anna

God. Harry has such a filthy mouth.

Someone calls your name.

“Do you think he’d want that?”

Your eyes meet those of Harry’s personal PR manager, who has one brow raised. You like her. She’s sharp and direct and doesn’t have time to waste, a trait that’s written all over the look she’s giving you now.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” you admit. “What was the question?”

An impatient sigh.

“I asked if you think Harry would want to talk about his career journey.”

“No,” you say immediately. “He covered that in the last interview, and he’ll kill someone if he has to answer the same questions again.”

The intern to your left scrambles to erase something from her own iPad.

When you leave the meeting, it’s settled that Harry’s next interview will be with Forbes, set to be edited and published on a rush schedule. Now you need to inform him, schedule the interview, send ten thousand emails.

You press the elevator button and wait. When the doors finally open on your floor—Media, Marketing, and Advertising—there are three people inside, and your boss is one of them.

Your first instinct is to stay put, but one of the men is holding the door open for you, and Harry is looking at you with an unreadable expression. Everyone knows the two of you get along well, so you can’t exactly not step in.

“Good morning,” you say as you enter, greeted politely by the other two men. You stop beside Harry, both of you facing forward, side by side. “Good morning, Harry.”

“Morning.”

His tone is polite and to the point, as it always is when other people are around.

The doors close. The elevator screen shows stops on the fifth and seventh floors before heading to the fifteenth, where Harry’s office is. Background music resumes while you focus on breathing mechanically, because even that feels too tense right now.

Is he thinking about how he practically begged to come inside you twice?

The elevator stops. One of the men steps out, exchanging good mornings.

At some point last night, he brought up your boyfriend while he was still inside you, and you wanted to kill him for it, because your body was torn between being turned on by the wrongness of it all and feeling sorry for your partner, who was probably asleep at that hour, completely unaware of how his name was being dragged through the situation. But then the irrational possessiveness bug bit Harry and he made you admit your boyfriend didn’t fuck you nearly as well.

The elevator stops again. The last person exits, leaving just you and Harry in the confined space. The music starts up again.

Harry speaks first.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, still looking ahead.

“What do…” you start to say, then remember how, toward the end of the night, you told him you were so sensitive between your legs, something Harry then soothed with his own tongue. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“You complained.”

“I made an observation,” you clarify. “Because it’s true. You and my boyfriend are different. And with you, it was hours.”

He says nothing.

“We said we wouldn’t talk about this at work,” you remind him. “Last night didn’t happen.”

The doors open on your floor, and Harry, without addressing your last comment, holds them open for you to exit first. You both begin walking to your respective places — your desk, his office — and you slip back into your executive assistant persona. The one who doesn’t know what his sweaty skin smells like, how his kiss tastes, or the sound of that deep groan when whispered into your ear.

“I need to talk to you about the Forbes interview,” you call after him. “Can we schedule a meeting at three?”

“Yes. Put it on the calendar, please,” he says without slowing down or looking back.

He enters his office and shuts the door behind him, which means: do not disturb.

So you don’t.

You and Harry are good actors. That you gotta admit.

For the next three weeks, nothing happens. He’s your boss, you’re his assistant, and that’s the only dynamic that exists between you. The world keeps spinning. And you don’t get fired, which was a very real possibility in the mental report you filed the morning after that night.

You start arriving earlier so you don’t have to stay late, which means you don’t have to be alone with him. Harry stops sending cryptic messages about his meetings. He also stops emerging from his office when you walk in wearing the red dress he once said he loved.

Three weeks later, on a Friday at four p.m., Harry steps out of his office and walks over to your desk.

You look up from the Excel spreadsheet where you’re logging his personal expenses and ask politely,

“Can I help you, Harry?”

“Are you going to the cocktail party?”

He’s talking about the Castillo & Co. event tomorrow night, celebrating the release of the Forbes issue featuring his new interview.

“Yes, of course. Do you need something?”

“I need you to come with me to the tailor and take the suit to my apartment. I’ve got something at six, won’t have time to go back to my house.”

“Okay. Now?”

“Now.”

You nod, like the good assistant you are, and save the file before shutting down your computer.

In silence, you both head down to the parking garage and slide into the back seat of Harry’s car. His driver is already behind the wheel. Harry immediately crosses one leg over the other, foot bouncing, and pulls out his phone. You turn toward the window as the car leaves the underground lot.

This is the first time you two are in a car together after that night, that had felt so different.

Harry had dismissed the driver, so he was the one behind the wheel. The silence back then was heavy with anticipation, tension, and the electric certainty that something was going to happen. When he stopped at a red light, he leaned across the console to kiss you and slid a hand under your skirt, pressing against you through your underwear in a way that made you feel completely, undeniably his.

You squeeze your thighs together and close your eyes, steadying your breath.

The moment shatters with the sound of your phone. You glance down and see “baby” on the screen — your boyfriend. You’d asked him to call to plan dinner.

Shit. Perfect timing.

“Hey, babe,” you say softly. In your peripheral vision, you catch Harry’s foot stilling. Your boyfriend is cheerful, loud enough that Harry can probably hear every word. He asks if you’re still at the office. “No, I’m heading to the tailor with Harry, then I’ll go straight to your place. Is that okay?”

He says it is. Says he bought a special bottle of wine because the pink label reminded him of you—your favorite color—and the ache in your chest tightens.

“You’re so sweet to me,” you say, and maybe it’s just in your head, but your voice sounds too guilty. He tells you that you deserve it. You don’t know what to say, so you ask, “Do you want me to pick anything up for dinner?”

He says no. Says he just wants one thing from you. You lower your voice.

“What do you want?”

The car is dead silent. Your phone volume is up too high when he says, “I want you on the kitchen counter, wearing nothing but your panties, while I cook.” That’s your assignment, he adds.

You let out an awkward little laugh, praying Harry didn’t catch it.

“Deal,” you say. “See you tonight.”

When you hang up, Harry isn’t on his phone anymore. He’s just staring out the window, unreadable.

You arrive at the tailor and the driver opens your door. Harry joins you on the sidewalk and, for the first time in nearly a month, places a guiding hand at the base of your back as you walk inside. He used to do that all the time, but apparently that kind of touch was banned after what happened between you.

The receptionist greets you and leads you to one of the private fitting rooms. Three of the walls are mirrors and two velvet couches sit in the corner. There’s a tray with water and candied orange peels, and, In the center of it all, is the raised circular platform where Harry usually stands during fittings.

She shows him the suit, neatly arranged on two hangers, and tells him to try it on. Then she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

You head straight for one of the couches, which makes Harry’s hand fall away from your back.

“Want me to wait outside?” you ask, out of habit, as you sit down. You’ve done this a dozen times.

“Nothing you haven’t seen,” he says, pulling off his shoes.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Off comes the blazer, placed on the rack. Then the watch and the cufflinks are dropped into the tray. Then come the buttons—first the sleeves, then the collar, all the way down…

You clear your throat and open your phone, responding to emails, not looking at him.

“So your boyfriend cooks for you,” Harry says casually.

And just like that, you know he heard everything.

Half his chest is exposed. He’s not even looking at you as he untucks his shirt and slides it off, standing shirtless in front of you, wearing only slacks.

“Yeah, he likes to cook.”

“Is it a special occasion?”

“Does it have to be?” you counter, eyes glued to your screen.

“Just asking.”

He unbuttons his pants, and you lock your gaze on your phone.

“Anniversary,” you finally say, which makes you realize that you’ll need new lingerie for tonight.

“What if he proposes again? Will you say yes?”

“Harry,” you say firmly, lifting your gaze now that he’s put on the dress pants. “That’s none of your business. You pay me to manage your life, but that doesn’t mean you get to know everything about mine.”

“I love how passive-aggressive you get when I bring up your relationship. You hate it.”

“I don’t hate my boyfriend.”

“I didn’t say you hate your boyfriend. I said you hate your relationship.”

He starts buttoning the newly fitted shirt, and his tone is so maddeningly casual you feel heat rising in your chest.

“You just want me to hate my relationship so you can feel a little better,” you say, holding your fingers up, barely apart, “just this much better, about the fact that you hate yours too.”

