Sunlight pushed through the blinds in pale, narrow strips, casting lines across the bedspread, the floor, the wall. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in around you when the rest of the neighborhood had not yet woken up.

The bathroom door clicked open, soft and deliberate.

Jenna stepped out, towel wrapped tight around her, dark hair damp against her neck. Her bare shoulders glinted faintly with moisture where the light caught them. She didn't look at him.

She never really looked at him when she came out like that. But sometimes, as she reached for her clothes, he caught a flicker of tension--a quick tightening of her jaw or the way her eyes traced her own reflection in the mirror, as if searching for a version of herself she remembered better.

Luke sipped his coffee, watching her as if through glass--her legs, the absent slope of her hip beneath the towel, beauty he felt invited to observe, not touch. His pulse stirred, low and familiar, trailing disappointment behind it.

The house was still. The only sound was the distant whir of a weed whacker down the block.

Her hand hovered over the drawer. She hesitated, fingers grazing lace, then silk, eyes unfocused--as if she was remembering something that made these choices matter in a way they hadn't before.

Luke's eyes lifted to the mirror. Caught the faintest glimpse of her reflection, her eyes flicking up, meeting his for the barest second. Cool. Amused. Unreadable.

"Early start?" she asked, still not quite facing him.

"Just watching," he said, voice low.

Her mouth curved--not a smile, exactly. Something else. She pulled a black bra from the drawer, lace delicate between her fingers, slipping it on without urgency, the towel falling away as she did.

Luke's throat tightened. She moved the way she always did--unhurried, methodical--but there was something in the air between them, something he could never quite pin down, like they were both acting out a scene neither of them had fully agreed on.

The black skirt she chose hugged her hips when she slid it up, stopping high on her thighs. It was nothing overt. Nothing anyone would say was inappropriate. But it was the kind of thing that made men turn their heads at the grocery store. Made Luke notice their eyes.

She pulled a pale blouse over her head, smoothing the fabric down with slow, practiced hands.

Luke cleared his throat. "Plans?" The coffee cooled, forgotten in his hand; the question sounded empty, a habit.

Jenna shrugged, twisting her hair into a loose knot, her eyes on the floor. "Not really. Just a few errands,' she said, and Luke thought he heard a question hidden in her answer, something unfinished.

The weed whacker buzzed faintly outside again, closer now.

Luke's eyes drifted toward the window.

When he looked back, Jenna was watching him in the mirror. That same look--cool, quiet, amused. Like she knew something he didn't. Or like nothing at all was happening, and he was the one making it all up.

"You should get ready," she murmured, reaching for her heels.

Luke watched the curve of her legs as she slipped them on, the sharp line of her calf tightening as she stood.

The coffee in his hand had gone cold, but he barely noticed.

The Night Before Luke's Trip

The room was dim, lit only by the amber lamp on her side of the bed. Outside, the quiet hum of a neighbor's backyard television buzzed faintly through the window, low and indecipherable.

Jenna lay on her back, the sheets pushed down to her hips. Her blouse was unbuttoned, just enough to expose the dark curve of one breast, one strap of her bra slipping down her arm. Luke moved over her slowly, hands on her thighs, mouth at her collarbone. She let him touch her, let him kiss her neck, her chest, her stomach--but she didn't move much. Her hands stayed folded lightly above her head. Her breathing steady. Watching him through half-lidded eyes.

It wasn't cold, but Luke felt a chill--the same one that crept in the edges of nights lately, when he remembered the way they used to laugh until they couldn't breathe. Now, her closeness meant only warmth on the sheets, not in his chest.

He remembered the rare night years ago when words had failed them both. They lay side by side in the dark, the hum of the old heater the only sound between whispered apologies. Jenna's hand had found his in the silence--a small, fragile tether in the dark. No need for grand gestures. Just a quiet understanding that they were still there, still reaching, even when everything else went wrong.

She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the window behind him.

"Leave the light on," she said softly.

Luke paused, unsure if he'd meant to turn it off. He nodded. "Okay."

Her hand slid into his hair, slow and gentle. Not pulling, not guiding. Just resting there. Like she was letting him do what he needed to do.

When he entered her, her legs wrapped loosely around him, but her expression didn't change. Not much. Her eyes stayed open, fixed somewhere over his shoulder. Her mouth parted a little, but she didn't make a sound. Not for a while.

