Monday Morning – 6:11 AM

Rachel turned onto a quiet street behind an industrial park, where modest homes sat with cracked driveways and sagging mailboxes. The faint orange horizon began to stretch. The world felt paused—suburban silence before the day roared to life.

She spotted the address. Damon had given clear directions: gray house with a chipped black mailbox and two folding chairs on the porch.

There it was.

A single-story cottage, slightly sunken in front, with faded slate-blue paint. The porch light glowed over the steps. A hoodie and coffee mug rested on the chairs.

Rachel parked down the block and walked the rest of the way, heart hammering.

The porch creaked beneath her feet. Before she could knock, the door opened.

Damon stood there barefoot in black joggers and a fitted gray T-shirt. His arms were bare, and his eyes looked warm despite the hour.

“Morning,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Rachel hesitated only a second, then crossed the threshold.

The inside smelled like cinnamon and soap.

The living room was small and tidy, with scuffed hardwood floors and a sagging couch covered in a clean navy throw. A pair of work boots sat by the door. A record player with a small stack of vinyls occupied a corner shelf. One lamp was on—low and golden—casting shadows across the walls.

A coffee table held two steaming mugs.

“I wasn’t sure how you take it,” Damon said, gesturing. “So I made two. One strong, one sweet.”

Rachel looked around, taking it in—the quiet, the worn-in comfort, the evidence of a solitary life lived with care. It was nothing like her house.

It felt peaceful.

Safe.

And intimate in a way that made her stomach flip.

“I love it,” she said softly.

Damon stepped closer. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

“I wasn’t talking about the coffee.”

He smiled. “Then let me give you the full tour.”

Damon handed her the sweeter coffee and walked her through the narrow hallway that branched off from the living room. The house was small—two bedrooms, one bath—but clean and thoughtfully kept. No clutter. No excess. A bachelor’s place, but not unloved.

On the hallway wall, Rachel noticed a series of picture frames—three in a row. Damon looked younger in each—his smile more carefree. In one, a girl perched on his shoulders, laughing in the sun. In another, two boys stood beside him, arms crossed.

Rachel paused. “Your kids?”

Damon stopped beside her, voice quieter now. “Yeah. Two boys from my first marriage. A girl from my second.”

She turned to him, surprised. “You’ve been married twice?”

He nodded slowly, gaze still on the photos. “Yeah. Didn’t go the distance either time. Both good women, I just… wasn’t good enough for them.”

Rachel waited, sensing there was more.

“I cheated,” he said simply. “On both of them. Not proud of it. Thought I could keep things separate. Keep the house clean and still run around behind their backs. I was wrong. Lost a lot.”

His tone was calm—no bitterness, just quiet honesty. “I’m still close with the kids. But I don’t pretend I didn’t blow it. I don’t do the husband thing anymore. Doesn’t mean the appetite goes away.”

Rachel swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “You mean your sex drive.”

He chuckled softly. “I mean I haven’t gone more than a few weeks without needing someone under me—or on top of me—since I was sixteen.”

She laughed despite herself. “At least you’re self-aware.”

He turned to her then, eyes meeting hers. “You sure you’re okay with being here? With me?”

She hesitated.

Now she felt something thornier—not regret, but awareness of the cracks beneath them. She wasn’t just cheating—she was falling for a man once left behind.

But she also knew this: her body had made the choice long before her conscience ever got a vote.

She reached for his hand. “I’m not leaving.”

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded once and led her to the final stop on the tour.

His bedroom.

It was small, but warm. A king-size bed took up most of the space, made neatly with dark sheets and a thick comforter. A simple nightstand held a lamp, an old clock radio, and a half-read paperback facedown. The dresser held a watch, a wallet, and a framed photo of his daughter, now clearly older than in the hallway picture.

The room smelled faintly of cedar and fabric softener. Clean. Masculine.

Rachel stood just inside the doorway, sipping her coffee, and let it settle over her: she had been touched, kissed, and entered by this man in sheds and classrooms and hallways.

But this—this was his space. The part of him no one at work saw.

And now she was inside it.

Damon set his coffee down on the dresser, then turned to her, eyes dragging slowly from her face down to her hips and back again.

“That outfit’s gonna get me into trouble,” he murmured.

Rachel smirked, sipping slowly. “I thought it was yoga-appropriate.”

He let out a low, appreciative sound, then turned to the Bluetooth speaker on his dresser. A soft chime, then a slow, sultry beat filled the room—a deep bass groove, layered with honeyed vocals and whispered harmonies. The kind of music meant for low lighting and locked doors.

Damon held out his hand.

Rachel gave him hers.

He pulled her in close, chest to chest, their bodies fitting easily together. The music wrapped around them as his lips found hers—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. One hand slid up into her hair, the other resting on the small of her back before drifting lower.

His palms roamed slowly, reverently, over her arms, her ribcage, the subtle curve of her waist. When he reached the swell of her yoga-pant-clad ass, he groaned softly.

His mouth claimed hers again, his grip tightening. Rachel moaned against him, pressing closer. She felt him already hard between them, the music throbbing low in the background like a shared pulse.

He kissed down her neck, hands still on her ass, his thumbs tracing along the seam at the center, dipping inward, teasing.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he whispered.

He stepped back just enough to peel his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. She followed, slipping her sports bra off in a single movement. Her nipples tightened in the cool air, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.

Damon stared at her for a long moment—eyes dark, lips parted.

Then he took her hand again and guided her to the bed.

Damon sat on the edge of the bed and gently pulled her closer, his hands resting on her hips as he looked up at her.

Then his gaze dropped.

It was the first time he’d seen her breasts completely bare.

They weren’t just a fantasy anymore—not a secret beneath a blouse, not a flash behind a desk—but hers, right in front of him, soft and flushed, nipples already drawn tight from anticipation.

His breath hitched. He reached up slowly, cupping both breasts in his warm hands, lifting their weight, thumbing gently across each peak. His touch was light, exploratory—like he was learning them by feel.

Rachel’s head tipped back with a soft gasp as his fingers traced the curves, then slowly squeezed—just enough to make her shiver.

“Soft,” he said, almost to himself. “So fucking soft…”

Then he leaned forward and nuzzled her, brushing his nose between them, breathing her in.

Rachel cradled the back of his head, her thighs tightening.