“I don’t need to feel better about it. I know the truth. If we didn’t hate our relationships, we wouldn’t have had sex.”

“We agreed not to talk about it.”

“Oh, that again. Has it helped? Not talking about it has made you think about it any less?”

You lock your phone and set it aside. Adjust yourself on the couch and look directly at him. Your voice stays quiet, but sharp.

“Of course not, but what do you want me to do? I’m in a relationship, you’re married, we have lives, and I need my job. And even if I do think about that night, I can’t do anything about it. So yeah, it’s better to pretend.”

“So you do think about it.”

“If that’s what strokes your ego, then fine, yes. I think about it. There hasn’t been a single damn day since that night that I haven’t remembered it. It haunts me.”

Harry finishes buttoning his shirt, tucks it in, then slips on the blazer. The suit fits like a glove. Every seam perfect, every line flattering.

“I told you I had morals,” Harry says quietly after a beat. “But I put them aside for you. And now, here I am, with none, asking you to keep going.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Keep going what?”

“What started that night in my office. I’m not going to ask you to break up with your boyfriend, and I won’t promise I’ll divorce my wife. I can sign a five-year job security agreement if that’s what it takes to make you feel safe. But I want you.”

“This won’t work.”

“Do you want it?”

What a stupid question. You nearly die a little every day from how much you want him.

But your answer never comes, because the tailor opens the door and walks in, greeting Harry cheerfully.

And now you can’t stop thinking

You think about it as you head to Harry’s apartment to drop off his suit, ignoring the pair of gold hoops on the entryway table that make it painfully obvious he’s a married man. You think about it later, when you go to your boyfriend’s place and undress for him. And even later, in the shower, when you notice the mark he left near your breast while you were having sex.

This has absolutely no chance of ending well, and you’ve never been the kind of person who lets irrational impulses get in the way of your career. But for the first time… you’re tempted.

And the worst part? You can’t tell anyone. Maybe your therapist, but she’ll just say again how unhealthy this dynamic is, and you don’t want to hear that. And you don’t trust her that much with this kind of secret.

You think about it as you get ready for Harry’s cocktail party, aching to see him and hoping for permission to touch him.

Your boyfriend approaches, eyes wide when he sees you in the strapless red gown, and lets out a whistle.

“Are you sure I’m even allowed to be seen with you tonight?” he teases, wrapping his arms around you from behind and kissing your neck. “You look gorgeous. Stunning dress.”

“Harry gave it to me. Well, he gave me the money and his personal shopper bought it,” you say, because there’s no way you could afford a Schiaparelli, and your boyfriend is used to hearing about the things Harry buys you whenever there’s an event.

All so you look presentable as Harry Castillo’s executive assistant, of course.

“Of course he did,” your boyfriend says, rolling his eyes. “Ready?”

When you arrive at Castillo & Co.’s event hall, hand in hand with your boyfriend, you realize that, no, you’re not ready. The decor is tasteful and elegant in shades of fawn, black, and ice white and everyone is in black-tie. At the back of the room, a digital display showcases the Forbes cover. Harry looks amazing in the photo, completely fitting for the role he holds, but the headline reads: From Concrete to the Top of the World.

He must’ve hated that.

“Do we have fancy whiskey?” your boyfriend asks as you start to cross the room. “And shrimp cocktail?”

The questions are rhetorical. Before you can answer, he plants a loud kiss on your lips and heads off toward the food tables. You watch him walk away, wishing he stayed with you, but then a waiter offers you a glass of champagne and you accept. You walk toward the edge of the room, and sip while scanning the space.

People are gathered in polished little clusters, all impeccably dressed and beaming. But there’s a larger group crowded around one person, and the reason is Harry, who’s speaking with ease and commanding the social scene with effortless charm, looking absolutely delicious in a tux.

Your view is partially blocked when his wife appears beside him, placing a hand on his forearm, looking radiant in a white off-shoulder draped gown. Without stopping his sentence or glancing her way, Harry slips an arm around her waist.

She seems to glow under his touch. You understand the feeling, despite the hundred-pound weight settling in your stomach.

How ridiculous, to feel jealous of the wife. You are the wrong one, not her. And how twisted is it that, beneath the jealousy, there’s a flicker of satisfaction because Harry wants you, not just her?

Harry laughs at something one of the men says. He scans the room briefly, and that’s when he sees you. Your stomach twists, and nearly melts, when his eyes sweep over you from head to toe, so subtly that no one else would notice.

Smoothly, he turns back to the conversation, as if his attention had never strayed.

Your own attention is pulled back by your boyfriend returning.

“There’s so much food,” he says, his excitement making you laugh. He laughs too, but insists, “Seriously. It’s insane. Have you eaten?”

You shake your head, and he grabs your hand, guiding you toward the buffet tables. There are a million options, and you let yourself get distracted by them so you don’t start looking for Harry, which doesn’t work, because ten minutes later, he’s the one who finds you.

His wife is with him.

“Darling,” she says, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “That dress is stunning. It’s Schiaparelli, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you reply, and she keeps looking at you like she’s waiting for an explanation. You add, “A loan from Harry, so I wouldn’t embarrass him.”

“It’s not a loan. It’s yours,” Harry says, leaning in to greet you with a kiss on the cheek. His smell, what the fuck. He extends a hand to your boyfriend. “So you’re the boyfriend.”

“So you’re the boss,” your boyfriend jokes as they shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Castillo.”

“Likewise,” Harry says, though the tone is anything but warm. Then to you: “My PR rep asked for a few photos of us. Can you do that now?”

“Sure,” you reply, accepting his offered arm.

Harry kisses his wife lightly and says he’ll be right back. You do the same with your boyfriend. Together, you walk toward the PR team, and once you’re far enough from the crowd, Harry speaks, eyes still forward.

“Have you thought about it?”

“Do I have a deadline?”

“So you’re considering it.”

That shuts you up. Yes, you are considering it.

“If we were to do this,” you murmur to Harry, smiling politely at one of his business partners entering your field of vision, who’s always courteous to you, “I’d want that job security agreement.”

“I’ll call my lawyer right now and have him draft the contract.”

The conversation pauses as you reach Harry’s publicist—a tall man who always wears eccentric suits, whether because of the patterns or the bold colors. Tonight, he’s in blood-red with round glasses and greets you with a giant smile.

“Stunning,” he says, kissing both of your cheeks. “What an honor for Harry to be seen with such a beautiful woman.”

You shoot him a look.

“Besides Mrs. Castillo, of course!” he adds quickly, and you decide not to check your boss’s face. “Shall we?”

You and Harry pose in front of a wide LED panel bearing the Castillo Construction & Co. logo. He places a hand on your waist without a hint of a smile, and you fall into your executive posture: back straight, polite, demure smile.

Photos are taken with instructions from both the photographer and the publicist. When it’s over, but before you and Harry can step apart, he leans in, under the guise of a polite hug, and whispers in your ear:

“She’s traveling for work tonight. If the answer is yes, you know where I live.”

Then he disappears into the sea of people who can’t wait to be near him.

By sheer luck, you don’t see Harry again during the next two hours you remain at the cocktail party. Your boyfriend indulges in the expensive whiskey, and you sip two more glasses of champagne, but there’s an anticipation humming beneath everything you do, like something is lurking.

Like the night won’t end at your home, in your bed, with your boyfriend.

You leave around nine, and you practically have to guide your boyfriend into the Uber waiting at the curb. He’s nearly unconscious on the ride back to his apartment, just awake enough to walk on his own. You help him inside, stay with him while he showers, and then watch over him as he collapses into bed.

A glass of water and two aspirins on the nightstand. A kiss on the forehead. And then he’s snoring, totally out.

You close the door gently behind you and, leaning your back against it, pick up your phone.

You open your chat with Harry. The last message is a simple “ok” you sent after he asked to reschedule a meeting.

There’s no telling how long you stand there, staring at the screen and imagining a thousand different scenarios, but when you finally type something, it’s:

“Let the front desk know I’m cleared to come up.”

Because even though your name is on the list of people with access to his apartment, the building has strict policies about non-residents after 8 p.m.

Harry replies ten minutes later:

“Done.”

