Mark stared at the spreadsheet, numbers blurring into meaningless grey lines. Another late Tuesday. Outside, the city lights smeared against the rain-slicked windows of his office on the fourteenth floor. He rubbed his temples, the familiar throb starting behind his eyes. Home. He needed to get home. To Chloe.
The thought of her was a physical ache, a warmth low in his belly that counteracted the sterile chill of the office. Chloe. Seven years married, twelve years together. The edges had softened, the frantic energy of their early twenties calmed into a comfortable rhythm. Maybe too comfortable. He pushed the thought away. They were good. Solid.
He finally shut down the computer, the silence amplifying the hum of the server room down the hall. Shrugging on his coat, he pictured her. Probably curled on the sofa, legs tucked under her, reading one of her thrillers. Or maybe experimenting in the kitchen, the scent of garlic and something ambitious filling their apartment.
He remembered the first time he saw her, really saw her, across a crowded university bar. That waterfall of dark hair, the impossibly wide smile, eyes that seemed to pull him in. She still had that effect. Even now, seeing her shuffle into the kitchen in the morning, hair messy, wearing one of his old t-shirts that barely covered the curve of her ass, his cock would give a reflexive twitch.
He hailed a cab, the rain drumming rhythmically on the roof. He leaned his head back, letting the city lights strobe across his closed eyelids. He thought about her body. The slope of her neck, the way it invited his mouth. The surprisingly full weight of her breasts in his hands, the nipples hardening instantly under his touch. He loved the faint sprinkle of freckles across her shoulders, visible when she wore that sundress he liked. And her ass. Christ. Encased in her favourite pair of worn jeans, the ones that cupped each cheek perfectly, it was a constant, low-level distraction. He loved grabbin
