The darkness inside the closet was thick, familiar. It smelled like us – my clothes, Sarah’s faint perfume clinging to her dresses, the cedar wood panels meant to keep moths away. Mostly, though, it smelled like anticipation. Like the hot, metallic tang of my own building excitement. I shifted my weight, careful not to make the floorboards creak. It was tight in here, wedged between hanging suits and stacks of old photo albums I never bothered to move. My knees protested slightly, but I ignored them. This was my spot. My throne, in a fucked-up way.
I pressed my eye closer to the slit between the louvred doors. It offered a surprisingly clear view of the master bedroom, framing the queen-sized bed perfectly. The lamps were dimmed, casting long shadows, making everything look softer, sexier. Waiting. My heart started its tell-tale thud against my ribs, a heavy beat syncing up with the pulse already growing thick and insistent in my groin. It always started like this. The quiet before the storm. The ritual. Our ritual.
Then I saw her. Sarah. She walked into my line of sight from the attached bathroom, pausing in front of the tall vanity mirror on the opposite wall. My breath caught. Jesus. Tonight, she’d chosen the sheer black lace set. The one I’d bought last week, picturing exactly this. It barely qualified as clothing. The bra was a whisper of fabric, pushing her full breasts up, the dark circles of her nipples clearly visible through the mesh. The matching panties rode low on her hips, a tiny triangle of lace at the front, the back little more than straps framing the perfect curve of her ass.
She wasn’t classically beautiful, maybe. Not like a magazine cover. But she was fucking real. Solid. Dirty blonde hair, usually tied back neatly, was piled loosely on her head now, tendrils escaping to curl against the nape of her neck. Her body was soft in places, curved, womanly. Strong legs, a slight roundness to her belly I loved, those heavy tits that filled