He kissed between her breasts, stubble grazing her skin, then drew her nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking softly against the tip.

Rachel whimpered.

He sucked—deep and slow—then moved to the other, kissing, nibbling, then drawing it in just as eagerly.

Her fingers tightened in his hair.

He took his time, switching between them, tasting and teasing her, moaning into her skin as her hips rolled forward against his chest.

Her knees nearly buckled.

This wasn’t like before. It wasn’t rushed or desperate.

Rachel kissed him again—slow, deep—and then sank to her knees in front of him.

Damon stayed seated on the edge of the bed, watching as she settled between his thighs. Her hands moved with practiced grace, unfastening his waistband, lowering the fabric. He sprang free, thick and heavy, and she wrapped her fingers around him like she already knew how he liked it.

She kissed the tip first—soft, reverent. Then ran her tongue along the underside, slow and teasing, before drawing him into her mouth.

Damon let out a sharp exhale, his head falling back.

“Fuck, Rachel…”

Her lips worked around him, mouth warm and wet, her pace building gradually. One hand stroked his base while the other curled around his thigh for balance. She moaned softly around him, loving the weight of him, the sounds he made—low, strained, barely-contained.

But after a minute, Damon’s hand touched her jaw, firm but gentle.

He helped her up, his mouth meeting hers again as he pulled her to her feet. Then he turned her gently and gestured to the bed.

“Lie down.”

She did.

He climbed on next to her, kneeling beside her legs. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the waistband of her yoga pants and peeled them down her thighs—inch by inch—until they cleared her ankles and hit the floor.

His eyes darkened when he saw what was underneath.

“Damn,” he whispered. “That’s what you picked for me?”

The burgundy thong clung to her like a ribbon—barely there, elegant and obscene all at once.

He ran his hand slowly along the front, then rubbed softly over the damp center.

“So wet already,” he murmured.

Then he pressed his nose to the warm fabric. Inhaled.

Rachel let out a trembling moan, her hips twitching upward.

He mouthed her through the thong, the pressure making her breath catch. Then, slowly, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and dragged them down her legs.

And just like that—she was completely naked in his presence for the first time.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t cover herself. Just lay there, legs slightly parted, breath shallow, waiting.

Damon didn’t make her wait long.

He dipped down, spreading her thighs wide and burying his face between them. His tongue found her easily, warm and smooth, stroking her slowly as his fingers began to work in tandem—sliding into her with careful precision, curling just right.

Rachel’s head fell back.

The rhythm of his mouth and hands built fast, and she was already close. Her body clenched around his fingers, her thighs quivered.

Then she shattered.

Her climax hit like a surge—low and full, her body arching off the bed as his mouth stayed locked on her, coaxing every last wave from her trembling form.

She gasped for breath, hips twitching as he slowly pulled back, his lips shiny, his smile wicked.

Then he climbed up onto the bed.

She opened for him instinctively.

He lined himself up and pushed into her slowly, inch by thick inch, filling her completely.

Rachel moaned—a different kind of sound. Not sharp or desperate. Something deeper. A stretch, a fullness that made her toes curl and her hands fist the sheets.

Damon moved with slow, grounded thrusts, each one hitting something inside her she’d never quite reached on her own. Her body reacted with a deeper tightening, a rising pressure that felt unfamiliar but consuming.

The sensation wasn’t new—he’d brought her to climax this way once before, in the shed—but this time she felt it more clearly. Fully. The difference stood out: no friction on her clit, no external pressure. Just the deep, full tension blooming from inside her, spreading like heat through her pelvis, rising in waves.

Her whole body tensed, and her core contracted in pulsing, involuntary squeezes around him.

It was a vaginal orgasm. And this time, she knew it.

She whimpered through it, clinging to him, her mouth parted in stunned pleasure as it rolled through her—heavy, rooted, endlessly deep.

Damon growled her name, his pace quickening. A few more thrusts, and then he froze—groaning low in his chest as he spilled into her, thick and warm, his body jerking slightly with the release.

Rachel gasped as she felt it.

His seed flooded into her, and the heat of it radiated outward—through her belly, into her legs, up through her chest.

It was raw. Undeniable. Claiming.

They lay there tangled, breathing hard, sweat cooling.

And for a while, nothing else existed.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the playlist looping on Damon’s speaker and the soft rustle of sheets as they adjusted beside each other.

Rachel lay on her side, one leg draped over Damon’s thigh, her head resting against his chest. Their skin still glowed from the heat they’d shared, their breaths now slow and easy.

His hand moved in lazy circles over her back, then down to the curve of her hip. She traced the slope of his stomach, her fingertips grazing the faint trail of hair beneath his navel.

They didn’t need to speak right away.

But after a few minutes, Damon murmured, “You realize we’ve only been doing this for what—two weeks?”

Rachel smiled against his skin. “Feels like longer.”

“In a good way,” he said.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Definitely.”

He tilted his head, looking down at her. “What’s been your favorite part so far?”

She laughed softly, fingers now drawing idle lines across his chest. “That first morning you touched me in my office. Through my panties. I still think about how careful you were. And how badly I wanted more.”

His hand drifted down and gently squeezed her ass. “That was a good day.”

She lifted her head, met his gaze. “What about you?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Your mouth on me. That first time. You were nervous, but you wanted it—and I could feel that. Like you were learning me, inch by inch.”

Rachel blushed a little.

They kissed slowly—soft and unhurried, lips just brushing, like they had all the time in the world.

Then he said, “There’s a new hotel off Highway 8. Just finished construction. Nice. Low-key. Looks like the kind of place built for a discreet couple who doesn’t want to be seen.”

Rachel grinned. “You scouted it out already?”

“I drove through the lot. It’s got tinted windows and zero foot traffic. I was thinking,” Damon continued, “if there’s a Saturday you can disappear for… say, eight hours…”

Rachel chuckled, then sighed. “It might take a little finesse. But yeah. I can make that happen. I’ll just say there’s an all-day department training or a theater festival. Something boring enough that Brad won’t ask questions.”

His thumb circled the curve of her breast. “Good. I want a day where I don’t have to stop.”

Rachel smiled, already warm again at the thought. “That’d be nice.”

They were still tangled in each other’s limbs, kissing lazily, when her phone chimed softly from the nightstand.

Rachel blinked. “What time is it?”

Damon turned his head toward the dresser clock. “Shit—6:52.”