The doorman, an older gentleman who’s always polite, greets you as always: with a gentle tone, a compliment (this time about your dress), and a polite question about whether Harry’s being a decent boss. But you catch the slight wrinkle between his brows, the subtle confusion in his smile. It says: What the hell are you doing here at this hour?

You see the same look from the security guards, and from the person at the front desk. But you lift your chin, square your shoulders, and pretend your reason for being here is purely professional.

You build a whole story in your mind as you walk across the marble lobby, your heels clicking with each step, just to make it easier to face. Harry needs a report for Monday morning, and he’s paying you overtime for it, but the source documents are physical, and he can’t scan them.

He took them home because he planned to work on them tonight, but the cocktail party took over his evening.

You step into the elevator and enter the code for Harry’s apartment.

And he remembered the report at the event, of course he did, because the partner he’s meeting on Monday mentioned looking forward to the negotiations. So you, ever the good employee, offered to stop by and grab the documents.

The elevator doors close, taking you toward the penthouse duplex, and you shut your eyes, erasing the fake narrative.

Now, it’s just you and your conscience.

There’s no report. No meeting. No overtime. Now it’s just Harry and you, both willingly choosing to do this and hurt your partners in exchange for nothing more than physical satisfaction.

The doors open into the private foyer of the penthouse, warmly lit and lined with framed art. Harry is standing in the doorway of the apartment, barefoot, blazer gone, bowtie undone and hanging loose at his collar.

You take one step forward, leaving the elevator.

“How was the rest of the party?” you ask, trying to sound casual through your nerves.

“Good. They liked the feature.”

You stop a few feet away, feeling his eyes on you. You twist your clutch in your hands.

“We left early because she had to catch the flight,” Harry adds, answering the question you hadn’t asked. “Want to come in? I think I still have some champagne.”

You nod, agreeing, and step inside as Harry closes the door behind you. The long hallway leading into the living room, all decorated in earth tones and golden light, greets you like a witness.

“There are some things I’m assuming based on the fact that you’re here,” Harry says behind you. You turn to face him. “But obviously, I need you to say it.”

“I don’t know if I can say it out loud.”

He watches you for a beat, reading your face.

“Morals?”

“It’s called having a heart.”

He smiles, and it’s far too sensual for the subject at hand.

“Speaking of hearts… what excuse did you give your boyfriend?”

He walks past you, heading down the hallway, and you follow. The two of you move into the living room, and you settle onto the couch, watching as Harry disappears for a few seconds and reemerges with an unopened bottle of Bollinger and two flutes in his hands. He sits beside you, and within moments, the bottle is open and champagne is flowing into both glasses.

You slip off your heels. Harry tosses his bow tie onto the coffee table. And only after you’ve taken your first sip of champagne do you finally answer.

“I didn’t need an excuse. He was asleep,” you say, referring to your boyfriend. “I think he had a lot of whiskey.”

“That’s a shame. He could’ve spent the night with you, but he chose to drink,” Harry replies, settling in beside you as he clicks his tongue. “Rookie mistake.”

“You think it’s exciting to sleep with me because it only happened once and it’s forbidden. After three years, he doesn’t think like that anymore.”

“There isn’t a universe where I don’t find having you in my bed exciting.”

That makes you blink slowly at him, then at the ring on his finger, while the champagne tastes suddenly bitter on your tongue.

He notices where your eyes have landed.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, gesturing to the ring.

You don’t even need to think, which probably bumps you up twenty points on the I’m-A-Terrible-Person scale.

“No,” you say, because it’s true. “Did you feel guilty?”

“Tonight?” you nod, and he draws in a long breath. He seems to test a million possible words before landing on: “No. I didn’t. I was angry at your boyfriend, and then I felt like an asshole for that.”

When you don’t respond, Harry throws the question back at you.

“Did you?”

You take another sip of champagne, gaze fixed on the massive TV mounted across from the sofa.

“I wish I had. It would be easier to deal with all this if I felt guilty.”

Harry reaches over and takes a lock of your hair that had fallen over your chest, twirling it around his finger before brushing it over your shoulder. He does the same with the others, gently moving each strand behind you, letting it fall down your back.

Before anything else, he places his glass on the coffee table beside the bottle and settles into the cushions.

“Come here.”

The way he pulls you brings your body into his, with your back partially resting against his chest and your legs tucked beneath you.

“I usually have answers for everything,” Harry says. “But for this? I don’t.”

You tilt your head just enough to hear the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear, and you intertwine your fingers with his. His arm rests over your right shoulder.

“It’s okay… I don’t need comfort. I’m here because I want to be.”

Harry makes a low sound, like agreement, and presses his hand flat against your chest. He can probably feel the same quick heartbeat under his palm.

He changes the subject because that’s the smarter choice.

“You look beautiful in that dress,” he says near your ear, his voice more intimate now, more private. You close your eyes and savor the sound like it’s dessert. “Everyone was looking at you and envying your boyfriend.”

His hand drifts lower, cupping your breast over the smooth silk of your gown, his touch feather-light. Your skin prickles.

“But I’m the one they should envy, right?” Harry keeps whispering. The dress has a slit that’s just wide enough for him to slip his hand underneath and cup your breast. “I was trying to think of a way to make that obvious.”

“That you’re cheating on your wife with me?”

His soft thumb finds your hardened nipple, and a wave of heat rolls between your legs as he circles it.

“That I got what all those wide-eyed bastards wanted.”

“You’re awfully possessive for someone who’s the other man.”

He laughs, and you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration under your cheek against his chest. You smile, and the smile stays as Harry reaches for the small zipper on the side of your dress and slowly, slowly pulls it down.

The fabric loosens with each inch the zipper drops, and you’re the one who slides the top of the dress down to your waist, exposing your breasts. His hands cover them one at a time, squeezing gently, and you push them toward his palms.

Soon, it’s his mouth on your neck, lips parted over your sensitive skin. You have to tighten your grip around the champagne flute just to keep from dropping it as Harry kisses and bites your neck, his beard scraping and tickling in a way that leaves your whole body weak.

“Turn around and kiss me,” he says, taking the glass from your hand and placing it on the coffee table.

When he leans back into the couch again, you kneel on the seat beside him, just like that first night in his office, and meet his mouth. Harry holds your face with both hands but lets you set the pace, following your movements. And you devour it, because you’ve thought about this too much. His kiss, his taste, the way he leads without ever needing to be rough.

Your mouths part wider, undoing all the restraint that’s built up over the last three weeks. Harry slides one hand down to finish unzipping the dress completely and pushes it off your hips, leaving you in nothing but panties.

You’ve barely thrown the dress to the floor before his hand is already inside your underwear, and your knees weaken. He finds the slickness there and mutters a curse under his breath before sitting up straighter to get a better angle as he rubs slow circles over your clit.

The blood is pounding so hard in your ears that you barely register the phone ringing.

Both of you freeze, breaths and hearts racing. You meet Harry’s gaze, seeking some sort of shelter in it, and he looks back at you, lips red, before glancing toward the coffee table.

Before he can move, you kiss him again. Screw the phone. Harry immediately sinks back into the kiss, and the middle finger still inside your panties traces slowly from your clit down to your dripping entrance. It doesn’t take long before he slips it inside, and you swing a leg over his lap, settling into him.

The phone stops ringing.

Harry moves slowly, probably remembering how sensitive you were last time. He takes his time with just one finger, working you open, making you wetter. Your clit is practically throbbing, and he starts to speak—

—but the words are swallowed up by the phone ring again.

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry mutters, clearly annoyed, pulling his hand from your panties and gripping your waist. With you still in his lap, he leans forward and grabs the phone. You feel his whole body tense beneath you when he sees the screen.

“What is it?” you ask.

“My wife,” he says.

You want to be a bitch and tell him not to answer, to hang up, but you can’t. Even though you know he might actually listen if you said it.

“Answer. It could be important.”

Harry squeezes your waist as you try to move off his lap.

“Stay,” he says, and clears his throat before answering. “Hi, darling. Everything okay?”

“Hey, babe. Why didn’t you pick up the first time?”