Luke moved inside her with the careful rhythm of a man who knew what his wife liked. Or thought he did. He kissed her shoulder. Her throat. She smelled like citrus shampoo and clean sweat and something faintly metallic beneath it, something unfamiliar.

When she finally exhaled--a soft, measured breath--it startled him.

"You okay?" he asked, without meaning to.

Her gaze returned to him slowly. She smiled. Small. Ambiguous.

"I'm fine."

He nodded, his thrusts faltering, suddenly aware of the way her body gripped him.

She shifted beneath his body, her hips rising to meet him once, twice, almost as if to remind him where he was. Or maybe just to finish it.

Luke came quietly, biting his lip to keep from groaning too loudly. He always felt a little stupid afterward. He didn't know why.

He pulled out, rolling onto his back, catching his breath in the stillness.

Jenna lay beside him, her blouse still halfway unbuttoned. Her hair was a dark fan across the pillow. She hadn't moved.

"You leave early?" she asked after a moment, voice light.

"Yeah," Luke said. "I'll be gone before you're up."

She turned her head slightly, studying the ceiling. Her expression unreadable in the low light.

He wanted to reach for her hand, fingers twitching with the urge, but Jenna shifted--just enough that her hand slipped beneath the pillow, out of gentle reach. The pause between them lengthened.

"I'll call you tomorrow night," he said instead.

She nodded, eyes still on the ceiling.

"Don't forget your charger this time," she murmured.

He smiled. "I won't."

Jenna rolled onto her side, facing away from him. Her bare shoulder glowed faintly in the lamplight, and the curve of her hip peeked from beneath the sheet.

Luke stared at the back of her, the way her shoulder blade moved slightly when she breathed.

"Hey," he said quietly, after a moment.

She didn't answer right away.

"I love you," he added.

The silence lingered, then over her shoulder, very softly:

"I know."

The Morning After

The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt staged.

Jenna stood at the kitchen sink, nursing the last few sips of lukewarm coffee, the ceramic mug heavy in her hand. The morning light pressed against the windows--soft, bright, too clean. The countertops gleamed, spotless. The faint smell of lemon cleaner clung to the air.

Outside, she heard some children shouting.

She didn't look at first.

Her eyes drifted over the kitchen, the neat row of glass jars on the counter, the fruit bowl, the little framed photo of the two of them at the beach last summer--both smiling and tanned, his arm around her waist, his hand resting just a little too possessively on her hip.

The sound of a mower began to buzz. Steady. Closer.

Jenna set the mug down with a faint ceramic tap. Her feet moved before her brain made the decision--quiet across the tile, down the hall, into the living room where the curtains hung half-parted over the front window.

She slipped her fingers into the gap, just enough to see.

Across the street, Ryan Carter pushed the mower in slow, even lines across his parents' lawn. Shirtless. His skin caught the sunlight, slick with the faintest sheen of sweat. His shoulders broad, torso narrow, lean muscle shifting beneath the lazy rhythm of his movements.

He looked older, somehow. Not the awkward kid she remembered from high school drop-offs and Halloween block parties. Taller now. Harder. Careless in the way only young men could be.

An old memory flickered: years ago, standing in a noisy high school gym, she caught Ryan glancing at her as he waited for his mother near the bleachers--awkward and colt-legged but with an open, earnest curiosity that made her blush, surprised by the jolt of being admired. She'd smiled politely, dismissing it, but the memory of those unguarded eyes stayed lodged somewhere soft, growing stranger as he outgrew his boyishness.

Jenna's pulse stirred low in her stomach. A quiet, unwelcome heat blooming there, creeping down between her legs, soft and sharp all at once. The feeling mingled with a shame that left her both thrilled and unsettled--a reminder that this wasn't just idle daydreaming anymore.

Her fingers tightened against the curtain.

It was ridiculous. Stupid.

But still she watched.

Ryan's head bent as he guided the mower, the hum vibrating faintly through the window glass. His hand lifted to wipe sweat from his brow, the motion pulling her eyes to the curve of his stomach, the V of muscle along his hips disappearing beneath low-hung athletic shorts.

For a moment, his eyes lifted. Just a flicker.

Her breath caught.

She wasn't sure if he saw her.

His gaze passed over the house, unbothered, unreadable. Or maybe not unbothered. Maybe pretending. Or maybe she was imagining the whole thing--the weight of his eyes, the possibility threaded into that split-second glance.

Jenna let the curtain fall back into place.