She bolted upright. “We’ve got to move!”

She wriggled back into her yoga pants, still damp between her legs. The thought of going the entire day like that—carrying the feel of him inside her—made her flush.

She pulled on her top and shoved her bra into her tote. “Powering through while full of you. Great plan.”

Damon grinned. “You’re welcome.”

7:14 AM

Rachel merged onto the freeway with the windows cracked and the volume on the radio low. The sunrise had finally broken, washing the clouds in soft apricot and pale gold. The world looked innocent. Undisturbed.

Which made her feel even more wicked.

The inside of her thighs still tingled. Her panties clung damply to her skin, and she could feel the slow, subtle shift of what Damon had left inside her—gravity doing its quiet work as she sat, hands gripping the wheel tighter than usual.

She squirmed in her seat, pressing her thighs together. There was no mistaking it: she was full. Still open. Still marked.

She rolled through green lights and suburban traffic, reviewing her mental script—yoga with Theresa, coffee afterward, just enough time to swing by the school parking lot before anyone would notice her arriving from the wrong direction.

She entered the building through the side door, quiet and quick, and made a beeline for her classroom. Once inside, she locked the door and dropped her bag.

That’s when she remembered the blouse hanging behind the door for over a month—left over from a student performance where she’d spilled coffee on herself and needed a change. She hadn’t thought about it since. Now, she nearly sighed in relief.

The blouse was a soft navy with pearl buttons—professional enough, and it covered her form-fitting tank just enough to pass. She threw it on, checked herself in the mirror, and whispered a silent thank-you to past Rachel for being a little forgetful.

Her phone buzzed.

Damon:

Thinking about the way you moaned when I filled you this morning. Still hard just remembering it.

She bit her lip, cheeks flushing.

Rachel:

I haven’t stopped clenching since I left your bed. You ruined me for the day.

She tucked the phone into her bag just as the bell rang. Time to teach.

At lunch, she lingered in the faculty lounge, sipping a flavored sparkling water and pretending to scroll through emails.

Jen from the science department walked by and glanced at her outfit. “You’re looking comfy today, Rach. Yoga pants at work, huh?”

Rachel gave a casual shrug. “Ran late after yoga this morning. Figured if the kids can wear sweats, I’m allowed one ‘athleisure’ day.”

Jen smiled. “You pull it off. Still better dressed than half the department.”

Rachel laughed, tapping her can against Jen’s coffee mug. “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”

Inside, her pulse was steady. No one suspected a thing.

But under the table, her thighs were still damp with him.

It was just after her last class. The students had shuffled out, the hallways were beginning to quiet, and Rachel was alone at her desk, her legs crossed tightly under her chair. Her body still remembered the morning—the fullness, the warmth, the stretch.

Her phone buzzed.

Damon:

How you holding up, beautiful?

Rachel smiled to herself, thumb already flying.

Rachel:

Better now. The day was long, but every time I moved, I remembered what you did to me. Still a little sore—in the best way.

A pause.

Rachel:

I think what I’m feeling… it’s not just physical. It’s this jolt. Like… I was asleep for a long time. Now I’m not. I’m alive. There’s excitement again.

A moment passed.

Then:

Damon:

Then maybe we update the acronym.

M.Y.L.E. = Make Your Life Exciting.

Rachel stared at the screen, a slow grin spreading across her face.

She typed back:

Rachel:

That’s perfect.

And exactly what you’ve done.

Damon:

Not just me. You opened the door. I’m just making damn sure it stays open.

She leaned back in her chair, the weight of her secret heavier than ever—and more intoxicating by the hour.

She looked at the acronym again.

Make Your Life Exciting.

And for the first time in years, she realized: she was definitely excited.

Monday Evening

The house smelled like garlic and roasted tomatoes when Rachel walked through the door. The boys were still at the table, finishing their pasta with a movie playing softly in the background.

Brad looked up from the stove, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. “Hey, perfect timing. I made your favorite.”

Rachel blinked. “You cooked?”

He shrugged with a sheepish grin. “I had a light day. Figured I’d give you a break. You’ve been killing it lately with those early mornings.”

She smiled, setting her bag down. “That’s really sweet, babe.”

Brad kissed her cheek, warm and familiar. “Go sit. I’ll bring you a plate.”

She joined the boys at the table, chatting with them about school, laughing at their stories. But under the table, her legs were still sore. Her core still ached. She shifted slightly, the fabric of her panties still a faint reminder of Damon’s hands, his mouth, his weight on her just hours ago.

Brad set a plate in front of her—pasta shells with grilled zucchini, fresh parmesan shaved over the top.

“You remembered,” she said softly.

He looked at her with that boyish smile she’d loved since college. “You like it crispy on the edges. I pay attention.”

Rachel stared at the food for a moment longer before picking up her fork.

She did love him.

But something inside her had rearranged. A subtle shift, not destructive, but decisive. She didn’t feel torn the way she expected. Instead, she was realizing—almost disturbingly easily—that her physical hunger and her emotional loyalty had drifted onto separate tracks.

Brad represented warmth. Stability. Shared history. Inside jokes. The man who knew her coffee order, who rubbed her feet without asking, who kept a list of her favorite movies in his notes app.

Damon was fire. Urgency. Skin and heat and whispered things that made her feel raw and desired and wild.

And in this moment—Brad plating salad and laughing with their kids—Rachel realized something that should have scared her more than it did:

She wasn’t choosing between them; not trying to choose at all.

Thursday Morning – 6:13 AM

Rachel didn’t even knock.

She slipped through the front gate just as the porch light flicked on, her pulse already thrumming with anticipation. Damon opened the door the moment her fingers touched the handle.

They barely looked at each other before it started.

As soon as he closed the door behind them, they were on each other—mouths clashing, hands tugging, bodies pressed together like they hadn’t touched in weeks instead of days.

Rachel dropped her gym bag and pushed his shirt up over his chest. Damon yanked her half-zip open, exposing the black sports bra beneath, then slipped his hands down to grab her ass through the leggings she’d chosen for him.

“God, I missed this,” he growled, walking her backward into the living room.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Rachel spun around and dropped to her knees on the worn, navy blue sofa. She braced her arms on the backrest, her ass arched up in perfect offering.

“Right here?” she panted, looking back at him.

Damon’s eyes burned. “Hell yes.”

