It's difficult to argue with someone when they have your wrists gripped behind your back and nose pressed to their bedroom window. My breath snorts. Fogs a perfect circle that momentarily obscures the idyllic, manicured lawns of suburbia below. Driveways. Sprinklers. White picket fences. And rows of American sycamores providing dappled shade.

As he tightens his hold and pushes me against the unforgiving glass, my breasts spread beneath the T-shirt and sports bra, the cold affecting my nipples. I moan. “Eddiiiieee.”

His breath is hot in my ear. “Yeah?”

“Come onnnn. I’m not sure I like this side of you.”

Even to my ears, my protests seem whiny, pathetic and unconvincing. My pulse races; the polar opposite of the words. He has to notice the blood thundering through the artery by his grip. Surely.

His voice is taut. Loaded with husky intent. “Why? Because I might do something inappropriate?” He chuckles as he twists my words from a conversation we had a few weeks earlier. “That ship’s sailed, you fucking cocktease.”

I struggle. “Am not!”

Keeping hold of my wrists with one hand, he bunches my hair in the other and tugs down. “Liar.”

His lips roam to my neck. Nibbles and nips the skin as he turns me around to face him, then continues to kiss and bite my throat. He works his mouth to the slope of my breasts and nuzzles his way to the peak. Wraps lips around a nipple and bites through the fabric.

I arch into his mistreatment, only shoulders remaining in contact with the glass. “Fffuck.”

He catches my eye. “Are you denying you run past my house most days in those tight yoga pants? And those tiny sports bras?”

“I run past a lot of houses.”

He laps my concealed nipple and flicks his tongue off the tip, making me sigh.

“Are you denying that you stop to stretch and exercise right by my lawn when you know I’m watching?”

As I open my mouth to answer, he raises an eyebrow, cutting me short. He hovers my cap that presses against the circle of saliva staining my running top. “Careful how you answer now.”

I flash him an impish grin. “Girl’s gotta stay limber. And stretching is an important part of everyday fitnessssss…”

My hiss lengthens as his teeth mark the flesh beneath my clothes. First one breast, then the other. Luckily he doesn’t have x-ray vision to see the state of my panties. They’ve been soaked since he invited me in for a drink to cool off.

As if he can read my thoughts, he lets go of my hair. Obediently, I keep my chin tilted slightly up, echoes of his kisses dancing beneath my skin.

His hands circle my pelvis. Play up and down the lithe curves, from padded hip to breast. Then down again. They pause at the waistband. My breath hitches as he slips into the gap between skin and garment, burrowing under the elastic of my panties and curling fingers into my wetness.

There’s no disguising my arousal. I jolt when his fingers glide past my clit and find home, crooking inside me and tugging rhythmically until I’m on tiptoes. My eyes drift shut, snapping open only when his stubble lands on my neck, lips roaming north until languorous breaths tickle my earlobe. “Thought you didn’t like this, hmm?” I moan as he tugs inside me, and nips my ear. “Your pussy says otherwise.”

I gasp. “You better finish what you start.”

The glee in his voice is unmistakable as he sing-songs, “So says the cocktease.”

Keeping his hand in my underwear, he nudges me to turn around and face the window again. I grip the sill as the squelching of his fingers in and out of me is absorbed by the bedroom’s soft furnishings. The room that he and his wife sleep in. Fuck in. I shiver.

He sweeps my chestnut mane aside and resumes nipping and kissing my neck and shoulder, all the while rocking fingers inside me, palm cupping my clit.

My glazed eyes dart left and right, scanning the street below. The houses opposite. Mrs Carmichael strolls past with her pooch and I bite my lip. Nobody can see what's going on beneath the sill edge, but anyone who looks up will have no doubt I’m being ravaged. My reflection says it all.

I take a shaky breath. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know.” His kisses are punctuated with each word. “You’re. Very. Very. Naughty.”

“Me?!”

“Yes, you.”

Fastening his lips to my neck, he glides his free hand down to the small of my back. Pulls away. Spanks my ass.

My yelp turns to a moan that vibrates against his lips.

He does it again. Harder until my cries bounce off the glass and he buries his fingers deeper.

Spank. Dig. Spank. Dig. Over and fucking over, until my control begins to evaporate, mouth falling open, a circle of condensation forming as each spank lands. My panties must be transparent against my soaked slit and matted pubes.

He mashes his palm into my clit and rocks fingers up inside, driving me to the edge. Obscene squishes leak into the room between my Ohs and his slaps. My fingertips are white where they grip the sill.

