The reflection staring back at Sarah wasn’t quite familiar. Her eyes, usually a warm hazel, looked darker tonight, wider, pupils blown large with a potent cocktail of fear and raw, buzzing excitement. She turned slightly, watching the silk of the ridiculously expensive chemise she’d bought just for this occasion slide over her hip. It was black, almost sheer, doing little to hide the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts pressing against the delicate lace trim. Her nipples were hard pebbles, pushing insistently, betraying the cool facade she was trying to maintain.
She lifted a hand, tracing the line of her collarbone, down into the valley between her breasts. Thirty-two years old. Married for six. Comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. Her skin felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending seemingly alive and reaching for something just out of grasp. She looked down at her own body, really looked. Her breasts were full, heavy enough to sway slightly with her movements. Her stomach was flat, marked only by the faint indentation of her navel. Below that, the dark triangle of hair beneath the sheer silk hinted at the wet heat gathering there, a slickness she could feel building with every ragged breath she took. Her legs felt strong, toned from years of running, but tonight they felt restless, shaky.
She met her own gaze again. There was hunger there. A deep, gnawing hunger she’d tried to ignore, tried to redirect, tried to satisfy within the neat confines of her marriage to Tom. But it hadn’t worked. Not really. The fantasy had taken root, a dark, thrilling weed twisting through the predictable garden of their life. And tonight, the fantasy was stepping out of the shadows.
A floorboard creaked behind her. Sarah didn’t flinch, didn't turn. She watched Tom’s reflection appear in the mirror beside hers. He looked pale, his usual easygoing expression tight with strain. His knuckles were white where he gripped the doorframe. He wasn't pacing anymore, just stan