He dropped to his knees behind her and yanked her leggings and thong down in one swift motion. She gasped as cool air hit her flushed skin.

Then his mouth was on her—hot, wet, relentless.

He parted her cheeks and buried his face between them, licking her from behind with slow, devastating precision. His tongue slid along her folds, teasing her clit from underneath, while his fingers gripped her hips hard enough to leave marks.

Rachel moaned loudly, rocking back against his mouth, her knees trembling on the old cushion. The angle only made it more intense—raw, exposed, electric.

She was already close when he stood, gripped her hips, and drove himself inside her with one deep, greedy thrust.

“Oh God,” she cried out, her fingers digging into the fabric of the sofa.

He fucked her hard and deep, each thrust punching out a gasp, the wet slap of their bodies echoing in the quiet house. Her orgasm came fast—her walls fluttering around him, her mouth open, head tipped back in shock.

Damon held on through it, growling low behind her, then slammed into her one final time and emptied himself deep inside her with a ragged exhale.

They collapsed forward, tangled and breathless.

His chest rested against her back, their skin slick and pulsing.

For a moment, the only sound was the slow tick of the kitchen clock.

Then Rachel laughed breathlessly. “You just came on your own couch.”

Damon chuckled, still inside her. “Worth it.”

He pulled out gently, and they both watched as a creamy trickle of his release spilled from her and soaked into the worn cushion below.

Rachel shook her head, grinning. “Hope you’ve got more of those cleaning rags.”

“Always,” he said, kissing the back of her neck.

A few minutes later, they sat side by side on the couch—still naked, warm mugs in hand, legs barely touching. The sun had crept a little higher, spilling gold into the small living room.

They sipped their coffee, still catching their breath.

“You ever think about what your kids are gonna be like when they’re older?” Damon asked casually.

“All the time,” Rachel said. “Lately I’ve been wondering if they’ll be anything like me. Or if they’ll inherit all of Brad’s patience and none of my impulsiveness.”

Damon smiled, brushing a thumb across her knee. “Impulsiveness is underrated.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Says the guy who just raw-dogged me on a secondhand couch.”

They both laughed.

After a few more minutes, Rachel stood and walked toward her gym bag, pulling out clean underwear, a bra, jeans, and a fitted blouse she’d packed the night before.

She dressed quickly, checking her hair in the mirror by the front door, then turned back to him.

“You’re getting too good at making me late.”

Damon raised his mug in a toast. “Make Your Life Exciting, right?”

Rachel laughed and blew him a kiss.

She left the house glowing—legs sore, core aching, heart full.

And when she pulled into the school parking lot, freshly dressed and hair tamed, no one had any idea just how good her morning had been.

Saturday Morning – 7:02 AM

The house was quiet, except for the clink of utensils downstairs and the faint hum of the coffee maker.

Rachel lay in the bathtub upstairs, her legs stretched out beneath the foamy water, the floral scent of her favorite body wash blooming in the warm air. She let her head rest against the rim, eyes closed, hands drifting lazily over her freshly shaved legs.

Her mound was smooth, except for the small, neatly trimmed strip of hair she kept—exactly how Damon liked it. He’d told her once, half-whispered into her skin as he kissed his way down, that a landing strip drove him wild. It made her feel feminine, sculpted, seen.

She thought about him now—his hands, his mouth, his weight—and her nipples tightened under the water.

She toweled off and moisturized, then stood nude in front of her full-length mirror for a long moment. She looked good. More than good—confident. Like a woman with a secret she no longer feared.

She pulled on a new pair of matching lingerie—rich teal lace, sheer in all the right places. The panties rode high on her hips, dipping low in the front. The bra lifted her breasts just enough to make her blouse look innocent on the outside, sinful underneath.

Then came the outerwear: pressed gray slacks, a navy blouse, simple heels. Business casual, effortless. A woman headed to a professional workshop, as she’d told Brad earlier in the week.

He’d nodded, barely registering it. “That the one at that new place off Highway 8?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Just a bunch of curriculum development panels. Probably dry, but they’re sending me, so…”

He’d shrugged. “Cool. Be safe.”

Now, downstairs, he was plating scrambled eggs and toast for the boys. She came in as casually as possible, hair still damp at the ends.

He smiled, handing her a plate. “Eat something before you go, overachiever.”

She kissed his cheek, letting it linger a second longer than she needed to. “Thanks for making breakfast.”

“No problem. Knock ‘em dead at your… grammar panel, or whatever it is.”

She laughed and took a few quick bites, then checked the clock.

Her pulse quickened.

“Gotta go,” she said, grabbing her tote and slipping her phone into her purse. “I’ll be home by dinner.”

Brad waved distractedly. “Have fun doing teacher stuff.”

She walked out the door and slid behind the wheel of her car, heart hammering beneath her blouse. Her GPS showed the route. She knew it well now. So did the tracking app Brad sometimes opened without much curiosity.

He’d see the location ping: the hotel. Just like she’d told him.

She smiled to herself as she pulled away from the curb.

Saturday – 8:06 AM

Rachel found a spot near the side entrance of the hotel, shaded beneath a small ornamental tree. At this hour, parking was still decent—most guests either still asleep or lingering over breakfast in the lounge.

She cut the engine and sat in silence for a few seconds, her heart thudding in her chest. The hotel was sleek and new, with a modern exterior of glass and polished stone, the kind of place designed to feel upscale without drawing too much attention.

She slipped her phone from her bag.

Damon:

Room 312. I’m already in. Door’s unlocked. Knock first.

Her stomach flipped. She stepped out, smoothing her slacks, and made her way into the hotel’s cool, perfumed lobby. The front desk attendant—early twenties, polite smile—glanced up and gave her a small nod.

Rachel smiled back, trying to look calm.

But in her head, a voice whispered, Do they know where you’re going? What you’re about to do?

Of course they didn’t. But part of her wanted them to. Just a sliver. Just enough to be seen. To be caught in the act of living a different life.

She kept walking.

The elevator dinged open. She stepped inside alone. As the doors closed and the floor count ticked upward, her pulse rose higher in tandem.

Third floor.

The hallway was quiet, the carpet muffling her footsteps. She passed the rooms one by one—308… 310… 312.

Her heart slammed.

She knocked harder than she meant to.

The door opened almost instantly.

