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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, ataşehir escort 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 ataşehir escort bayan 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 escort ataşehir 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.
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