Her heart beat too loud in her chest. Her skin prickled faintly, heat lingering between her thighs, uncomfortable and heavy.

She stood there, unmoving, staring at her own reflection in the glass--pale, sharp, a little flushed. Her mouth tasted of coffee and something bitter beneath it.

For a moment, she pressed her palm flat to the window.

It was cool beneath her hand.

Midday Errands

The air outside was warm and overbright, the kind of sun that made the streets feel too quiet. Even the birds sounded far away.

Jenna drove with the windows halfway down, one hand resting on the gearshift, the other idly tracing the edge of the steering wheel. The radio murmured soft adult contemporary, songs she didn't know well enough to care about. Her eyes flicked over manicured lawns and identical mailboxes. A man watering petunias. A child on a scooter wobbling past a minivan.

She'd gone to the pharmacy, the muted chime of the doors barely registering, then the grocery store--fluorescent lights and stale air. Returned something at Target, not even sure why she'd bought it in the first place. The errands all blurred, lifeless, like she was gliding underwater.

What she remembered, vividly, with disorienting clarity, was the way Ryan's back flexed when he turned the mower. The way sweat had run in a thin line down the center of his spine. The way he hadn't looked away fast enough--if he'd looked at all.

Her thighs shifted unconsciously in the driver's seat.

She pressed harder on the gas.

She didn't know why she turned into the Starbucks lot. She wasn't thirsty. She wasn't tired. But her hand flicked the turn signal like it wasn't a choice, and suddenly she was winding into the long, coiled drive-thru line behind a silver CRV with a cracked bumper.

She shifted the car into park, her foot hovering over the brake.

Her skin felt hot. Not from the sun.

She adjusted the hem of her skirt--just a little--and looked down at her own lap. Pale thighs. Smooth. Tense.

Her breath came slow. Measured. Like something trying not to happen.

Her hand drifted down, almost without thought, fingertips brushing the inside of her leg. Just a test. Just pressure. Nothing serious.

But the heat that flared there startled her.

A spike of panic--what if someone looked, what if she got caught? The risk made it worse. Made it better.

She looked up. The line inched forward.

Three cars ahead now.

The AC hissed from the dashboard vents. Her heart was suddenly too loud in her ears.

She glanced around--casually, deliberately. She saw a mother in the rearview mirror behind her, half-distracted, handing a juice box to a kid. A guy in front of her was on his phone. No one was watching.

She slid her hand beneath her skirt. Her breath caught, low in her throat.

She wasn't even really touching herself--just grazing. Just teasing. But her body lit up like she was already halfway there. For an instant, she could almost feel Ryan's hands instead of her own, his heat folding around her.

The whir of the AC and the grumble of the drive-thru snapped her back--reminding her where she really was.

The car inched forward again. Two cars now. The window in sight.

Her fingers pressed more firmly. A whisper of slickness. Her hips shifted slightly. She was breathing harder now, but quiet, eyes still flicking between the mirrors, the cars, the space between her legs.

She could finish. If she was quick. She could--

The car ahead of her moved. She jolted upright, yanking her hand away like she'd touched something hot. Her skirt fell back into place too quickly.

She pulled forward to the window, the sudden brightness harsh.

A teenage barista handed her a drink, eyes flicking over Jenna's flushed cheeks and the too-quick way her hand trembled as she took the cup.

"Grande iced Americano?"

Jenna nodded, forcing a polite smile, trying to steady her breath. "Yeah. That's me."

Did the girl notice? Did anybody?

The girl's eyes flicked toward her, puzzled. Maybe not. Maybe nothing.

Jenna fumbled her wallet. Her hand trembled slightly as she passed the card.

"Have a good one," the barista chirped.

Jenna nodded again. Too fast. "You too."

She drove off without tasting the drink.

The heat between her thighs hadn't gone away.

And worse--some part of her liked that she hadn't finished. Liked the ache. Liked walking around with the wanting, a secret burning just beneath her skin. But why did that scare her so much?

That Night

Luke sat on the edge of the hotel bed, lights off except for the blue glow of the TV. Some muted crime procedural played in the background--deadpan detectives, slow tracking shots of empty suburban houses. He wasn't watching.

His phone buzzed beside him.

Jenna.

He answered on the second ring.

"Hey," he said, trying to sound casual. Normal.

"Hey," she echoed. Her voice was low, soft. That late-night version of her. "Didn't wake you, did I?"

"No. Not at all."

A pause. The faint sound of her exhaling.