Damon stood there wearing nothing but a tight pair of black briefs that hugged his hips, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Rachel’s eyes widened in panic for half a second, glancing down the hall.

“Get in here,” he said with a crooked grin.

She darted through the door, and he pushed it closed behind her, flipping the lock and throwing the deadbolt before she could say a word.

And just like that, words weren’t needed.

Their mouths met—urgent, hot, consuming. Hands scrambled over each other’s bodies, pulling, gripping, tugging. He kissed her like he needed her to breathe.

Rachel yanked off her cardigan as he worked open the buttons of her blouse, his mouth still on hers. The blouse slipped from her shoulders just as she unfastened her slacks and pushed them down her hips, kicking them away.

Her matching teal bra and panties came into view.

Damon froze.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

Then his hands were all over her again—palming her breasts through the lace, kissing down her neck as she pulled him toward the king-size bed.

They collapsed onto it in a tangle of limbs and heat, Damon landing on top of her, his hands already sliding beneath the band of her bra, his hips grinding slowly between her thighs.

Rachel moaned into his mouth, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back.

There were no more delays.

They had the whole day ahead of them.

But they weren’t about to waste a single second.

They barely made it onto the bed before Damon had Rachel on her back, her head resting against the pillows, her chest rising and falling in shallow, hungry breaths. He hovered over her for a moment, eyes drinking her in—her flushed cheeks, the way the teal lace hugged her curves, the trembling in her thighs.

He kissed her collarbone, her sternum, then lower—pausing to nuzzle her breasts through the lace, his tongue flicking playfully at each nipple until she whimpered. He unclasped her bra slowly, letting the straps fall away. Her breasts spilled free, soft and flushed, nipples already stiff.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, cupping them, rubbing his thumbs across the tips before pulling each one into his mouth—sucking slow, deep, deliberate.

Rachel moaned, arching into him, her hands in his hair.

Then he kissed a trail down her stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her panties.

He paused only to whisper, “God, I love that little landing strip…”

And then they were off.

He knelt between her thighs and dragged her panties down slowly, savoring the reveal. She opened for him without hesitation, already slick, already wanting. He dipped his head and licked her with slow, thorough strokes—like he was hungry and planned to feast.

Rachel gasped.

His tongue circled her clit, then dipped lower, then up again. She fisted the sheets, her breath catching. It was nothing like Brad—no reluctance, no boredom. Damon moaned into her like he loved it, like every twitch of her hips made him harder.

Her orgasm built fast. Deep. Hot.

But just as she was nearing the edge, he paused—still kissing, still teasing.

“I want to try something,” he said, voice low and rough. “Turn around for me.”

Rachel blinked, dazed. “What?”

“On your side. Face the headboard.”

She obeyed, letting him guide her.

Then he slid beside her, pulling her hips back into position—nestled face to sex, sex to face—his cock already hard and waiting near her lips.

A 69–a new experience for Rachel.

With Brad, oral sex was a chore. Something traded. Obligatory and uneven. Cunnilingus happened only when she insisted—and he performed it half-heartedly, lying flat while she stared at the ceiling. And as for giving? She could count the number of times she’d willingly gone down on Brad without guilt or reluctance on one hand.

But she’d always wanted this: to be devoured while she sucked; to feel her own pleasure mirrored by the tension in a man’s thighs; to be full and filled at the same time.

Damon’s tongue returned to her folds, licking deeper now, more insistent. She moaned against the weight of his cock as she took him in, her lips stretching around him, her own arousal surging again with every movement of his mouth.

They moved together in rhythm—him fucking her with his tongue while she stroked and sucked him, groaning with each flick, each curl of his fingers inside her.

Rachel felt herself climbing again, faster now, the pleasure building from both ends of her body, and for the first time, she realized how complete this could feel.

The sounds were lewd—wet, sloppy, unabashed. His mouth made no attempt at subtlety. He moaned into her as he licked, the vibrations sending tremors through her core. Every lap of his tongue was punctuated by the suction of his lips locking around her clit, only to break contact with a kiss so loud and primal it echoed softly against the hotel room walls.

Rachel whimpered around his cock, her tongue slick with saliva. She wanted to moan, but her mouth was full—his thick shaft stretching her lips as she bobbed her head, her jaw working in time with the pulse of his tongue.

Her arousal was making her mouth flood uncontrollably. Saliva pooled and spilled down her chin, dripping onto his thighs, mixing with the sound of her wet, messy slurping. She couldn’t help it.

She wanted him to hear it. To feel how deeply she craved him—how much she loved the taste of him, the weight of him.

Damon groaned, his fingers digging harder into her ass as he thrust his tongue deep again, then flattened it and dragged it slowly upward, stopping to circle her clit before sucking it hard into his mouth again.

She cried out around him, the vibration of her own moan buzzing against his cock.

The sight of her bent over him like that—hips arched, thighs parted, her pretty mouth stuffed and dripping with need—seemed to ignite something in Damon. He growled into her, nuzzling deeper, licking faster, his fingers now parting her cheeks and gripping like he needed to own every inch of her.

Rachel was panting now, her rhythm faltering. She kept trying to suck him, to move her hand along his shaft, but her body was spiraling out of control.

The licking; slurping; the grip of his fingers.

Her taste all over his face; his taste coating her tongue.

Her thighs trembled. Her back arched. She gasped and pulled her mouth off him with a soft, wet pop as the orgasm overtook her—fast and fierce, clenching around his tongue, her moans ragged and broken.

She shook and bucked against his face, and Damon held her there—never stopping, licking her through every pulse, every spasm, until she was twitching with oversensitivity.

She collapsed forward, her cheek pressed to the sheets, legs still shaking, completely unraveled.

And she had never felt so dirty, nor wanted.

Rachel collapsed onto her stomach, chest heaving, hair spilling wild across the sheets. Her arms stretched out in front of her, fingers clutching at the cool linens, her thighs still quivering from the force of her release.

She felt slick. Buzzing with pleasure.

But the bed shifted behind her as Damon moved, settling over her back, his chest brushing the damp skin of her spine. She gasped softly at the contact, still sensitive, still burning. His hands slid along her sides, then gripped her hips, pulling them upward just enough to spread her thighs again beneath him.

His knees pushed between hers, parting them wider as he pressed down.

Rachel moaned into the mattress.

