Inspired by the classic Me and Mrs. Jones

Performed by Billy Paul (1972)

Written by Cary Grant Gilbert / Kenneth Gamble / Leon Huff 

I eased into the back booth, 6:30 on the dot. Felt rather than saw her glide in and occupy the seat across from me.

She reached across, fingers brushing my hand, dark eyes that looked as hungry as I felt.

She looked cool. I felt heat on my face, and a little flutter in my gut. Shame? Lust? What’s the difference?

The girl put the drinks down. We were regulars now. She knew the order without asking. For the crisp $50 she pocketed every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she made sure no one followed us.

No credit cards, no receipts, no trail. And no questions asked.

“Mrs. Jones,” I said and tipped my bottle. The cold beer was welcome. But it didn’t quench my thirst.

“Anthony,” she replied and raised her glass. She took a civilized sip, leaving lip marks on the glass.

My other hand found bare skin under the table. I stroked just inside her knee, but could already feel the heat between her legs.

She finished her glass. I drained my bottle. My hand fell away as she swung her body to the left to get up. I caught a flash of the creamy thigh I’d just pawed at.

Down the hall. A single bare bulb barely cutting the dark. Fifteen steps to the door with the chipped red paint job. Ladies room.

We slipped inside. She was on me before the flimsy lock even clicked.

Our mouths didn't meet. They collided, all lips and tongue and cheap wine.

Fuck she tasted good.

She yanked my belt buckle. She fumbled with my pants while I hoisted her, shoved her skirt up to her waist. Bare ass on chipped formica. I never asked if she always left the house without panties.

I reached between her legs. Wet. Hot. My fingers found the spot while our tongues fought. She grabbed my cock and squeezed too hard. She always did.

“Inside me. Now.”

“Yes, Mrs. Jones.”

“Bastard,” she growled. ‘Not now.”

I laughed.

“Paula.”

I lined it up. One hard push. All the way.

“Fuuuccck,” she grunted. “Fuck yes.”

It took a second to find the rhythm until her hips met mine thrust for thrust. We could have been fighting instead of fucking.

Maybe we were.

She barely stifled a scream of pleasure.

“Careful,” I warned.

I gripped her hips, giving her the savage, fast pounding she demanded.

She threw her head back and locked her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my ass.  I braced against the wall, knuckles white.

I grunted. She keened through ragged gasps.

Ten minutes, max. We had places to be. 

She exploded, and I wasn’t far behind, driving deep, spilling hot inside her.

We caught our breath and started to untangle. She grinned wickedly while I caught my breath.

A single, almost chaste kiss as we pulled apart. Passion spent. Time up. We got what we came for.

She pulled herself together in front of the glass. Smoothed her hair, wiped the smeared lipstick from her mouth, staring daggers at my reflection. I hauled my pants up and tucked my shirt in.

“Monday, Anthony?” She arched a painted brow.

“Yes,” I grunted. “You know I’ll be here.”

I headed out first. I was already in my car when she left the diner in the opposite direction. Hips swaying, high heels clicking on the grimy city sidewalk. Not a fucking care in the world.

—----------------------

Four days later. Sunday afternoon. Bright sun, fresh-cut grass, the screaming silence of the suburbs. Hot as Satan’s waiting room.

My wife, Sarah, squeezed my arm and pressed her head against my shoulder as we walked up the porch steps.

“Thank God we’re on time,” she said softly and rang the bell.

The deadbolt clicked. The door swung open. 

A woman in a tight, black skirt, pastel yellow sweater, and a pearl necklace stood there. Not a hair out of place on this suburban queen.

“Sarah,” she said brightly. “Come in.”

“Hi, Mom.”

She gave Sarah a quick, motherly kiss on the cheek. But the dark eyes went straight past her, locking into mine, dropping down to my mouth, then back up. 

A barely-there smile pulled at the edge of her lips. A wicked flash of sharp teeth.

She stepped back, sweeping Sarah inside into the blast of cold air conditioning. The sound of Sarah’s dad yelling at a ballgame. A fucking golden retriever attacking my laughing wife.

“Mrs. Jones,” I said, letting my shoulder brush hers as I crossed the threshold.

She leaned in just enough that her warm breath tickled my ear.

“Anthony.”