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A few weeks after the Fred morning meltdown, things felt weirdly lighter. No more fights, no more paranoid texts. Just these quiet looks across the room where I could tell he was still replaying me in that other guy’s bed, and getting hard from it.
We started talking more openly. Small stuff at first. I’d come home and he’d casually ask, “Any guys hit on you today?” Instead of dodging, I’d give him the real answer. Every detail made his breathing change. Eyes dark. Jeans tightening.
The first real one was a random Tuesday.
I walked in, kicked off my shoes, sat at the kitchen island while he stirred pasta sauce.
“Good day?” he asked.
“Yeah. Interesting.”
He glanced over. “Interesting how?”
I decided to test it. “New guy in marketing stopped by my desk. Tall, quiet-cocky type. Said my short hair looks sexy on me.”
He froze mid-stir, then kept going slower.
“What’d you say?”
“Laughed, said thanks, my boyfriend picked the style. He leaned on my desk and goes, ‘Lucky boyfriend.’”
Silence. Just the sauce bubbling.
He wiped his hands, walked around the island, stood between my knees. Hands on my thighs, pushing my skirt up slow.
“Keep going,” he said, voice low.
“I smiled. Didn’t pull away. He stayed there a minute, just looking. Smelled like woodsy cologne. Then someone called him.”
His thumbs circled higher. He was hard against my leg already.
“Did you feel anything?”
“Yeah. A spark. Thought, what if he asked for coffee right then?”
He exhaled sharp. Fingers found me wet through my panties.
“Would you have said yes?”
“Maybe. Just coffee. Nothing serious.”
He groaned, yanked my panties aside, stroked me slow. I braced on the counter.
“Would you have let him touch you?”
“Under the table maybe. Hand on my knee, sliding up. Testing.”
He pushed my legs wider, freed himself, slid in raw. One long thrust.
“Fuck. Tell me he’d be bigger.”
“Maybe. Thicker. Longer. Hitting places you don’t.”
He fucked me harder, hands bruising my hips.
“Would you moan for him?”
“Yes. Louder. Because he’d stretch me. Make me cum harder than—”
He came fast—deep, pulsing, groaning my name mixed with a choked “fuck.” The feel of him set me off. I clenched around him, rubbing my clit, whispering Fred’s name under my breath.
We slid to the floor after, sweaty, half-dressed.
He looked wrecked. “I hate how much that turns me on.”
“I know,” I said softly. “But it does. For both of us.”
From then on it became a thing. Real stories, barista’s number on my cup, train guy staring too long. Each time I’d tell him, we’d fuck like animals. He’d push for comparisons, beg me to describe what “could happen.” And he’d cum harder every time.
One night after a gym story (guy “accidentally” brushed me in the weight room), he held me and whispered:
“Next time… don’t just tell me.”
I lifted my head. “What do you mean?”
“Flirt back. For real. Let it go further. Then come home and tell me everything.”
My heart slammed.
“You sure?”
He swallowed. “No. But I want it.”
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