The sensation was entirely different now—less frenzied, more claiming. There was no arch, no angles. Just the weight of his body blanketing hers, grounding her.

He nudged her folds with his cock, slick with her own wetness, and slid in with one slow, thick stroke.

Rachel cried out—a helpless, muffled sound into the pillow.

He filled her completely from behind, his chest pressing her down into the bed as he began to move—slow, deep, measured thrusts that made her feel completely taken. Flattened. Possessed.

His breath was hot against her neck as he whispered, “You feel unbelievable like this.”

She turned her face just enough to speak, her voice hoarse. “It’s so deep…”

Damon grunted low in his throat and rolled his hips harder, his pelvis grinding against her ass with each stroke, the length of him dragging along every sensitive inch inside her.

Rachel’s hands clawed the sheets, her toes curling.

The pressure built again.

She tilted her hips up a little more, offering more of herself, moaning shamelessly now with every movement.

“Damon…” she gasped. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

She came again—harder this time. Deeper. The orgasm spread through her core and radiated out, her whole body convulsing beneath his as she cried out his name, her voice ragged with release.

Damon pushed into her one final time and groaned in her ear as he came—hot, thick pulses that filled her completely.

Rachel lay trembling beneath him, her face pressed to the pillow, a blissful haze flooding her limbs.

The sensation of his release inside her—warm, spreading, soaking—sent a thrill through her body.

She loved the contrast.

Used and adored all at once.

Damon slowly rolled off of her, collapsing onto his back beside her on the king-sized bed, his chest rising and falling as he let out a long, satisfied breath.

Rachel lay still for a moment, cheek against the sheets, her legs tingling, her body deliciously sore.

Then she laughed softly.

“What?” he murmured, turning his head toward her.

“I just came so hard, I forgot what day it was.”

He chuckled, reaching over to stroke her back. “Saturday. All day.”

Eventually, Rachel sat up and padded into the hotel bathroom. It was sleek and modern, with a wide marble vanity and a rainfall shower behind frosted glass.

She freshened up at the sink, running warm water between her thighs, smoothing her hair back, dabbing her neck with one of the crisp white towels.

When she returned to the room, she flopped down next to Damon, towel draped over her shoulders.

“This place is nicer than I expected,” she said, glancing around. “How much was it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said with a grin, tossing her the remote. “You’re worth it.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled.

They channel-surfed for a few minutes, finally settling on something forgettable—an old movie with dramatic music and even more dramatic hair. Rachel curled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder, the kind of comfort she hadn’t realized she missed in the flurry of sneaking around.

They didn’t speak for a while.

They just recharged—bodies still warm from sex, hearts beating slower now, sharing the same breath in a quiet, sunlit room.

Eventually, Damon leaned over and kissed her forehead. “C’mere.”

Rachel turned toward him, and he kissed her lips—slowly, deeply. There was no rush this time, no hunger to devour. Just mouth to mouth, breath to breath.

His hands ran along her waist, then slid beneath the towel and around to her back, pulling her in.

Rachel climbed on top of him briefly, kissing him, grinding against his bare cock until he was hard again. Then he gently rolled her beneath him, easing her down onto the pillows.

He looked down at her, eyes soft, one hand cradling her face.

“I want to see you this time.”

Damon slid inside her slowly, carefully, watching every flicker of her face as he filled her.

Rachel moaned and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his hips.

They moved together in perfect rhythm—deep, slow, connected.

He stroked her hair, cupped her breast, whispered things into her neck that she couldn’t even fully hear—but she felt them.

When Rachel came, it was soft and full and utterly complete.

And when Damon followed, it was with a long, low groan as he spilled himself into her again—this time with a kiss that didn’t break even after his body stilled.

They stayed there like that, tangled together, their foreheads touching, lips still brushing.

Rachel lay beneath Damon, still joined, their bodies warm and clinging.

His forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling. Neither spoke at first, and the silence didn’t feel empty—it felt earned. Soft. Sacred.

They eventually peeled themselves out of bed, laughing at their limp limbs, sharing the hotel’s rainfall shower, stealing soft kisses under the cascade of hot water. They dressed slowly—Damon in dark jeans and a fitted short-sleeve button-up; Rachel in her spare outfit, a simple sundress she’d tucked into her bag, her hair still damp and loose over her shoulders.

They left the hotel discreetly and drove in separate cars to a quiet, upscale restaurant a few blocks away. The booths were tucked in low alcoves, the lights warm, the napkins cloth.

Over salmon and wine, they talked—not just about sex, but about life.

Rachel told him more about her kids, her struggles juggling the emotional weight of parenting and teaching, the way she sometimes felt invisible in her own home.

Damon opened up about his kids too—about how hard it was not seeing them every day, how much he feared becoming the kind of dad who was only remembered on holidays.

“You’re not,” Rachel said, touching his hand across the table. “You remember every detail when you talk about them. You’re in it. That matters.”

He smiled, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist.

She couldn’t stop staring at him—this beautiful, rugged man who had somehow become hers. At least today.

And even though they had already taken each other apart that morning, the desire still simmered beneath the surface.

After lunch, they drove again—this time to a small local park. Trees just beginning to leaf out in early spring lined the path. The air was cool and sweet.

They walked side by side, then hand in hand.

Rachel let herself lean into him, laughing as he made fun of joggers, stopping at a bench to people-watch.

“I could sit here all day with you,” she said quietly.

Damon looked at her sideways. “You know we can’t.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’d still like to pretend.”

They didn’t say much as they walked back to their cars, fingers still linked.

But by the time they pulled back into the hotel parking lot, they weren’t even pretending to resist.

2:31 PM

The room was quiet when they re-entered, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound. Rachel slipped her shoes off by the door, her heels clicking softly on the tile before she stepped back onto the plush carpet.

Damon grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV, navigating quickly to the music channels. He found one labeled Slow Jams & Soulful Grooves—the kind of playlist that eased its way into your bones and made skin-on-skin contact feel inevitable.

Low bass and sultry vocals filled the space.

Rachel smiled, slow and knowing.

Damon walked up to her, took her hand, and tugged her gently into the center of the room.

They didn’t speak.

They just swayed.

Bodies pressed together, hips moving in time with the beat. Rachel rested her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, letting the music and his touch melt into her. His hands slid down to her waist, his thumbs caressing just above the swell of her ass through the thin fabric of her dress.