You can hear her voice clearly because she’s speaking loudly and because of how close the two of you are, but you stay quiet and still, as if moving might somehow make her see you.

The lie rolls off his tongue effortlessly.

“Sorry. I was on a video call with some investors in Japan. I didn’t see the phone ring.”

You keep your eyes on his as your hand reaches the button on his pants. You undo it silently, then ease the zipper down.

Harry doesn’t stop you.

“I’m at the airport,” his wife is saying. “I upgraded to business class, but for some reason they need you to authorize the purchase on your bank app.”

“That’s strange. They’ve never needed confirmation before.”

With the zipper all the way down, you slide your hand into his underwear and pull out his hard cock. Your mouth practically waters.

“I said the same thing!” she laughs. “I think I’m just going to cancel and try using my own card… Not the joint account.”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but it’s exactly when you lick your hand and wrap it around him. His jaw tightens and his eyes flutter shut. He pulls the phone away from his face to suck in a sharp breath.

“Harry?”

“I can authorize it from here,” he says into the phone, eyes glancing down to follow the motion of your hand. “Up to you.”

“Hmm… no worries, I’ll just use mine.” A pause. “My flight boards in thirty minutes and you know what I can’t stop thinking about?”

“What?”

You remove your hand from his cock only to quietly slip out of your panties. His gaze drops, devouring the space between your legs, and you sit back down on his thigh, not caring in the slightest if you leave a wet mark on his pants.

She says,

“The way you fingered me in the car after the party.”

Your hands freeze. You raise an eyebrow at Harry, and he gives you a small, crooked smile before replying to his wife,

“You liked that?”

“Mhm. Too bad I couldn’t make you come, too.”

You narrow your eyes and squirm with jealousy. You tighten your grip and focus on the swollen tip. Harry tries to stop you, but you challenge him and keep going, watching his expression break. You want her to hear.

“I didn’t need to,” he manages to say. “That was for you.”

Harry moves the phone away completely, whispering a curse just as her voice returns on the other end.

“But I miss sleeping with you.” Her tone is overly sweet, but there’s a hint of real sadness buried beneath it.

The smile that threatens to curl your lips is cruel and selfish, and you don’t dig too deep into what it means. Probably something about how you’re about to have what she wants. Which is awfully childish, you know that.

But part of you feels for her. That’s what you think as you lift yourself onto your knees, placing one over Harry’s thigh to get the angle right, and guide his erection to the slick heat between your legs.

You’d feel that way, too, if you were married to a man like Harry and he didn’t want you.

Harry leans his head back on the couch, avoiding your eyes. He stares at the ceiling, the knuckles of the hand holding the phone pale and strained.

“Sorry. A lot on my mind,” he says, just as you sink down on him.

His chest tightens in a heavy breath. His free hand clutches your hip, his thighs tense beneath you, a vein in his neck practically pulsing. He’s a vision of self-restraint, and you revel in it, grinding down onto him and biting your lip hard enough to nearly break skin just to keep quiet.

“I get it,” she says. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Darling, I need—”

“Promise me we’ll try harder.”

You lean forward as he stretches you, kissing the side of his damp neck while your fingers work on the buttons of his shirt, your tongue tracing the line of that vein. He shudders.

“I promise,” Harry says, his nails digging into your waist as you begin to rock in his lap, moaning against his skin. “I… I really need to go. Have to finish some documents. But text me when you land, okay?”

You don’t even register their goodbye. All you know is that Harry practically throws his phone onto the coffee table.

“Brat,” he mutters against your mouth as he pulls your hair, tugging off his shirt in one fluid motion. “Can’t believe the phone didn’t pick up the sound of this wet pussy.”

“Lucky you,” you say. “So Harry Castillo isn’t fucking his wife? What a shame.”

He tightens his grip around you and stands, pulling a gasp from your mouth as he slips out of you.

“You’re too old to be lifting like that,” you say, even as your thighs wrap around his hips. “Your physical therapist’s gonna be rich.”

“And you still want this old man?”

You nod, and Harry gives a smug little smile. Men are so easy to please.

He carries you through the hallway into the master bedroom. Your wide-eyed gaze meets his a moment before he sets you down on the enormous, messy bed. One glance to the side and you see the open door of his wife’s closet, purses and heels in view, just before Harry flips you onto your stomach and raises your hips.

You brace on your elbows, spine arching.

Two pillows rest at the head of the bed. One nightstand holds a book, a pair of glasses, and a man’s watch. The other has hand cream, a gold bracelet, a bottle of vitamins, and a pink hair clip.

It’s literally the most intimate part of a couple’s life, and this bedroom embodies that, exactly why you used to think, and agree, it was a line not to be crossed. But not for Harry, apparently, who climbs onto the bed behind you and slides into you again.

Your head drops forward, blocking your vision, fingers clutching the sheets as he sinks in fully.

Harry leans over your back, his fingers finding your pulsing clit, stroking in slow circles that make your whole body melt.

“Harry—”

“Come on my cock and I’ll fuck you.”

You writhe beneath him as his fingers move faster, smaller, tighter circles. You roll your hips forward and back in short, needy thrusts, just enough friction to push you toward the edge.

Your mouth dries, eyes squeezing shut as the tension coils in your belly. When Harry switches to horizontal strokes, rubbing directly across your clit, you come so hard it borders on painful, then dissolves into something warm and all-consuming, like being lowered into a hot bath.

“Just like that,” he whispers against your moans, slowing his movements so you can ride out every last wave. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

You nod, even though your ears are still buzzing. You nearly miss the weight of his body when he pulls back, but then one hand presses between your shoulder blades and the other grabs your hip, and he starts to thrust.

It’s almost too much. You’re still sensitive, your clit sparking with each slap of his balls, but it’s so good. You hear his grunts, low and rough, and you spread your knees wider, gripping the sheets. Your eyes land on his wife’s nightstand at the same moment Harry says,

“This what you wanted? Climbing on top of me while I was on the phone? Almost making me lose it?”

You nod. Harry pulls your left leg, then your right, laying you flat. He lies on top of you, keeping your legs tight between his, and thrusts again.

“Say it out loud.”

He kisses your neck, brushing your hair away. Your skin tingles.

“For a second, I wanted her to hear,” you admit, grateful you’re not facing him.

Harry breathes against your temple.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted her to know that what she wants…” You can’t finish before he speeds up, and you have to grit your teeth. With your legs squeezed together, every thrust hits deeper. “You’re giving it to me. And you’re so, so hard for me…”

There. You said it. This time, you break the rule about not talking about the others. And you can’t regret it, not when Harry wraps a hand around your throat, bites your shoulder, and fucks you, the slap of skin clashing with the wet sounds of his cock inside you, again and again, until he growls a curse.

He pulls out and flips you onto your back. Harry climbs over you, stroking himself, eyes roving over your body—your breasts, the space between your thighs. You touch yourself too, unable not to, watching his face tighten as he gets close.

And when he comes, it’s on your belly, whispering your name as the hot ropes of cum cover your skin.

“Open your legs,” he says, voice hoarse and skin sweaty. You fold your knees and spread your thighs. “You’re already close again… Look how you’re throbbing.”

This time it’s the tip of his cock that presses against your swollen clit, massaging it, smearing his cum across your skin as he strokes. His softening head glides over you in slow, steady movements. With his free hand, Harry uses his fingers to open you wider, and when he finds the exact spot again, he presses.

Your next orgasm isn’t as explosive as the first, but just as overwhelming. When it hits, you can’t take anymore. You clamp your legs shut and push his hand away.

He gets it. He lies down beside you, pulls you into his arms, and holds you while you catch your breath.

As your senses return, you notice the only light in the room is coming from the open closet. The bedroom is softly decorated, the sheets far too luxurious to have been chosen by a man, even one like Harry Castillo.

“Why did we have sex in here?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“You must have ten guest rooms in this penthouse. Why this one?”

He stays silent, stroking your back.

“Because doing something wrong turns you on?” you ask, turning to look at him. Harry meets your eyes, saying nothing, and his hand goes still on your ribs. “I get it. I think I got wetter when I realized where you brought me.”

Before he can reply, you ask,

“Will you think of me when you’re here with her?”