He stops the spanking and rubs my bottom as I squirm, desperate to come.

There’s delight in his voice. “This is just perfect. Look.”

I blink away tears of frustration. And freeze. A car pulls into the driveway opposite, pausing as the yawning garage opens to swallow the vehicle and begins rolling shut behind it.

Eddie glides his hand up my back. Snakes it round to my throat and grips. My heart thumps uncontrollably as he holds me there, barely moving his fingers inside. Just twisting and rocking his palm occasionally to maintain the torment. I need to escape. Have to end it before everything unravels, but I can’t bring myself to pull free.

Opposite, the TV flicks onto the news channel, a bare leg and arm becoming visible, stretching out from the short edge of the sofa we can see.

I’m intensely aware of my internal conflict, even before Eddie’s breath appears, hot and ragged in my ear. “You like this, huh? All it would take is a single glance up out of the window. Doesn’t that… excite you?”

My stomach knots and I tremble, but my pussy doesn’t know the difference between panic and a thrill. Juices seep around his fingertips and drench my underwear.

I’m transfixed, irregular breaths huffing against the glass. Locked in some sort of limbo between fear and exhilaration, praying Eddie ends it. But I know he won’t. And part of me loves that.

He plucks his hand from my underwear. Tugs my head from the window by the throat and feeds my essence to me. I ravenously devour his fingers. I’m tangy and sweet; clearly ready to come, and I moan around his digits, imagining what he’ll taste like.

I can barely wait until I have the chance to sink to the floor, undo his jeans and free his aching cock. To sit with the back of my head just beneath this very window sill while he takes up the position I’m in now and feeds me his hardness. Every millimetre.

It feels colossal pressed to my ass as he thumbs my throat, tugs my collar aside with his teeth and skims stubble over my shoulder. I wonder how Eddie compares to my husband’s cock. That’s not small by any means, but he’s far too considerate with it. Always asking. Always checking if it’s okay, like I’m some goddamn museum artifact in a glass cabinet that he might break. Sometimes I don’t want to be okay. I want to be fucked. Used. Taken by a man who’s not afraid to show me that dirty gurps and chokes and splutters drifting through an open window are the sound of a good girl thanking him for making me come.

And fuck, I want to come.

Soft and gentle lovemaking has its place. But so does filthy, clawing, unbridled lust. The kind that makes my eyes cross, my heart rate spike and adrenaline flood. The kind of sex I had in college with Bradley Kensington before he dumped me for Annabelle and her huge tits. Before I settled for dependable Neal.

Fucking Brad was wild. Animalistic. His nickname was BK for a reason. Flame-grilled sex, and he knew how to use his Whopper. It was eye-watering wherever he put it. Mouth, ass or pussy, my dorm neighbours probably wished I’d move out. He used to pin me to the bed by my throat and fuck me until I screamed, eyes fixed on mine, lying that he loved me.

That’s what Eddie represented. I saw the same hunger in his eyes the first time I stopped to stretch and catch my breath outside his house while he was raking leaves in the yard. I hadn’t felt desired like that for decades. Like a prize. It made me shudder. Drip. So I made sure to stop outside, every run. Flash him a smile. Next time a wave. Then a few words of conversation, until stopping to chat became routine as I’d stretch and bend in his company, beads of sweat clinging to my shoulders. Maybe I am a cocktease. Maybe I just know what I want. What I need. What I’m missing.

Either way, I’m paying for it in the best, most thrilling way possible. The prospect of having to wear higher neck tops for fear of Neal seeing the marks is electrifying. Eddie’s mouth and teeth are everywhere on my skin. His grip around my neck is symbolic. Of ownership rather than power. Just enough pressure to excite me and maybe leave some fingerprints, but gentle enough that I can still gasp around his fingertips with every dusting of skin on skin.

He plucks his fingers free and snakes them down to burrow beneath my waistband again. Curls long digits coated with my saliva inside me and hauls my pelvis to his, cock rhythmically massaging the crease of my ass.

I groan over and over as he builds me up again. Higher and further, grinding my proud nub in the palm of his hand until I’m nothing but a ball of want hanging from a thread of pure energy. Out of my fucking mind with need, clit, nipples, and throat connected, the indiscernible origin of pleasure arcing between them.

My lidded gaze takes in the vista across the street. The channels flicking idly until the station settles on a football match. The situation is crazy. I’m crazy. Just one glance and we’d be discovered. And fuck knows what the consequences would be. I pray for release first, chanting under my breath in sync with the delving digits in my sopping cleft.