"It's so quiet here without you."

Luke shifted on the bed. "Yeah. I imagine."

"The sprinklers came on a few minutes ago. You know that sound they make? That stuttering hiss?"

She let out a little laugh, dry and strange. "It startled me. Like someone was out there."

Another pause. The silence pressed in closer.

"I did something today," she said, her voice edged with something breathless, a hitch that might've been nerves or excitement--like she needed to hear herself say it aloud as much as she needed him to know.

Luke shifted, suddenly alert. "Okay?"

She didn't speak right away.

"I was in the Starbucks drive-thru," she said finally. "After running errands. Just a normal day."

"Sure," he said, too quickly.

Another pause. Then:

"There were a lot of cars. It was slow."

Luke waited. He could hear something in the background--a distant hum. Maybe a fan. Maybe her breathing.

"I started thinking about something," she said. "Not on purpose. It just came over me."

"What kind of something?"

Now she did laugh. Quiet. Almost pitying.

"I was thinking about Ryan Carter," she said. "Across the street."

His stomach dropped.

"Okay."

"I was in line, just sitting there, and I couldn't stop picturing him. I don't know why. Well--no, that's not true. I do know."

She let that hang for a moment.

Luke cleared his throat. "What were you picturing?"

She didn't answer at first. And then, plainly:

"I was picturing myself on all fours. Up on the bed, in our bedroom. With him behind me."

Silence. Luke's hand hovered uselessly at his thigh, heartbeat drumming in his ears. The air between them pulsed, thick and unnerving.

"I was wearing that short black skirt. No panties. He just pushed it up. Pushed me open. Fucked me."

Luke couldn't speak.

Jenna continued, her voice flattened to something almost routine--the same way she recited groceries, or listed chores after work. But the words themselves clung heavy and electric.

"He was rough. Not mean, just strong. One hand in my hair, pulling my head back while he fucked me from behind. And I was--" her breath hitched faintly, "--wet. Really wet."

Luke shifted, a dull ache blooming in his groin--throbbing against the restriction of his pants, too sharp to ignore.

"I was touching myself," she went on. "Right there in the car. Under my skirt. I could've cum. I was so close."

"Did you?"

"No," she said. "The car moved forward. I had to stop."

Luke closed his eyes. The TV flickered across his face, crime scene photos washing the room in sterile light.

"You're quiet," Jenna said softly.

"I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

The pause was awkward.

"I could hear it in your voice the second you picked up," she murmured. "You're hard right now, aren't you?"

Luke didn't answer.

She laughed again--softer this time, almost affectionate.

"God, Luke. You should've heard me. I was panting, legs pressed together in the seat. I thought the barista could smell it on me when I got to the window."

He groaned under his breath. His hand slipped beneath his waistband.

"I bet you wish you'd been there," she said. "Wish you'd seen me. All flushed, wet, desperate."

"You're messing with me," he muttered, half ashamed.

Jenna breathed in. For a second, her confidence faltered--maybe she wanted him to push back. But all she said was, "I'm telling you the truth."

Another silence. But now it pulsed. Thick. Charged.

"Are you touching yourself?" she asked.

His breath gave him away.

She didn't tease him for it. Didn't say another word.

He sat in the dark hotel room, stroking himself quietly while she listened, her breath slow and measured on the other end of the line. The voices on the television whispered and faded.

Outside, a siren echoed in the distance.

And somewhere across the country, his wife hung up without saying goodbye.

After the Call

The TV clicked off with a press of the remote--its glow vanished, leaving the room hushed, swallowed by darkness.

Luke stayed sitting on the edge of the bed, his mind still echoing her words. He could feel the heat of her confession, the weight of her voice describing Ryan bending her over--that image burned behind his eyes.

His hand drifted under the blanket, on its own. His breath ragged, shallow.

He let it move for a moment--just a slow, circling rhythm--before he stopped himself, snapping awake. Nearly dropped his phone in his lap.

He sat there, the bed creaking as he shifted, staring at the empty night. The sheet was rumpled where Jenna had imagined him. Just empty fabric now.

He closed his eyes, trying to push everything away--the smell of the lamp oil downstairs, the distant siren she heard, that haunting melody of the sprinklers she mentioned. But the memory wouldn't go quiet.

He thought of calling her back--apologizing, or just hearing her breathe on the line again. But what could he say that wouldn't sound weak? Helpless?