“I already do,” he says. “The difference is now I’ll have memories. Not just imagination.”

You lean in to kiss him, and Harry welcomes it.

Even so, the two of you sleep in the guest bedroom, because you don’t want to use her pillow or wrap yourself in the same sheets she does.

Harry takes you to the end of the hallway, into a room that seems like it’s never been used, even though the sheets smell like fabric softener.

The bed is bigger than yours, and after a quick shower, the two of you tangle up together, naked, beneath the covers. It’s the first time you’re actually about to fall asleep with him, and he behaves exactly as you expected: he wraps himself around you, throws a leg over yours, and presses you tightly to his body. You’re surrounded by Harry—in your skin, in your sweat, in the sheets, in the house, in the scent that wraps around you.

And just like that, sleep comes easy.

Maybe it’s the unfamiliar space, or the furnace that is Harry’s body, or the emotional chaos, but you wake up in the middle of the night.

He’s completely asleep, his legs trapping yours, and you try to fall back asleep for a few more minutes, but it doesn’t work. Slowly, you untangle yourself from his body and tiptoe out of the room to get your phone, which you’d left in your bag on the coffee table.

You sit on the couch to check for any unread messages, but the moment makes you feel exposed. The champagne bottle and flutes still sitting there give you a headache. You lower the brightness on your phone and go back to the guest room.

Harry hasn’t moved.

There’s a small loveseat by the window, and you curl up there, turning your phone screen back on. The first unread message is from your boyfriend, sent about an hour ago. He’s thanking you for taking care of him. Says you should’ve stayed at his place so he could wake you up with breakfast.

You deserve it for looking after me, he writes and you let out a humorless laugh, because you definitely don’t deserve anything.

There’s a message from your mom, a photo of her, and a few from your friends who saw your picture with Harry on Forbes’s Instagram. You click the link, and it takes you to the post.

Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo Construction & Co., and his executive assistant, is the caption.

You both look good. You make a striking image.

Harry’s sleepy voice pulls your attention back.

“Can’t sleep?”

He’s rubbing his eyes, propped up on one elbow to look at you.

“Think it’s just the unfamiliar bed. I can’t fall back asleep.”

“That really all it is?”

You chew on your bottom lip, hugging your knees and resting your chin on them after leaving your phone aside. Even though you’re completely naked, you don’t feel uncomfortable around Harry, which is saying something.

“What now?” you ask instead, feeling sorry for him, seeing as he just woke up and is being struck with this emotional turbulence. “Are we something?”

“That was the proposal.”

“We’re gonna have to get really good at lying. You know that, right? At some point, ‘I need to stay late at the office’ won’t cut it anymore.” A headache pulses at your temples. You laugh. “This is crazy.”

“What is?”

“When I started working at the office, I was obsessed with you. I practically drooled when you walked by, watched all your interviews, melted whenever you talked to me. And then you got married, so I made it a point to find someone, or anyone, to date, just to get you out of my system.”

Harry looks at you in a way you don’t like.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “I’m not some virgin girl doing this because I’m in love. You fuck me well, and I like it. That’s all.”

Harry gets out of bed and grabs a pillow. He walks over to you and, without a word, places it on the floor in front of the chair. Then he kneels, and you fall silent at the sight of Harry Castillo on his knees before you, his hair tousled from sleep.

He lifts your left ankle, holding your leg halfway out to kiss from your ankle to your knee, taking his time. The moonlight from outside casts a soft glow over his profile.

You watch, heart pounding.

“I remember your first day at work,” Harry murmurs, sleep-rough voice breaking the silence as he parts his lips to kiss the inside of your thigh. Your stomach twists with nerves and anticipation. “You were wearing a white dress. Your hair was tied up. And you widened your eyes at everyone who came near, like a damn deer.”

Your own eyes are probably wide now as he rests your right leg on his shoulder, stretching your left again to repeat the same trail of kisses. You grip the edge of the seat.

He remembers what you wore your first day, four years ago.

“You came into my office,” he continues, and lifts your left leg to join the other on his shoulders, his face now nestled between your thighs as he places open-mouthed kisses along your skin. “Asked if I needed help with anything specific, and when I told you to sit beside me so I could show you how to open my encrypted report, you tripped over the edge of the rug. In that exact moment, I wanted you.”

He says the last words right before he opens his mouth over your pussy, the heat of his breath making you arch into the chair and clutch his hair.

He looks up at you, mouth still busy, and God… if you could capture a single moment in a photo, it would be this.

You slide your legs off his shoulders just to grab his face and pull him up so you can kiss him. Harry kisses back eagerly, and there’s nothing tender about the way he licks into your mouth. There’s nothing tender about the way he breaks the kiss either just to place your legs back over his shoulders and bury his face between them again. One hand presses down on your lower belly to keep you in place as his mouth seals around your clit and starts to suck.

You hold his face with both hands, pressing him harder against you, watching him, watching the way his cock hardens just from tasting you.

“So good,” you whisper, your fingers on his jaw. “You have no idea how good it feels to have Harry Castillo on his knees for me.”

He doesn’t pull away, but you swear, if he could, he’d be smiling.

What he does instead is lower his mouth until his tongue is inside you. Your eyes flutter closed. Moans echo in the room, along with the wet sounds of his mouth, and you lose yourself in all of it, until his thumb slides inside you. But just as quickly, it leaves, and instead, glides down.

You open your eyes with a jolt just in time to see Harry sucking your clit while his thumb starts circling your other entrance.

It’s different. Strange. Not unpleasant.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks, likely meaning anal.

You shake your head.

“Well, look at that,” Harry says, overly pleased, rubbing in slow circles. “So, in a way, you’re still a virgin. Can I?”

There are very few things you wouldn’t give Harry if he asked.

“Just the finger. Just one. Slowly.”

“Always, baby.”

And he goes slowly.

He waits until you’re melting under his tongue, licking his thumb before returning it to your tight rim and gently pushing in the tip. It doesn’t hurt—not with just the tip—but it’s unlike anything you’ve done, something you never even tried with your boyfriend, even though he asked.

“Relax for me, sweetheart,” Harry whispers. “Breathe. Let me in.”

You don’t know how much time passes before your breathing calms and something in you releases. You feel safer.

Harry plunges his tongue into your pussy and brings his other thumb to your clit, and you’re surrounded by him in every possible way when, slowly, he slips his lubricated thumb into your ass, pulling a deep moan from your chest. The build-up of sensitivity throughout the night, paired with the newness of it all, crashes into you, and you come in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers in both places.

He doesn’t stop, even when you try to push him away and close your legs. Harry keeps sucking your clit harder, and you shake beneath him, overstimulated. He brings you to the edge again with his mouth and hands, and just as you’re about to fall, he stops and tells you to ride him.

You do, on the floor of the guest room. Apparently, you two have a thing for sex on the floor, because it’s rawer, messier, heavier with tension. You kiss the whole time, grabbing at whatever part of him you can reach, and the two of you come together.

Harry, inside you.

You, wrapped around him.

Hardly a word between you.

The next morning, Harry drives you home in his car, without a driver.

You’re wearing one of his T-shirts over your dress, your hair still wet and your face free of makeup, and you probably look ridiculous. A charitable act from the CEO of CCC.

The good news is that the street is empty. It’s still nine a.m. on a Sunday, so there are fewer witnesses to your disastrous state. A few brave souls pass by in running clothes, others look like they rolled out of bed five seconds ago, forced outside by the physiological needs of the small dogs following on their leashes.

Harry parks in front of your building and turns off the engine.

“Too cliché if I thank you for the night?” he asks, leaning back in his seat.

“I’m not going to thank you for the orgasms, because yes, I think that’s cliché, but” you raise your index finger, watching the smug smile take over his face. “solid performance for a senior citizen. Forbes would love to know about the five orgasms.”

“Six,” he corrects, ignoring the comment about the ‘senior citizen.’ “Two this morning. One in bed and one in the shower.”

Oh, right.

“Six,” you agree. “High performance, Mr. Castillo.”

“Glad you approve,” he says. “I suppose I can’t kiss you here.”

You shake your head.

