The house is quiet except for the low gurgle of the coffee maker. I lean back against the cool granite of the kitchen island, Marcus’s old t-shirt the only thing I’m wearing. It’s thin from a thousand washes, hanging just low enough to cover the essentials but leaving the backs of my thighs bare to the morning air. My ass is cold. My pussy is warm and sleepy.
A familiar weight settles on my hips. Marcus. He doesn’t say anything, just slides his body behind mine, pressing me forward into the counter. His morning hard-on is a thick, insistent ridge against the small of my back. I sigh, a soft, willing sound, and tilt my head back to rest against his shoulder. His stubble scratches my cheek in a way that makes my skin tingle.
“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through his chest and into my bones. His hands slide from my hips, one coming around to cup my breast through the soft cotton, the other slipping down my stomach.
“Morning,” I breathe back.
He squeezes my breast, rolling my already-hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger. My breath hitches. His other hand continues its journey south, his fingers tracing the curve where my belly meets the top of my pubic hair. The t-shirt is the only thing between his hand and my wet, waiting cunt.
“You sleep well?” he asks, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear.
“Mmmhmm.” I can’t form real words. All I can think about is the pressure of his hand, the promise of his fingers. He knows it. He always knows.
He turns me in his arms, his body caging me against the island. His eyes, the color of dark chocolate, are full of a heavy, knowing lust. He is a handsome man, my Marcus. Strong jaw, a spray of silver at his temples that drives me insane, and a body that’s solid and powerful from years of work that has nothing to do with an office. He looks at me, and I feel seen. Not just loved, but completely, filthily understood.
His eyes roam over me, a slow, possessive inventory. Over the wild tangle of my dark hair, down to my heavy breasts, their weight obvious under the thin shirt. He always tells me I was built for sin, with hips wide enough for a man to grip and an ass so thick it was made for handprints. Seeing myself reflected in his hungry gaze, I believe him. I am a feast, and he is a starving man.
He lowers his head and kisses me. It’s not a soft, sleepy morning kiss. It’s deep and demanding, a kiss that stakes a claim. His tongue pushes past my lips, tasting of toothpaste and him. I meet it with my own, moaning into his mouth as his hips grind against me. His cock is a solid slab of heat, pushing right against the place that’s already throbbing for him. My pussy clenches, a desperate, greedy pulse. A slick of wetness soaks the front of the t-shirt.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine. “Fuck, Anja.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He pulls back, just enough to let the air back between us. He turns to the counter and pours two mugs of coffee, his movements calm and deliberate, a stark contrast to the raw need that was just pulsing between us. He hands me one. Our fingers brush. It feels like an electric shock.
“So,” he says, his voice casual now, but the heat hasn’t left his eyes. “The new neighbor is coming by today.”
My heart gives a little flutter. The game.
“Oh?” I take a sip of coffee, my hand trembling slightly. “The landscaper?”
“Yeah. Kieran.” Marcus says the name easily. “He’s going to fix those loose boards on the back deck. Said he could get it done today.”
I nod, saying nothing. I just watch him over the rim of my mug. The air is thick with unspoken things. This is our ritual, our foreplay. The things we don’t say are so much hotter than the things we do.
He drains his coffee and puts the mug in the sink. He’s dressed for work in a crisp shirt and dark slacks, but I know what’s underneath. I know the shape and weight of his cock, the feel of his balls, the musky scent of his skin.
He walks over to me and takes my mug, placing it on the counter. He frames my face with his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones.
“I have to go to the office,” he says. The words are normal. The look in his eyes is anything but. It’s a dark, swirling promise of chaos. “I’ll be gone most of the day.”
“Okay,” I breathe.
He leans in, his lips brushing against mine. “Make sure you lock the back door, baby,” he whispers, the words a delicious lie. “Don’t want any strangers wandering in.”
A bolt of pure, liquid fire shoots straight to my pussy. The command in reverse. The permission. The key to the cage he keeps me in, not to keep me safe, but to keep me wild.
He gives me one last, hard kiss, biting my lower lip until I gasp. Then he’s gone. I hear his keys jingle, the front door open and close, the sound of his car starting in the driveway.
I don’t move. I stand in the echoing silence of the kitchen, my body thrumming like a live wire. My nipples are pebble-hard, aching for a mouth. My pussy is dripping, a hot, heavy ache between my legs. I wait, holding my breath, listening.
And then I hear it.
Click.
It’s not a loud sound. It’s soft, almost imperceptible. But I hear it clear as a scream. It’s the sound of the deadbolt on the back door being unlocked from the outside. Marcus, with his own key, giving his final, silent instruction.
He left the door unlocked.
The game is on.
My knees feel weak. I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep myself upright. A wave of dizziness, of pure, unadulterated lust, washes over me. I close my eyes and imagine it. Kieran, the neighbor I’ve only seen from a distance, with his broad shoulders and muscular arms, walking through that unlocked door. Finding me. Taking me.
And Marcus. My beloved, twisted husband. I imagine him sitting in his car down the street, or maybe even in a real office, his cock straining against his trousers, thinking about what’s happening in his house. In his bed. To his wife. The thought is so overwhelmingly hot that a small orgasm shudders through me, a sharp, clenching wave that makes me cry out.
I push off the counter, my legs steady now. I have a mission. I walk out of the kitchen and up the stairs to our bedroom, the cool wood of the floorboards a shock against the soles of my feet. I feel feral, like an animal being prepared for slaughter, and I have never felt more alive.
I go straight to my closet. What does one wear to be fucked by a stranger while her husband is away? The options are endless, but only one is right. Not lingerie. That’s for Marcus. Not jeans. Too restrictive.
My fingers brush past silk and lace until they find it. A simple, white cotton sundress. It’s so thin it’s almost transparent, with a low, scooping neckline and a short hem that will show off my legs. It’s innocent. Virginal. The perfect camouflage for the slut I am about to become.
I pull Marcus’s t-shirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor. I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror, taking stock of the body my husband worships. My breasts are heavy, my nipples dark and already puckered with anticipation. My stomach is soft, curving down to a thick thatch of dark hair. My hips flare out, and my ass is round and full. I am made for this. Made to be used.
I slide the sundress over my head. The fabric is a cool whisper against my hot skin. As I expected, it clings. The outline of my nipples is perfectly, shamelessly visible. The thin material does nothing to hide the swell of my hips and ass.
No bra.
And no panties.
I run a hand down my front, over the flimsy cotton. I can feel my clit, hard and swollen, through the fabric. I feel the dampness I’ve left there. I turn, looking over my shoulder at my reflection. The dress sways, giving a tantalizing glimpse of the bare, pale curve of my ass. Easy access. A silent invitation.
I walk over to the window that overlooks the backyard. The deck is empty, the wood gleaming in the morning sun. He’ll be here soon. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, joyful rhythm. I am a trap, perfectly baited, waiting in a house with an unlocked door.
And I am so fucking ready.
