Mrs. Sharon was the kind of neighbor everyone loved. 

She brought over jollof rice when Vic’s mother was too tired to cook. She laughed at church meetings with the other women, her gele tied high like a crown. To the world, she was a devoted wife, a woman of God, a pillar of the community. 

But Vic noticed things. 

The way her eyes—sharp as a hawk’s—would follow him when she thought no one was looking. The way her laughter stuttered when he walked into the room. The way she always found a reason to touch his arm when she spoke to him. 

"Oh, Vic, you’ve grown so tall!" she’d say, her fingers brushing his bicep like she was testing the firmness of fruit at the market. 

His mother never suspected a thing. 

The first real crack in the façade came on a humid Tuesday night. 

A frantic knock at the door. Mrs. Sharon, wrapped in a nightgown so thin the outline of her thighs pressed against the fabric. 
"The—the pressing iron sparked and burned out! I don’t know what to do!"

Vic’s mother, half-asleep, waved him off. "Go help her, my son." 

And so he did. 

Her house smelled like shea butter and something muskier underneath. She led him to the bedroom—the bedroom—where the iron sat, its cord frayed. 

"You’re so good at these things," she murmured, standing too close. 

Vic wasn’t stupid. He knew what a woman looked like when she wanted to be touched. The way her breathing hitched when he bent down to inspect the socket. The way her nightgown slipped off one shoulder when she "accidentally" brushed against him. 

But he played the gentleman. 

"You should get an electrician tomorrow, Aunty," he said, voice steady. 

Her smile faltered for half a second. "Thank you, Vic." 

He left, but not before noticing the way she bit her lip as he walked away. 

Two days later, the power in Vic’s house died. 

His phone was at 2%. 

Mrs. Sharon’s place. 

She answered the door in a fitted blouse, her lips glossy. "Vic! What a surprise." 

"Aunty, can I charge my phone? Our light is out." 

"Of course, come in." 

Her living room was too warm. She offered him water, her fingers lingering on the glass. 

"I’m traveling tomorrow," she said suddenly. "Work conference. I’ll be back… Friday evening." 

Friday. A specific date. Almost like… an opening. 

Vic nodded, pretending not to notice the way her chest rose just a little faster. 

"Safe travels, Aunty." 

Friday came with thunder. 

Vic told himself he was just checking on her—making sure she got home safely. 

The rain pounded as he knocked. 

She opened the door, hair damp, like she’d just showered. 

"Vic?" 

"I… wanted to make sure you were okay. The storm." 

A beat of silence. Then, a slow smile. 

"Come inside." 

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the air changed. 

Rain lashed against the windows as thunder growled low in the distance—nature’s own drumroll for what was about to unfold. Mrs. Sharon’s living room smelled of lemongrass and the storm’s petrichor, but beneath that, something warmer. Something like anticipation. 

"You’re soaked," she murmured, fingers hovering near his chest but not quite touching. 

Vic could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. "The rain came out of nowhere." 

A lie. He’d watched the forecast all day. 

She reached for a towel, her movements slow, deliberate. When she raised it to his hair, her body pressed close enough that he could feel the heat radiating through her thin robe. 

"Aunty—" 

"Shhh." Her thumb brushed his jaw. "Let me." 

The towel dropped. 

For a heartbeat, they just breathed—her lips parted, his hands clenched at his sides. Then, with a sound halfway between a sigh and surrender, she rose onto her toes and closed the distance. 

The first kiss was soft. Testing. 

The second wasn’t. 

Vic’s control snapped like a frayed wire. His hands found her waist, backing her against the wall as her fingers twisted in his shirt. The robe slipped open, revealing skin that glowed gold in the lamplight. 

"I’ve thought about this," she gasped against his mouth. 

"How often?" He nipped at her lower lip. 

"Every Sunday. Watching you in church, wondering if you—" 

His laugh was dark. "Oh, I did." 

The storm outside mirrored the one within—lightning flashing as her nails scored down his back, thunder rumbling when he lifted her. Her legs locked around his hips like she’d done this a thousand times before. 

Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. 

Somewhere in his mind, guilt whispered. 

But then she moaned his name like a prayer, and Vic decided—just this once—he’d rather be a sinner. 

The robe pooled at her feet like a discarded secret. Vic's mouth found the hollow of her throat first - that delicate spot where her perfume lingered - before descending lower. When his lips closed around one taut nipple, Mrs. Sharon's back arched off the wall with a shuddering gasp.

"God...oh God..." Her fingers twisted in his hair as he switched sides, his tongue painting slow circles that made her thighs tremble. The taste of her skin - salt and expensive lotion - flooded his senses as he traced lower.

His thumbs hooked in the waistband of her lace panties, watching her stomach quiver as he knelt before her. The air between them smelled of arousal and storm-charged electricity. When his tongue first traced the delicate line from her navel downward, she made a sound like a wounded animal.

"Vic...we shouldn't--"

His response was to spread her trembling thighs wider, blowing cool air across her glistening folds. The first lick drew a shocked cry from her lips, her hips jerking forward of their own accord. He could feel the tension in her muscles - the war between propriety and need - as he dragged his tongue through her slick heat again.

When his fingers joined the dance, she nearly collapsed. Two thick digits curled inside her while his thumb found that swollen bud above. Her moans turned desperate, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall as he built her toward the edge.

Then - just as her breathing turned ragged - he turned her with surprising strength. The new position left her exposed, vulnerable, her round butt cheeks quivering with anticipation. She gasped when his tongue found new territory, that tight pucker no lover had ever dared explore.

"Ahn! No one's ever-- oh Christ--"

The filthy wet sounds filled the storm-dark room as he devoured her from behind. One hand worked her dripping core while the other gripped her hip hard enough to bruise. When he added a third finger, stretching her deliciously, her whole body convulsed.

"That's it," he growled against her skin, tasting her shame and her pleasure in equal measure. "Let go for me, Aunty."

Her climax hit like the lightning outside - violent, blinding, her inner walls fluttering around his fingers as she muffled her cries against her own arm. Only when the last tremors subsided did he rise, turning her to face him with her own wetness glistening on his beard.

The look in her eyes - equal parts horror and hunger - told him this wouldn't be their last secret. Not by a long shot.

The storm outside raged on, but the room was thick with something far more dangerous.

Mrs. Sharon’s climax had left her trembling, her body pliant against Vic’s as he rose from his knees. Her eyes—wide with a mix of awe and terror—dropped to the undeniable evidence of his need.

"Oh..." The word escaped her lips like a prayer.

Vic said nothing, letting her look her fill. Her fingers, still shaking from her own release, hovered near his waistband before curling into fists at her sides. The war in her mind was almost audible: This is wrong. I should stop. I can’t.

But then her gaze flicked back up to his, and something in her fractured.

With a whimper, she sank to her knees.

What happened next was a blur of heat and hunger.

Her hands, once so prim and proper in church, now explored with a desperation that surprised even her. When her lips finally closed around him, Vic’s groan shook the walls.

"Aunty..."

The name—a reminder of who they were supposed to be to each other—only made the moment more illicit. She reveled in it, in the way his hips jerked when she took him deeper, in the salt-bitter taste of him when he finally lost control.

Afterward, as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, she couldn’t meet his eyes.

That’s when he moved.

One moment she was kneeling; the next, her back was against the wall, her legs hooked over his arms as he lifted her like she weighed nothing.

"Aunty," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. "Do you love me?"

The question shattered her.

"Yes," she breathed, the truth spilling out before she could stop it. "More than—"

His mouth cut her off, swallowing the rest of the confession as he finally, finally gave her what they’d both been craving.

The storm outside reached its crescendo as she did the same.

Later, when the rain had softened to a whisper, they lay tangled in sheets that smelled of sweat and shame.

Mrs. Sharon traced idle circles on Vic’s chest, her mind already racing ahead: What if someone finds out? What if my husband—

Vic caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "We’ll be careful."

But as the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, she knew the truth:

Some secrets were too big to stay hidden forever.