“Not here.” You exchange one last look, entirely charged. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you.” Harry says, and you force yourself to open the passenger door. You place one foot out of the car, but before you can get out, Harry places his palm on the back of your neck and makes you look at him.

“Thank you for tonight and for accepting my proposal.”

You turn just enough to place a kiss on Harry’s wrist and get out of the car, shutting the door behind you.

When you turn toward your building’s entrance, you find another gaze on you.

That gaze runs over you from head to toe, taking in the clothes from the night before, the wet hair, the bare face, and then shifts to Harry’s Mercedes.

A freezing terror takes hold of your entire body, paralyzing you where you stand.

“Don’t even think about it, man,” Tommy warns as he drops his toolbox into the bed of Joel's truck.

Joel squints over at his brother, the sun bright in his eyes. “Think about what?” 

“Don’t fuck her, Joel.”

"What the hell ya talking ‘bout?” he smirks, fully aware of Tommy's meaning.

“Saw the way you were looking at her just now. We don’t need any trouble, Joel. He's a good worker.”

“He’s a waste of space, that’s what he is," Joel bites. He never wanted to hire an apprentice; he didn't believe they needed one. But when Tommy brought this new guy, Nate, to work a few months ago, Joel's been taking every opportunity he gets to make the younger man's life hell in the hope he’ll quit. Still, Joel has to admit, having the apprentice around isn’t all bad, because every day at 12:30pm sharp, the younger man's girlfriend calls with lunch, and Joel has been finding himself transfixed by her. 

“You can’t just not like him Joel, you have no reason not to.”

“I do.”

“Really? Give me one.”

“His name. Typical asshole name.”

Tommy laughs. “Dude, come on, he might be young, but he knows his stuff, he could be a real help for us in expanding.”

“We don’t need him. We've been doing fine just us for all these years. Besides, the kid might know how to build, but he's the most self-absorbed person I've ever met. Spends more time checking on his fuckin’ hair.” Joel huffs, turning to lean back against the truck. “You heard the way he talks about her too? She could do so much better.”

“I think you're just hearing what you want to hear ‘cause you wanna get in her pants.” Tommy smirks.

“So what if I do? You can’t stop me.” Joel responds with a smug grin like he's ready to take on the challenge. One thing about Joel: if someone tells him not to do something, he's almost always going to find a way to do it.

“She’s like half your age.”

“Trust me, no one has ever complained about that before.”

Tommy scoffs. "You're disgusting.”

“So you settled down; now the rest of us aren't allowed to have any fun?”

“Not saying that, but she’s his girlfriend, please, brother, just keep clear.”

“Fine, relax. Won’t go near her.”

“Promise me.”

Joel holds a hand up in the air, an irritating grin spread across his face. “I promise, Tommy."

“God, you're so fuckin’ annoying.” Tommy slams the door of the trunk and goes around the other side to climb in. Joel’s never been one to break a promise, but when it comes to her, he thinks she might be the one who finally makes him crack.

“You wanna come for a drink?”

“Nah, the wife’s got dinner waiting.”

“Right.” Joel rolls his eyes. He’d never admit it, but he’s jealous of his brother. Tommy's settled down with another kid on the way. Joel might have Sarah, but she’s grown now, always out with her own friends enjoying herself, and he’s just left alone at home with nothing but his thoughts.

So, true to his usual post-work routine, he walks the few blocks to the dingy bar he likes. Slouching onto the stool as he orders a whiskey, he scans the room to see who's in tonight. He’s tired, he’s horny, and if he’s completely honest with himself, he’s really fucking lonely. So when his eyes catch on that familiar woman, alone in the booth right at the back of the room, he can't help himself. 

"Ohh, now the universe is just playing with me," he mutters under his breath as he takes his glass and walks through the darkened bar over towards her. “Drinking alone?”

"Sadly," she smiles, so innocently. 

“No Nate?"

“Not tonight.” 

He nods with a satisfied hum, trying his best not to let his eyes slip down to her cleavage.

“Mind if I sit?" 

“Not at all.”

He slides in opposite her, leaning back, thighs wide apart beneath the table as he rests his arm on the back of the seat. “So, we’ve never really spoken.”

She nods. “You don’t strike me as much of a talker.” 

Her eyes are mesmerizing; he’s never been close enough before to see them like this, and in the soft neon light, he finds himself getting lost in how they glisten. When she brings her glass up to take a sip, his eyes lock onto her mouth, watching as her tongue darts out to wet her lips, making his dick twitching at the sight. He can’t help but think what it would be like to kiss her, what she would taste like, and what it’d be like to shove his cock between those lips and make her choke on it.

She shifts in her seat, a delicate strand of hair falling gently down her neck, leading his eyes right to her chest, exactly where he was trying not to look.

“Like what you see?” she asks quietly so no one but him can hear. His eyes flick back up to hers, so she’s really not as innocent as he first thought.

His head tilts to the side slightly, weighing up his response. “Mmmh, but I’d like to see more.”

Her cheeks blush instantly, and she tries to hide it, looking away towards the loud crowd at the bar. “Not sure Nate would approve of that.”

"Well, that asshole shouldn’t have let you come here alone then.”

“You don’t like him?”

He doesn’t answer.

She rests her elbow on the table, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Didn’t want him to tell him.”

“Why not?”

She looks down, unable to meet his gaze as she admits the truth. “Because I didn’t want him to know that I came here looking for you.”

“Looking for me, huh?” There’s an innocence to her, but he can tell she’s got that devilish side deep within her core that aches to be let out. He knows she’s looking for him to show her exactly how to cut herself loose.

“You think I bring food over every day just to please Nate like some good little housewife?” 

Her response amuses him, because that’s exactly what Nate wants her to be. “So why do you do it?”

“To see how long it’ll take for you to notice me.” 

“Well darlin', you’re in luck because I notice you, alright." He makes no attempt to hide the smugness radiating from him now. She’s fucking desperate for him, and she's not hiding it very well. “Notice how your flimsy little dresses have gotten steadily shorter over the weeks, slowly revealing even more of your skin that just aches to be traced by my touch. Notice how you sway your hips that little bit more only when you walk by me, like you’re trying to tease, and shit, it’s working…”

Her lips part, her mouth turning dry as she takes in every word.

“…Or how you do all that, yet never meet my eyes. You look away quickly whenever I glance over, pretending to be all innocent, but you ain’t, are ya?”

Her cheeks turn more red because she knows she’s been caught out. He sits forward. “Y’know, I’m under strict orders not to fuck you.”

She almost spits the last sip of her drink out as his words register. Her eyes widen, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Clearing her throat, she takes a breath. “By who?"

“My brother.”

“You always follow your brother's rules?” 

"No," he scoffs. “Don’t answer to anybody." 

“So you’d break the rules?”

He swallows and looks back over his shoulder to observe the other people minding their own business in the bar. When he turns back, she’s practically squirming as she awaits his reply, the intrigue clear in her eyes. 

“Depends if I think it was worth it.”

“You don’t think I’m worth it?”

He downs the remaining liquid in his drink and takes his time to look her up and down. “Are you?” 

She gives him that shy smile again. “How about we find out?” 

He taps a finger on the table, making her wait as he decides his next move. "Not tonight.”

"Oh." She sits back in her seat, and he’s sure he sees her trying to hide the disappointment. He wants to tease her, to make her wait so that when he finally does fuck her, she’s begging him for it. 

“Go home to your boyfriend.”

“Why?”

“Because I want him to find you fuckin’ soaked all 'cause of me.”

She bites her lip, her eyes wide, dark and hungry as the flush creeps up her neck.

“Let him fuck you. Let him try his best to fill ya whilst you wish like hell it was my cock instead.”

She starts absentmindedly twirling that goddamn strand of hair around her finger, and he can’t take it anymore. He’s got the upper hand right now, he has to keep it that way.

So he stands, adjusting his now incredibly tight crotch right in front of her eyes, and leaves her alone in the booth. That night, as the alcohol still buzzes through his system, he lies half naked in his bed, stroking himself as he thinks about her, releasing his load onto his stomach from the thought of all the ways he plans to take this woman. 

