The house felt quiet. Too quiet. Mark leaned back in his worn armchair, the television flickering silently in the corner. He wasn't watching it. He was listening. Listening for the sounds of Sarah getting ready upstairs. They’d been married seven years. Good years, mostly. Or so he’d thought. Lately, something felt off. A distance had crept in, thin as ice at first, now thickening, chilling the space between them. He worked his sales job, paid the bills, tried to be the steady husband she deserved. But Sarah… Sarah seemed restless.
He heard the click of her heels on the hardwood floor above, the soft thud of a drawer closing. She was going out. "Girls' night," she'd called it, flashing a quick, bright smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Mark hated these nights. Not because he didn't trust her – he did, didn't he? – but because they highlighted the growing space between them. She seemed happier, more alive, when she was heading out the door without him.
She came down the stairs a few minutes later, and Mark’s breath caught, the way it still sometimes did. Sarah. His Sarah. Her thick, dark hair tumbled over her bare shoulders, catching the dim light from the lamp beside him. She’d chosen a tight, black top, the kind that pushed her breasts up, making the full, heavy swell of them seem almost indecent. Almost spilling out. He knew every curve of those tits, the weight of them in his hands, the dark pink of her nipples when they were hard. But tonight, they seemed displayed, offered up to the world.
Her jeans were tight too, hugging the generous curve of her ass. An ass he loved. Round, firm, perfect to grab onto. He watched the way the denim pulled taut as she bent slightly to check her reflection in the hall mirror. She ran a finger over her lips, painted a shocking shade of red. They looked wet, plush. Kissable. She was beautiful. Vibrant. His. A fierce spike of possessiveness shot through him, unwelcome and sharp, followed by the dull ache of insec