A memory flashed--Jenna laughing with him in the kitchen years ago, sunlight in her hair, the easy way she used to reach for his hand. The contrast gnawed at him. Shame flickered, but so did want. He hated the part of him that almost craved her cruelty now, that the old softness between them felt out of reach.

Luke sighed, swallowed, letting the tension ease from his shoulders.

He lay back, sweat cooling on his skin, the hotel sheets scratchy and foreign beneath him. He watched pale light crawl along the crack in the ceiling, heartbeat echoing in his ears. Sleep wouldn't come. The silence in the room pressed down, thick as syrup, leaving him stranded somewhere between memory and need.

The Next Day

The house seemed to echo; every step Jenna took sent a hollow sound across the spotless floor. She wiped the same pristine counter with needless circles, fingernails tapping anxiously on granite, sorting and re-sorting a pile of bills just to hear the paper shuffle.

Outside, the street was quiet. Too quiet for a summer afternoon.

She paused by the sink, her fingers resting lightly against the cool edge of the granite. The window over the sink framed the house across the street--Ryan's house--its front yard empty, the driveway quiet.

Her eyes drifted there without thinking.

Nothing.

Just last week Ryan had carried a heavy package up her porch steps--shirt clinging to his back, face open and easy. He'd handed it to her with a shy, offhand "Need a hand, Mrs. Weston?" She'd managed a laugh, suddenly too aware of her own skin, the way his gaze held hers for half a second longer than necessary. The gesture was innocent, maybe even neighborly, but it lingered, coloring her thoughts every time she glanced at him out the window.

She breathed out slowly, trying not to smile at herself. It was ridiculous. She was a grown woman. A married woman. This wasn't whatever her brain kept trying to make it.

Still, her gaze lingered on the front door, the porch, the stretch of grass where she'd seen him mowing yesterday--shirtless, careless, oblivious to the ache he'd left simmering between her legs.

Jenna turned away, forcing herself back to the quiet hum of the dishwasher, the faint buzz of the ceiling fan overhead. She picked up her phone, scrolled aimlessly through her notifications--grocery app, work emails, a message from Luke:

"Busy day. Call you tonight. Miss you."

She stared at the words, her thumb hovering over the screen.

Her pulse fluttered faintly, lower this time.

The thought trespassed again--Ryan's breath at her ear, hands locking around her hips, the press of him at her back. She pressed her thighs together, pulse flickering, lips parting before she caught herself. The image was sharper than the sunlight spilling through the sink window.

She swallowed, setting the phone down carefully.

Her eyes flicked toward the window again.

Still empty.

She thought about the look Ryan gave her last Fourth of July, the subtle, hesitant smile as he handed her a plate of watermelon. He was younger then, quieter. She'd blushed at the way he lingered, noticing when no one else--including Luke--had. Something began there, a seed she'd done her best to ignore, until now.

But the air in the room felt different now--thicker, charged, like something was building just out of sight.

Late That Night

The hotel room was heavy with stillness. Luke lay on his back in the dark, phone beside him, the faint outline of his suitcase near the door like a quiet reminder he didn't belong here. Outside, somewhere down the street, a car engine rumbled past and faded into nothing.

His phone buzzed against his ribs.

Jenna.

He answered, throat dry. "Hey."

There was a soft pause on the other end--long enough to stretch, but not long enough to explain.

"You sound tired," she said. Her voice was low, almost amused.

"Yeah." He swallowed. "Long day."

Another pause.

"Couldn't sleep," she said finally. "Been restless?"

Luke sat up slightly, fingers tightening around the phone. "What's going on?"

The line crackled faintly with her breath. For a moment, he thought she might change the subject, say nothing, say just miss you, let the quiet swallow it all.

But instead:

"I saw him again tonight," she murmured.

His stomach tightened, pulse kicking harder. "Ryan?"

"Mhm."

Luke waited. She didn't rush.

"I kept thinking about last night," she added, softer now. "What I told you. The car. Starbucks. All of it. And I couldn't stop."

A faint sound--her exhale, the shift of fabric--sent a spark down his spine.

"Where did you see him?" Luke asked, his voice thin.

"Out front. Sitting on the porch in the dark. Watching the street. Or maybe watching the house." She let that hang, delicate and deliberate.

A chill prickled up Luke's arms; his knuckles whitened as he twisted the sheets.

"Did he see you?"

Her laugh floated through the speaker--breathy, edged, making his scalp tighten.

"Oh, he saw me."