———

The following day, he waits for her to call by with lunch like she always does, but she doesn’t show, and she doesn’t come the day after or the one after that. He guesses it was the alcohol, the heat of the moment, or maybe she woke up the following morning and regretted the conversation. Still, he looks dead into the eyes of Nate every day with the secret knowledge that his girlfriend really wants the master, not the apprentice. 

By the time Friday night rolls around, he’s irritable. Nate went home hours ago, and Tommy left the site just before the sun finally set. But they had a deadline for tonight, so Joel offered to stick around and work until it was done, realizing if he went home, he’d only find himself grumpy and alone there too. 

As the stifling Texas heat still lingers despite the night sky and the ache in his back starts to pull, he secures the house and turns out the lights. Making his way from the backyard towards his truck, he sees her, walking down the driveway towards him.

"What ya doing 'ere? Boyfriend left ages ago.” He grunts, pretending like the sight of her doesn’t make him happy.

“I know; he’s at home eating junk food on the sofa.”

She’s wearing a short summery dress that stops an inch above her knees, the V-neck revealing too much of her skin. He notices the few beads of her sweat that glisten between her breasts from the humidity, and it makes him want nothing more than to push her up against his truck and taste it.

“Where does he think you are?”

“A friend's house." She steps forward slowly, closer to him. The familiar smell of her perfume reaches him now, the subtle yet divine scent that he remembers so well consuming his mind. “He told me you were staying late, so I came to see if you needed anything.”

“I don’t. Just heading out.” he brushes past her, his finger tracing the back of her hand as he does so. He drops his tools into the back of his truck before turning back to her, exhaling heavily. “You shouldn’t be turning up to random houses after dark like this, y’know.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s not safe.” He reaches a finger to her chin, lifting her eyes to look directly into his. “Anything could happen."

“Like what?” Her voice is barely a whisper. 

He shakes his head. "Thought I’d scared you off, or maybe you’d changed your mind.”

“I just wanted to be careful.” 

“Is this being careful?” His eyes flick down her body, inches from him. “Did you do as I said? Did you think about me when he was inside you?”

She nods. 

“and only me?” 

She nods again. 

“Good girl.” He feels the blood is rushing south, but he can't do this; Tommy would kill him. “But you should really go."

“Why?”

“Because in a second I’m going to lose my fuckin’ mind and have my way with ya. You're better than this; I’ll only get ya into trouble.”

“What if I want trouble?”

He chuckles. “You don't. Go home.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh sweetheart, I'm really trying here." He drags a hand through his hair. He knows it's useless; his dick is in control now, but at least he can tell Tommy that he really, really tried not to, right?

“I want you.” She whispers.

"Why? You just need an older man to take care of ya? Is that it? Need someone who can give you exactly what you need, unlike that pathetic excuse of a boyfriend.”

She doesn’t respond, just stares into his eyes endlessly, like she’s starving to be taken care of. God, she’s beautiful. Tommy's pleas from a few days ago sound like a million miles away right now. He inches closer, moving his head down so that his lips hover over hers; the anticipation clouds his thoughts, and all he can think about is what it would be like to be buried between her legs. With a dirty grin, he tries to stop the inevitable one last time. “Last chance, Miss.”

“Kiss me.” 

Finally, with her permission, he pushes his tongue into her mouth; her desperate hums make his dick throb against the constraints of his jeans. He guides her back until she’s trapped between his body and the truck, breaking from her lips to lick down her neck, following the V of her dress as she sighs into him. He moves further south, the knot in his back merely a distant thought as he buries his head in the low of her tummy, breathing in her scent. “Fuck, you smell so good.” 

His hand snakes up her thigh, inching the fabric of her dress up to gain access between her legs. Brushing his fingers over her panties, he feels her desire already seeping through, the discovery making him groan into the night air. He teases her, rubbing her over the wet fabric as her head falls back against his truck.

Hooking a finger into the waistband, he peels the damp lace down her legs before bringing it to his nose, inhaling deeply, closing his eyes as he takes in the scent of her desire. “Fuuuuckk.” She watches him intently then as he stuffs her panties into his back pocket. “I’m keeping these.” 

As he stands up to tower above her, his fingers find her soaked folds again, dipping into her arousal as his thumb presses against her sensitive clit and her hips pushes forward into him. “Maybe you were right,” she breathes, “We shouldn't." Her protest is weak.

“So stop me.” He teases, knowing she won’t. “Go on, stop me, darlin'." She ignores him, whimpering louder as his fingers explore her entrance. “Can’t, can ya? It's written all over your face; you're fuckin’ desperate for me to give you what he can’t.”

Her mouth falls open as he slips a finger into her tight heat. The whimper that escapes her goes straight to his crotch. Despite the quiet secluded street, the low light, and the shelter of his truck, he feels her tense against him when they both hear a noise in the distance. “Joel, someone’s coming.” 

“Nah uh, eyes on me, darlin’.” His thumb flicks against her bundle of nerves faster as his free hand comes up to cover her mouth. He continues his movements, working her to her orgasm as the person on the opposite side of the street remains completely unaware of the scandal taking place beside this truck.

Her body shudders violently before it collapses weakly against him. He looks down, removing his hand from between her legs, his fingers glistening with her juices. “Shit.” He opens the passenger door and nods. “Get in the truck." 

He doesn’t know where to take her. Sarah will be home, and they obviously can’t go back to her place. He considers just doing it in the truck, but he needs more space to have her in the way he craves most. But he’s so fucking turned on right now, he just needs to get her to goddamn bed soon. So he speeds towards the edge of town where he knows of a gross little motel. It’s not ideal, certainly not romantic, but it’ll do the job. 

He walks into the reception as she follows close behind, keeping her head down. Like the world is against him right now, he finds the desk empty.

After what feels like an eternity of calling out for assistance, a small old lady appears from the back room and shuffles towards the desk, her eyes flicking between the two of them.

“Finally.” He mutters under his breath, but he knows the older woman heard him by the glare she offers up. “Need a room.”

The lady pauses, her eyebrows raising expectantly as she looks at Joel. 

“Please.” He adds.

“For both of ya?”

He grunts.

“We don’t do any of that funny business ‘ere y’know.” She warns.

Joel scoffs. “Excuse me?”

“This is a respectable establishment, sir.”

He looks around, silently disagreeing with her. “Hmm. If you say so.”

She clears her throat, a stern expression daring him to say more.

He smiles falsely. “Look, ma’am, it’s not like that. We just need a room… please.”

The old lady rolls her eyes, sitting down at the computer to aimlessly scan the screen to see what’s available. Joel taps a finger on the desk impatiently, his leg bouncing, his cock aching to be released from these tight fucking jeans, if only this woman would hurry the hell up.

“Got one?” He bites. 

“I do.” She sighs.

“Great. We’ll take it.” 

The lady’s eyes flick up, looking past him to her behind him. “Nothin’ like good old-fashioned manners, is there?" She chuckles, and her sarcasm pisses him off. 

“What’s that s’pposed to mean?” His eyes narrow.

The old lady ignores him, slowly plodding through to the back room in search of the key. He swears this lady is taking her sweet time on purpose just to fuck with him.

When she comes back, she slaps the keys onto the surface as he settles up. He’s desperate to make a comment about the ridiculous price, but considering his predicament down below, he pays it, and without another word, exits in search of the room.

It's small and dated, and there’s a fusty smell of cigarettes and sex, but what did he expect? He's here for the same thing. The second they’re inside, he pushes her back against the door, his mouth on her skin once again as she reaches down to palm him through his trousers, making his eyes roll to the back of his head.

"Sure ‘bout this?” He asks.

“Yeah.” 

He picks her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as he takes her over and drops her body gently down onto the bed. He stands there at the edge of the mattress looking down at the flawless woman before him. 

“Take it off.” He nods to her dress. “Let me see what’s mine.”

He watches her remove the material, eyes roaming all over her. She’s nervous, but she doesn’t need to be, she’s so effortlessly beautiful.

He removes his flannel, then his t-shirt, revealing his broad chest to her. He notices how her eyes rake down his entire form before focusing on his happy trail that leads her eyes to his belt buckle. 

