Sarah hated the idea of her husband’s friend staying with them—especially in a one-bedroom apartment. But James had just lost his wife in a tragic accident, and her husband insisted they help him through the grief.
“He’d do the same for us,” her husband said. She doubted it.
Three months turned to five.
James still wasn’t working. Every day it was the same—mope around, sleep on the couch, and play video games like life had ended.
One night, Sarah came home from a long shift. Her husband was snoring drunk on the couch. James didn’t even look up from his game. She slammed the door and stormed into the bedroom, frustrated and overwhelmed.
A knock came minutes later.
James stood in the doorway, concern on his face. “You okay?”
She sighed. “No. I’m exhausted. I can’t do this anymore. This isn’t how I imagined my life going.”
He stepped in quietly. “You’re right. I haven’t been pulling my weight. I’ll fix it.”
For once, she believed him.
The next morning, the apartment smelled of lemon cleaner. Dishes were done. Floor vacuumed. Her husband had finally gone to work.
And James?
He was in the shower—actually getting ready for a job interview.
She peeked into the bathroom for just a moment—just to say thank you—but her words caught in her throat. The steam curled around his figure, the water tracing powerful muscles her husband never had. His back… his ass… and when he turned just enough, she saw it—thick, heavy, swinging. Her heart stuttered.
Embarrassed, she turned away. But the image burned in her thoughts.
Later, she gave him a ride to the interview.
Fifteen minutes.
Thirty.
An hour.
Then James burst out the door with a wide grin. “I got the job!” he shouted, his eyes shining.
Sarah squealed with joy. “Oh my God!” She threw her arms around him and—without thinking—kissed him.
A breathless, lingering kiss.
He pulled back, stunned. So did she. Neither said a word. But the silence between them buzzed.
That night, with her husband passed out drunk again, they opened a few bottles of wine to celebrate.
Just the two of them.
Tipsy. Warm. Buzzing with unspoken tension.
They laughed.
They touched hands.
Then his lips were on her neck.
And her back arched as she melted into him.
The couch creaked quietly as he pushed her forward, her face buried in a pillow. She whimpered as he slid in—slow, deep, raw. There was no teasing, no hesitancy. Just need.
He stretched her in ways her husband never had. Her moans were muffled, but her body screamed for more.
His breath was hot against her ear. “You feel too good… I can’t stop.”
She didn’t want him to.
He pulsed inside her, deep, thick, powerful—until he groaned and emptied himself, spilling every drop inside her trembling body.
Afterward, she laid there panting, flushed, legs weak and soaked with the scent of betrayal and pleasure.
Her husband slept feet away—clueless.
But James?
James kissed her lower back, then whispered, “You deserved that. Every second.”
And in that moment… she knew she’d crave it again.
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