She didn't explain. The silence stretched.

"I went upstairs," she continued, unhurried now. "Left the bedroom light on. Didn't close the blinds."

Luke's throat worked. "Jenna..."

"I stood by the window," she said. "Undressed. Very slow--almost like I was doing it for myself as much as for him. One piece at a time."

Luke's jaw clenched; he felt each slow word as if she were unbuttoning his own shirt.

"I let him watch," Jenna breathed, as if unsure who she was trying to tempt.

"I wanted to," she added, barely above a whisper. "I was wet before I even started."

His breath stuttered. He hated that his cock was already hard, pressing uncomfortably against his boxers.

"I sat down," Jenna continued, voice steady, unnervingly calm. "On the edge of the bed. Facing the window. Legs spread. I touched myself."

Luke closed his eyes. His hand drifted lower without permission.

"I thought about him sitting on the porch. His eyes on me. The way his cock looked under those shorts yesterday." Her voice darkened slightly, the edges fraying with arousal now. "I was so close."

Luke's palm pressed against the heat building between his legs.

"I almost came right there," she breathed. "In front of him. In front of the whole fucking neighborhood."

He exhaled sharply. "Did you?"

A longer pause this time. The faintest hint of a smile in her silence.

"I panicked," she admitted softly. "Right when I was about to finish. Closed the blinds. Turned off the light."

The room felt colder suddenly. Luke opened his eyes to the flat, unfamiliar ceiling. His skin prickled, pulse hammering under his ribs.

"Did he see all of that?" he asked, voice rough.

Another pause.

Her answer came quietly. Slippery.

"Well, he was sitting on the porch with a view. What do you think?"

Luke's stomach twisted, arousal tangled with something bitter, insecure, unsteady. He couldn't tell if she was messing with him or not--if any of it had happened. And worse, he wasn't sure which possibility made him harder.

On the other end of the line, Jenna's breath curled softly into his ear, warm and weightless.

"Sleep well," she whispered, before the line clicked dead.

Luke stayed there, the phone cooling in his hand, the room heavy with silence--and no answers at all.

After the Call

The line clicked dead, but Luke stayed frozen, the phone still warm against his ear.

The hum of the air conditioner filled the room again--steady, indifferent. The TV screen across from him reflected nothing but his own faint outline, distorted by shadows.

He let the phone fall to the mattress.

His heart was still racing, but slower now--not excitement, not exactly fear. Something sour and low, curling behind his ribs. His cock strained against his waistband, embarrassingly hard, the leftover heat from Jenna's words lingering like static under his skin.

Luke ran a hand down his face.

It was the not knowing that ate at him the most.

He could still hear her voice--quiet, steady, amused in that way that always meant she was two steps ahead of him. Had she really stood by the window, bare in the lamplight, legs parted, fingers gliding over herself while Ryan Carter sat outside watching?

Or had she just wanted him to picture it?

The worst part wasn't that he didn't know.

The worst part was that, either way, it worked.

His hand slipped lower, hesitated. His skin flushed hot with humiliation, with need. He closed his eyes, and the image filled the dark behind his eyelids--Jenna framed in the window, head tipped back, mouth parted, fingers working between her thighs, her eyes glinting in the glass, watching him watch her.

Luke groaned softly under his breath.

Shame and arousal braided together, thick and unsteady, as he shifted under the covers, his breath shallow, the room too quiet.

Outside, in the parking lot, a car door slammed.

The sound jolted him back.

His hand fell useless. The ache in his body pulsed--persistent, reminding.

He stared at the ceiling tiles, each one a pale blank, cold as a lock with no key. Jenna's words echoed in his throat. He wanted to believe she'd given him the truth, but her voice wrapped around him--tight as a leash, soft as a bruise he couldn't stop pressing.

The Next Afternoon

The sun hovered high and pale in the sky, washing the neighborhood in soft, clinical light. Jenna stood by the kitchen window, fingers curled loosely around a sweating glass of lemonade, watching him.

Ryan was out front, shirtless again, this time trimming hedges in lazy, efficient arcs in front of the Carter's house. His skin shone under the heat, lean and golden, the faint sheen of sweat darkening the waistband of his gym shorts.

His back was turned. He didn't look at her.

Not right away.

But he knew.

She could feel it--the way his posture shifted slightly, the faintest pause in his step, like someone aware of eyes on them but too practiced to glance.

Jenna sipped her drink, cold against her lips, and turned from the window.