That’s when his rasp in my ear appears from nowhere. "Come for me."

He squeezes both hands. Fingers me furiously and I quake in his grip, my world collapsing as he bites my earlobe. Shuddering and groaning uncontrollably, sandwiched between him and the window, my climax surfaces and roars in my ears, drowning out the birdsong and his heavy breathing.

I lose track of time; a minute or a month, I have no idea. Waves of pleasure radiate, the epicentre just beneath his clutching hand and buried fingers. He holds me. Supports me through it, as I drip into my underwear. Rides out my orgasm, sharing its heat while I gasp and groan and cuss onto the glass.

When I’m spent, he releases my throat and kisses the finger marks. Waits until my shaking tails off before slithering free, drifting his hand to my mouth and painting juices across them.

Even though today is our first intimate act, I already know better than to lick them clean. That’s his job. He turns me to face him and kisses my scent away. We share the delicious essence, his hands resting on my shoulders.

The obvious hardness presses against me. I remain ravenous and can see he’s torn. Does he pick me up, carry me to the bed and tear my clothes off to feast on my sticky panties and pussy? Or stay here in the window and let me kneel to devour his length?

Eddie adjusts my waistband, straightens my T-shirt and sweeps a lock of hair behind my ear. “There.”

We don’t move. Just eye one another. I flick my gaze to the bulge. God, I want to fuck him. I’m mere seconds from grabbing his hand and leading him to the bed when he grins. “Run along, then.”

I falter. “Uhh, right. Yeah. Thank you I, uhhh... Yeah.”

Stepping away from him towards the door, I check myself in the dresser mirror. Smooth my clothing to my body and stand up taller. I’m a little dishevelled, and more than a little unnerved by his apparent complacency. Maybe it's a game. Well in that case, two can play it. I primp my hair. Shake my head and throw him a gaze over my shoulder. “See you next jog.”

I can picture his twisted smile as I sweep from the room and down the stairs. Gingerly opening the front door, I check nobody is looking and steal from the house, the latch clicking behind me.

Halfway across the road, I glance back and see Eddie in the window watching me. I wonder if he’s stroking himself. If he’ll finish what we started right there, thinking of me. My heart thumps.

Skipping across the rest of the street, I step into the porch and enter the house. Cross the living room to my husband watching the game and kiss the top of his head. “Hiya. Good day?”

“Yeah. How was your run?”

“Really good. I needed the release.”

“Terrific.” He reaches up and strokes the top of my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll make dinner after this has finished. Last few plays.”

A jolt of guilt strikes and I breathe through it. “Perfect, thanks. I’ll hit the shower then.”

I drag myself away and climb the stairs to the bedroom. Step to the window and gaze across. Eddie is still there, one hand out of sight below the sill. Fuck. How can I be a good girl with that so close by?

I contemplate doing the right thing. Cast my gaze back to the bedroom door. To Eddie. To the door. I cross the room and stand by it, fingers on the handle. There’s a simultaneous roar from the TV crowd and Seriously? from my husband.

Squeezing my eyes tight, I breathe in. Open them. Ease the door shut and latch it quietly.

En route to the window, I tug my T-shirt off and toss it on the bed. I’m going to hell anyway after what I just did. He stares across the road at me as I wrestle my way out of the sports bra, cupping my tits and pinching the nipples, still rosy from his bites. Ensuring I have his attention, I bend to slither my yoga pants and destroyed underwear to the floor. The twin burgundy hoops of material at my feet are joined by a glimmering centrepiece, stained dark with arousal. I stoop to retrieve them, hold them up to the window for him to see. His mouth drops open and his hand moves faster.

Theatrically, I run a fingertip through the mess in my panties and lick my finger clean. Repeat the act. He wanks some more, lifts to tiptoes and the shiny head of his impressive knob appears above the sill, periodically obscured by his masturbating fist.

I stare, transfixed, stroking the sticky gusset of my underwear until his body jerks and jets of spunk erupt to fire against the window pane. Rope after rope spray a haphazard pattern that gradually slithers south. I lick my lips and watch him finish, his mouth open.

As he sinks to the balls of his feet again, our eyes connect. I know I should resist, but his expression betrays his level of want for me. The game is on. I make up my mind: he hasn’t seen the last of me.

In my window, I fluff my matted pubes, blow him a kiss and step away to the en suite, fully intending to grab the shower head and relieve the secondary ache building inside as the cascading water fails to cleanse my infidelity.