They kissed—slowly, deeply. Lips moving in sync, tongues tangling with lazy hunger. He kissed her jawline, then lower, trailing his lips to her neck, sucking softly at the sensitive skin just below her ear.

Her fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. One by one, she slipped them open, revealing his chest beneath. She kissed it as she bared it, tasting the faint trace of sweat and aftershave.

They took their time.

She unfastened his jeans. He slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders. Layer by layer, they undressed each other with soft laughter, small kisses, long glances. Her teal panties came off again; his briefs hit the floor.

They were naked, warm, and flush with desire.

They tumbled back onto the bed, Rachel on top, straddling his hips, their bodies perfectly aligned. The music played on, a slow, sensual beat pulsing in the background like a second heartbeat.

Damon reached up and caressed her thighs.

Then, with a grin, he said, “Sit on my face.”

Rachel froze for just a second—caught off guard by the directness of it.

She leaned down, kissed him hard, then whispered against his lips, “Yes, sir.”

Rachel kissed Damon again, slow and deep, before easing her body upward—lifting her hips from his and turning around to face the headboard. Her knees slid alongside his head, and she positioned herself carefully, thighs straddling his chest, her sex just above his waiting mouth.

He looked up at her with a hunger so raw it made her tremble.

“Don’t hover,” he said softly. “Sit.”

She exhaled—and lowered herself.

The moment her slick folds made contact with his mouth, she gasped—sharp and involuntary. His tongue slid upward slowly, parting her, then pressing flat against her swollen clit in one long, perfect stroke.

Her hands reached for the headboard for balance.

“Oh God,” she moaned, her head falling back, hair cascading down her spine.

He held her firmly by the hips, pulling her down tighter. His tongue licked slow circles, savoring her. Not just the taste—but the texture, the scent, the way her body trembled with each pass. He lapped her up like he was parched, each stroke more deliberate than the last, his face buried in the slick, sensitive heat of her.

Rachel’s thighs quivered around his head. The feeling was exquisite—intense and intimate and unlike anything she’d ever known.

The angle, the exposure, the way his tongue found her from below and licked up through her slick center, then dipped lower, then rose again to press against that tender, aching spot—all of it made her hips grind helplessly against his face.

His nose brushed her with every stroke, his tongue exploring her folds, then focusing on the wetter space between them—his favorite place, the one that yielded the softest gasps and the strongest trembles.

And her taste…

She was still warm from their earlier lovemaking, and now, reawakened, she was even wetter—hot and glistening, salty and sweet. He devoured her slowly, dragging his tongue up her slit, circling her clit, dipping his tongue inside her, then back up again. Over and over. Unhurried. Intoxicating.

Rachel braced herself higher for a moment, then let go—sinking fully onto him, riding the rhythm of his mouth.

“Yes,” she whispered, grinding down, her fingers gripping the headboard.

Her moans grew louder. Throatier. Her thighs flexed and released around him, her body caught in the slow burn he’d reignited.

Damon’s hands never left her hips. He guided her gently, encouraging the grind, the rhythm, urging her closer.

Her climax built slowly, like a storm on the horizon. She could feel it gathering—tightening inside her, pressure mounting in waves until she was panting, riding his mouth faster now, not holding anything back.

She cried out—loud and shameless—as her orgasm tore through her, her entire body shaking, her thighs clamping around his head, her hips grinding hard into his face.

Damon held her there, licking her through it, slower now, softer, worshipful.

She collapsed forward, chest against the mattress, body trembling with the aftermath. His tongue gave one final, tender pass through her folds, like punctuation.

She shifted slowly off of him and turned around, meeting his gaze.

She bent down and kissed him—deeply, tasting herself on his lips—and felt her arousal spark again.

Rachel kissed Damon deeply, her lips slow and plush against his, tasting the echo of her own climax on his mouth. Their bodies were sticky with heat, their breaths still ragged, but the fire between them had only banked—it hadn’t gone out.

She shifted lower, straddling his waist.

His cock was already hard again, thick and pulsing against her thigh, slick with his own arousal and the traces of her pleasure from before.

She looked down at him.

“My turn,” she whispered.

Damon groaned, his hands finding her hips. “Take what you need.”

She reached down, guiding him to her entrance, and eased herself onto him—inch by slow, filling inch.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

The stretch made her gasp.

She was still so sensitive, so swollen, and he filled her completely—deep, thick, stretching her open in the way she had come to crave.

She paused at the bottom, fully seated, her hands resting on his chest.

Damon looked up at her like she was art.

Like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

Rachel began to move.

Slowly at first, just a gentle roll of her hips, the drag of him inside her exquisite. She leaned forward, palms flat on his chest, her breasts swaying above him as her rhythm built, her thighs working, her pace gradually increasing.

Damon gripped her hips tightly, guiding her, encouraging her. His mouth dropped open, and soft groans escaped his throat as she fucked him with slow, greedy thrusts.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered. “Watching you like this… Jesus.”

Rachel smiled, sweat clinging to her temple, her skin glowing. She rode him harder now—bouncing, grinding, losing herself in the rising tide of her own arousal.

Each movement sent a jolt through her core.

Every time she came down, she felt him all the way inside, pressing against that spot that made her toes curl.

Her body started to tremble again, the pressure coiling tight.

She placed her hands on either side of his face and leaned down, kissing him as she rode him—deep, open-mouthed kisses, their moans swallowed between them.

Damon grunted beneath her, his hips starting to buck.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice thick and strained.

Rachel kissed him harder.

“So am I,” she whispered.

She kept going, riding him through the surge, her body locking around his just as the orgasm tore through her again—sharp, loud, flooding her from the inside out.

Damon thrust up into her one final time and let go with a deep groan, spilling himself inside her, his hands gripping her hips, holding her down tight as he pulsed deep within her.

They stayed like that, bodies pressed together, trembling, sweat-slicked and breathless.

Rachel collapsed onto his chest, still trembling, his arms wrapping around her.

And for a long moment, neither of them said a word.

Because nothing needed to be said.

The room was filled with the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the muted rhythm of slow jams still playing from the TV.

Rachel lay on her side, her head resting on Damon’s shoulder, her leg draped over his. Their skin was slick with the sheen of sex and sweat, but neither of them had moved to clean up. Not yet. They were warm. Relaxed. Tangled. Entirely comfortable.