By the time she stepped outside, the trimming had stopped, and Ryan was at the edge of the driveway, wiping his forearm across his face.

"Thirsty?" she called, lifting the glass in her hand.

His eyes flicked to her, unreadable for a moment. Then his mouth curved--just enough.

"Could use something cold," he replied.

She nodded toward the house. "I've got lemonade."

Ryan followed her inside.

The air-conditioning kissed her bare arms as she closed the door behind him. He lingered by the kitchen island, eyes drifting across the tidy countertops, the framed wedding photo tucked discreetly near the coffee maker. He didn't comment.

Jenna sipped from her glass. Her pulse hummed low in her throat.

"You keeping busy this summer?" she asked lightly.

Ryan shrugged, that easy, detached confidence wrapping around him like an old hoodie. "Trying to."

His eyes lingered on her now--deliberate, slow--tracing the curve of her legs beneath the hem of her sundress, the delicate outline of her collarbone.

Jenna poured him a glass, steady, controlled, but she could feel the flush creeping higher under her skin.

The silence ballooned, heavy and electric. Jenna became acutely aware of her own pulse in her wrists, the citrus sting of lemonade on her tongue, and the subtle way Ryan's smirk lingered at the corner of his mouth--little details she felt more than saw.

Ryan's fingers drummed quietly on the countertop. Jenna handed him the drink, brushing his hand--too lightly to be accidental, too brief to be innocent. Her throat felt tight.

"Thanks," he said, eyes not leaving hers.

Jenna swallowed, the edge of the counter digging into her hip. Outside, a dog barked. Inside, it was just the two of them and the lemonade between their hands.

"So, um, your parents out of town?" she managed.

Ryan nodded, a slow smile spreading. The air hummed with possibility, so loud she thought it might burst.

That Night

The hotel room was dim, the same familiar box. Luke lay on the bed, phone to his ear, staring up at the blank ceiling tiles like they might offer an escape.

Jenna.

Her voice crackled softly across the line.

"You alone?" she asked, quiet, deliberate.

"Yeah," he said, his throat already tight.

Jenna was quiet for a moment, then as if she didn't know what else to say:

"How's the room?"

Luke glanced around the dim, boxy space. "It's a hotel room."

A soft laugh. "That bad, huh?"

He ran a hand through his hair, the silence pressing in again.

"I can't sleep," she added after a beat. Her voice stayed light, but something coiled beneath it.

"I couldn't stop thinking about him today," she whispered.

His stomach twisted. "Ryan?"

A soft exhale, almost a laugh. "Mhm."

Luke's hand curled against the blanket. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

"He came over," Jenna murmured, her tone dropping, "I offered him lemonade. He followed me--God, I could feel his eyes." She paused, breath catching in a nervous giggle or a shaky sigh.

"I told him to come upstairs."

The room felt smaller suddenly. The hum of the air conditioner too loud, the bed too stiff beneath him.

"I couldn't stop shaking," she admitted. "Not afraid. Just--nervous. Turned on. So turned on."

Luke's cock stirred, a slow, familiar humiliation building beneath the waistband of his shorts.

"I undressed for him," she said, each word weighted and slow. "Took my time. Watched his eyes."

A small pause, and then, lower:

"I got down on my knees."

Luke's breath caught. His grip tightened.

"It felt--surreal," Jenna whispered. "Me. On my knees. In front of a man half my age."

Her voice darkened, honey-slick and sharp.

"You should've seen his face, Luke. The hunger. The smugness." A breath. "I felt--small."

Her words curled around him like silk, tightening with every syllable.

"And God, I loved it," she whispered.

Luke's hand drifted lower, tentative, shame already prickling along his skin.

"I pulled down his shorts," she continued, quieter now, the memory thick in her voice. "No hesitation. I couldn't wait. I was soaked just from looking at him."

Luke squeezed his eyes shut, his palm pressing against the heat building beneath his shorts.

"He was so hard for me," Jenna whispered. "Thick, young, eager."

Luke's chest tightened.

"I wrapped my mouth around him," she added. "Tasted him. Felt him hit the back of my throat."

Her voice frayed at the edges now, arousal slipping in like static.

"I loved every second of it."

Luke's hand moved before he even realized it--shoving the sheets down in desperation, his hips lifting, shame burning beneath his skin, his breath loud and quick in the hush of the room.

"I couldn't stop," Jenna breathed. "I wanted him inside me. God, I needed him inside me."