“Like the view?” he smirks. She doesn’t speak, just bites her lip as her eyes flick back up to his. "Course you fuckin’ do. Go on then, unbuckle 'em." He nods towards where her eyes can’t stop looking. She hesitates for a second, before leaning up to slowly push his jeans and boxers down to finally release him.

The way her breath hitches as his cock springs free in front of her satisfies him. Her lips part as she observes him in all his glory. He’s not arrogant but he’s self-aware, and he knows he’s big. He’s thick and girthy, and the bob of her throat tells him she’s worried if he’ll even fit.

"Oh, he’s gonna fill you good, don’t you worry about that, sweetheart." He pushes her thighs apart, revealing her pussy to him. “Jesus Christ, look at ya, still fucking drippin’. Go on, touch yourself.”

“Joel.”

“Do it.”

She reaches between her legs, the rise and fall of her chest increasing as she pleasures herself. “Yeahhh that’s it, you look fuckin’ good, baby.” He takes his erection in hand, stroking slowly as he watches her.

After a few minutes, she sits up, her mouth so close to his dick as her eyes flick up to meet his, waiting for further instructions. “Open up.” 

She does as he says, her soft, warm mouth taking him in as he struggles to suppress a groan. He doesn’t push yet; he lets her guide her own movements as she gets used to the size of him.

When she releases him with a pop, her hand coming up to stroke him, she gets a little brave. “What do you think your brother would say about this?” 

“Please, don’t talk about my brother right now.” He sighs, his head falling back as she licks up the underside of his dick, all the way from his balls to the tip.

When she takes him back in her mouth again, she guides his hand to the back of her head, letting him know she’s ready for more. He thrusts his hips forward, his cock sliding further until it hits the back of her throat. He starts slow, testing her limits, but soon speeds up when he struggles to hold back. Her nails scratch sharply up his tummy, and she starts to gag around him. It's obscene and vulgar, and he can’t get enough. 

He senses she needs a second so he pulls out, letting her catch her breath, a string of her spit still connecting his cock to her lips. “Fuck that’s hot.” He sighs. “You good?”

She nods. He taps the head against her bottom lip a few times before pushing all the way back down her throat until her nose presses into the hairs at the base. “Fuuuckkk. Wish you could see yourself right now, such a good girl taking it like this.”

Like any older man, he wishes he could last as long as he did when he was younger, but those days are long gone, and if he doesn’t pull out right this second, it’ll all be over too soon. 

“Condom?” She asks. He nods, reaching down to his jeans on the floor and taking one from his pocket. She lies back on the bed, legs parted as she waits for him.

He hovers above her, tracing a hand down over her body, her hips lifting off the bed as his fingers tickle her skin, goosebumps appearing on every inch. “You're so beautiful, do you know that?” The look on her face tells him she doesn’t believe it.

“Joel…”

He spits into his hand, smearing it over his cock. Then he lines himself up with her drenched entrance, waiting as she wriggles desperately underneath him.

"This what you want?” He grins.

She nods, whimpering as she lifts her head to see him running his tip through her folds. 

“Say it."

“I want you, Joel. Need you inside me.”

“What else?”

Her head falls back down against the sheets, a frustrated moan escaping her lips, making him almost lose his composure as he pushes the head in further. 

“Please…”

Finally, he thrusts deep inside her. Mutual groans coming from deep within their bodies as they get lost in the feel of finally being connected. His head falls down into the curve of her neck, nibbling at the skin softly as he delights in the feeling of her tight, warm heat. She fits like a glove around him; so perfect, so goddamn addictive. 

“Jesus, you’re big.” She sighs, her back arching as he fills her. “It feels so good.” 

“Yeah? You like that?”

As he starts moving inside her, her legs come up to wrap around his waist, her heels digging into him to push him deeper. “He doesn't fill you like this, does he? Shit, he doesn't know how to work your body so it’s trembling like it is right now; only I can do that.” 

Their shared pants fill the room, and he reaches down between their bodies to circle her clit. Her moans please him and let him know she's already close. “If only he knew where you were right now. If only he knew my cock was so deep inside of this tight pussy.”

“Fuck, Joel. Please, don't stop.” She reaches up to pull his body down into hers, her nails scratching against his back, leaving trails of red as he feels her walls flutter around his dick. He feels her body tensing against the bed as he rides her through another high. Giving her little time to recover, she gasps as he pulls out. “Turn over.” 

She lies on her stomach before him; with his knee, he spreads her legs again and enters her from behind. He parts her ass cheeks and spits on her asshole, his thumb dipping down to smear it over the puckered rim. Slowly he teases her there, and as his thrusts speed up, he starts to push his thumb inside her tight hole as she grips the sheets at the intense sting. With his free hand, he slaps her ass making her yelp into the mattress.

He's in pure heaven. The sound of his hips slapping against her skin and the wet sounds of their shared desires mixing, paired with the sight of her holes filled up with him like this all while her boyfriend sits at home none the wiser, does something to him.

He leans down, kissing the top of her back. “Gimme another, sweetheart; I need to feel you come round this cock once more.”

“I can't, Joel," she pants, he knows she's overstimulated.

“You can, I got ya”

He withdraws, leaning back onto his knees, and he pulls her body up onto all fours. Entering her again, his thrusts turn ragged and messy as he pushes his thumb back into her ass even deeper than before, pushing the air from her lungs as her eyes screw shut.

She reaches back, gripping his wrist tightly as the new angle makes her clit hit just right against him. Just as he asked, she comes again; it's less intense this time, her body completely exhausted, but it’s enough for him to finally break. 

"fuuuckk, I'm gonna come, where’d ya want me?” 

“Let me taste you again.” She pants. 

He pulls out, and she turns, her mouth opening, waiting for his load. Pulling the condom off, he tugs his dick hard until he's spurting his thick seed onto her tongue, groaning loudly as his release rips violently through his entire body.

“Ohhh yeah, Jesus Christ.” He makes sure she catches every drop. “Swallow it, darlin’.”

She does, and that sight alone is going to stay with him for a long time. He falls down onto his back, his limbs sore, his tummy rising and falling rapidly as he attempts to recover. She lies down beside him, her head resting on his chest. “Good?” he questions with a grin. Like he even needs to ask.

After a moment, she lays a soft kiss on his sweaty chest before disappearing into the bathroom to clean up. When she comes back, she finds his flannel, wrapping it around her naked body. She sits on the edge of the bed, bringing a knee to her chest as she looks at him. “This wasn't a good idea.” She says softly, shaking her head, but the little smile apparent on her lips tells him something different.

He smirks, moving his arm up to rest behind his head. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” He watches her fiddling with the sleeve of his flannel. “You can keep that if you want; it looks better on you.” 

“You know I can't." She chuckles. 

“No?” He sits up, reaching forward for her hand. “Come ‘ere.” He pulls her across the bed until she straddles his lap. “You want me to take it off ya, then?”

His index finger runs up the soft material before gently pushing it aside to reveal her nipple. Leaning in, he sucks it into his mouth, her sweet soft whimpers pleasing him. Squeezing her ass cheeks with both hands, he pauses and lifts his head, placing a soft kiss against her lips.

“What?” She searches his eyes, her hand combing through his fluffy brown curls. 

"You ever need taking care of again, you know where I am.” 

———

Walking into Tommy's kitchen on Monday morning with his right eye black and swollen, Tommy's vigorous munching slows as he looks up and sees Joel’s face.

“Jesus Christ, Joel.” 

Joel smirks, unbothered. "You should see the other guy.” He sits down opposite with a groan, instantly digging into the breakfast waiting for him. 

“You’re unbelievable.” Tommy sighs, shaking his head. “Look at ya, not an ounce of guilt about it.”

“Guilt? She’s an adult, Tommy; she makes her own decisions, and I guess I was one of them."

“Fuck sake… so I need to find another apprentice?” 

“I told you before, we don't need one, but yeah... Nate isn't coming back.” 

“And her?” Tommy asks. Before Joel can reply, his phone buzzes in his back pocket. When he takes it out, Tommy watches a shit-eating grin spread across his brother's face. “That’s her, isn’t it?” 

He shrugs. “Oh, I’ll be seeing her again.”