He lazily stroked her back, fingertips drawing invisible patterns.

“We’ve still got time,” he murmured, glancing at the clock. “Just under an hour.”

Rachel smiled and nuzzled closer. “Feels like we’ve been here all day.”

“We have,” he chuckled. “And I’m still not tired of looking at you.”

She kissed his chest, then let out a long sigh—content, but thoughtful.

Damon looked down at her. “What?”

She hesitated. “Can I ask you something a little personal?”

“After everything we’ve just done? You think now is the time to get shy?” he teased.

Rachel laughed, cheeks flushing. “Fair.”

She bit her lip. “You ever wonder what made me want you in the first place?”

Damon shrugged, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Doesn’t really matter. I’m just glad you did.”

“It’s just… I think part of it was something Brad and I used to do,” she admitted. “Not often, but… we used to watch porn together. Usually interracial stuff. That was always what got me the most worked up.”

Damon’s brow arched slightly, amused. “So I was a fantasy before I even walked into your classroom?”

She gave him a playful smack on the chest. “Not like that. It wasn’t you. It was… the idea. The energy. The contrast.”

He grinned. “You think I’m bothered by that?”

She looked at him, uncertain.

“I count it as a blessing in disguise,” he said. “That fantasy got me you. Works for me.”

She exhaled, relieved. “Okay, good. Because I was nervous to say it out loud.”

Damon kissed the top of her head. “Anything else you haven’t said out loud?”

Rachel hesitated again.

Then: “I’ve always had this… fantasy. Not even something I think I’d actually do, but I think about it sometimes.”

He shifted slightly, propping himself on one elbow. “Tell me.”

She swallowed. “Being with… more than one man. A group. Like a gangbang.”

Damon didn’t flinch. His eyes darkened with intrigue. “Damn.”

“I know,” she whispered. “It’s crazy.”

“It’s not crazy. It’s hot.”

She laughed nervously. “It’s just a fantasy.”

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Anything else?”

Rachel hesitated longer this time. “I’ve… always wondered what it would be like. With a woman. I’ve never done it. But sometimes I catch myself watching scenes with two women and just… wondering.”

Damon’s voice dropped even lower. “Would you want to try it?”

Rachel glanced up at him, vulnerable. “I don’t know. Maybe. I think it depends on the woman. And the situation. I’d have to feel safe.”

“I could make it safe,” he said gently. “If you ever wanted that. Same with… anything else.”

Rachel nodded slowly. “I don’t think I’m ready now. But maybe sometime.”

Damon kissed her softly, hand sliding up her side. “I won’t push. But I’ll remember.”

She smiled against his lips. “I figured you would.”

They stayed like that, wrapped around each other in the quiet late afternoon—bodies sated, hearts open, their hour slipping by with nothing but skin and dreams between them.

4:47 PM

The music had faded, the sun dipped lower, and the room was cloaked in soft gold shadows when Rachel stirred. She blinked, warm and pressed against Damon’s chest, his arm still draped over her waist, their legs tangled beneath the covers.

For a moment, it felt like the end of a lazy vacation.

Then reality slipped back in.

She glanced at the clock.

“Shit,” she whispered, gently sitting up. “I’ve gotta go.”

Damon stirred, rubbing his eyes, his voice husky. “What time is it?”

“Almost five.”

He nodded, stretching. “We conked out.”

She smiled, brushing a hand through her hair. “We earned it.”

They dressed slowly, quietly—each movement unhurried, but tinged with the soft ache of parting. Rachel pulled on her spare slacks and blouse, touched up her makeup in the bathroom, and gave her hair a quick brush.

When she emerged, Damon was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt unbuttoned, his face contemplative.

“I really liked today,” he said softly.

She crossed the room and stood between his knees, his hands sliding instinctively to her hips.

“So did I,” she said. “More than I expected.”

He looked up at her, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “We’ll see each other Monday?”

She nodded. “But… I think we should take a breath. Just talk. Keep things low-key.”

“No sex?”

“Not until Thursday,” she smiled. “You’ve earned another slow burn.”

Damon grinned. “You trying to kill me?”

She leaned down and kissed him—soft, slow, final.

“No. Just trying to make sure you miss me.”

He stood and walked her to the door, his fingers still brushing hers even as she reached for the handle.

“I’m gonna stay here tonight,” he said. “Room’s paid for. I could use the quiet.”

She hesitated, heart twinging in a way she didn’t expect.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Enjoy it.”

She stepped into the hallway, the door closing gently behind her.

And just like that, she was alone again.

Back in her real life.

Back in the world where everything was in order.

Epilogue

The front door clicked shut behind her, the familiar scent of home instantly washing over Rachel—cooked food, lavender hand soap, the faint scent of little-boy energy still clinging to the air.

She dropped her bag gently by the stairs, slipping out of her shoes.

From the kitchen, she heard laughter.

She drifted toward the sliding glass door and paused.

Outside in the backyard, Brad was tossing a foam football with their two boys, their faces lit with joy, their shouts echoing across the grass. The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the whole scene, like a memory already forming.

Rachel stood quietly and watched.

This was her life.

She loved this life.

She loved them.

After a moment, she opened the sliding door and stepped outside. All three heads turned immediately.

“MOM!” the boys shouted, charging toward her.

She knelt to meet them, hugging them both tight, her heart squeezing at the sheer joy in their arms around her.

Then she rose, walking toward Brad.

He met her halfway, smiling. “Hey, workhorse.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him—sweet, slow, affectionate. Familiar.

He smiled against her lips. “How was it?”

Rachel grinned. “Actually really good. But trust me—you wouldn’t have liked it.”

They both laughed, their foreheads bumping softly.

“Sounds about right,” he said.

They headed back inside, the boys racing ahead.

Later that night, long after the kids were in bed and Brad was dozing on the couch with the TV still flickering, Rachel climbed under the sheets and pulled her phone from the nightstand.

One new message.

From “Custodial Service.”

Damon:

Found her. She’s interested. Very. First Saturday next month. That okay with you?

Rachel stared at the message, her breath catching slightly.

She could still feel his hands on her. The warmth of the hotel room. The look in his eyes when he said he’d make it safe. If she wanted it.

She set the phone down gently, screen still glowing.

“Shit,” she whispered to herself, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

She switched the phone to Do Not Disturb and rolled over.

Eyes wide open.