Luke groaned under his breath, his hand working faster.

"And when he bent me over the bed, our bed," she continued, voice feather-light but sharp as a blade, "when he stretched me open. Filled me. It was--"

A pause. A deliberate breath.

"Different," she whispered. "Better."

Luke's body flushed hot with humiliation and need.

"I came so hard, Luke," she added. "Over and over. I didn't care how loud I was."

His hips shifted, his breath ragged now.

"And when he was ready to cum," Jenna's voice curled, low and devastating, "I told him not to pull out."

A harsh gasp escaped him. His hand moved frantically now, shame and arousal tangled tight beneath his skin.

"He filled me," she whispered. "Deep. Hot. I could feel it inside me."

His climax was building, burning, impossible to resist.

"And you know what I did when I came?" Her voice faltered--just an instant--then sharpened. "I cried out his name, Luke. Not yours."

Luke groaned, his hand working frantically now, his breath ragged and uneven.

She let him squirm in the silence.

And then--

"Oh," Jenna whispered, her voice feather-light, sharp with amusement. "You're cumming, aren't you?"

His hips jerked, his orgasm tearing through him in broken, stuttering pulses. His breath caught in his throat--humiliation and release crashing together, tangled and messy.

She stayed quiet for a long moment, letting it settle.

Luke's chest rose and fell, sweat prickling his skin.

Finally, Jenna's voice returned, soft, amused, dangerous:

"You came for me," she said. "While I told you how another man fucked me."

Luke's pulse hammered weakly.

"That's, well--"

The word hung there, deliberate.

He opened his mouth--no words came.

"You didn't stop me," she added, quieter now. "Didn't hang up. Didn't tell me to shut up."

Luke's hand fell useless to his side, warmth cooling on his skin.

Another pause. A longer one.

Jenna's voice dropped, silk-wrapped and devastating:

"I didn't really fuck him."

The words dripped slow, heavy. Luke let out a slow breath, fist curled tight in the empty sheets.

"Not yet," Jenna added, her voice velvet over steel. "But now I know--"

A soft, dangerous exhale over the line.

"You'll let me."

She didn't wait for him to respond.

The line clicked dead, leaving Luke sprawled there--his chest heaving, the room too quiet, his body still flushed with unwanted heat--and the sick, gnawing realization that she wasn't wrong.

After the Call

The sheets clung damp against Luke's skin, twisted from his restless shifting. He blinked at the ceiling, every muscle heavy--each drawn breath tasting of sweat and something raw. The phone sat beside him, screen dark, pressing a mute dent into the mattress.

A patch of cooling sweat crawled down his chest. His hips still twitched with leftover want, the staleness of the night air clinging to every exhale.

His fist balled in the sheets--reflex, impotent. The urge to be angry fizzled as Jenna's last words circled in his head, bitter and clinging.

Luke pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. His cock still ached faintly, even after what he'd done, even after what she'd said.

He rolled onto his side, eyes open in the dark, staring at the faint outline of the hotel curtains.

He pressed his face into the pillow, searching for a cool spot that didn't smell like his own disappointment. Every shift brought only the same ache, the same hum of her voice in the dark.

The Next Morning

The sunlight was soft and pale as it fell across the kitchen, filtered through the sheer curtains. Jenna stood barefoot at the island, stirring cream into her coffee.

Her robe slipped open as she reached for the mug, revealing a line of bare thigh.

Outside, the street was calm--sprinklers ticking faintly, a lawnmower somewhere down the block, the neat hum of suburbia.

But her mind wandered elsewhere.

The phone call still hummed in the back of her thoughts. Luke's breathing--shaky, helpless--echoed faintly in her ear. The sound he made when he came.

Jenna smiled to herself, sipping her coffee.

Her reflection in the kitchen window caught her eye--hair still messy from sleep, her skin flushed faintly pink at the collarbones.

She looked--good. Desirable. Alive. It startled her, as if she'd stumbled into someone else's skin.

She drummed her fingers on the countertop, gaze flicking toward Ryan's unmoving windows--curtains dark, promise coiled in the silence. The urge to move, to cross the street, sat heavy in her legs.

Jenna set her coffee down, walked to the door, and laid her hand on the knob, the pulse in her wrist thrumming. She stayed there for a long moment, listening to the hush of the house, daring herself to turn it.

Not yet, she told herself.

Her breathing deepened, hope and fear tangled at her breastbone.

Perhaps soon.