Rachel Burns, thirty-eight, walked the empty hallways of her high school with her usual early-morning rhythm. Her heels clicked across the polished floors, each step sharp in the silence. A Drama teacher with a reputation for passion and grit, she normally enjoyed the solitude before the campus came alive. But lately, those quiet mornings stirred something else—something restless beneath her skin.

She told herself it was just the season. Spring always brought a kind of itch. But this time, the air felt warmer, more charged. And there was a smell—faint, rich, musky. Male. It seemed to cling to her classroom and follow her into her office.

She knew exactly what it was: Damon.

The school’s head custodian, Damon, had recently switched to the early shift. He was forty-two, broad-shouldered, soft-spoken, and impossible to ignore. He pushed his cart like it weighed nothing, arms flexing with each step. His presence filled a hallway. Rachel had caught him watching her too, his eyes lingering longer than politeness required.

She’d never paid much attention to Black men before—until her husband Brad started queuing up interracial porn before sex. It had begun as a curiosity, something she watched for his sake. But over time, those scenes had ignited something in her: a curiosity that became hunger. She started noticing things. Damon’s forearms. His voice. The way he carried himself, like he knew exactly how much space he took up and made no apologies for it.

That morning, she had just finished setting up for first period when she heard the low rumble of wheels outside her classroom. Her pulse skipped. Then the door creaked open.

“Morning, Mrs. Burns,” Damon said, his voice deep, relaxed. He leaned his head into the room, smiling with an ease that made her stomach flutter.

“Good morning, Damon,” she answered, trying to sound normal. Her voice caught slightly on his name.

He stepped inside, just far enough to lean a shoulder against the frame. He gave the room a slow once-over, nodding his approval. “Looking sharp in here,” he said, letting his eyes briefly linger on her desk—then on her.

Rachel could barely breathe. They made small talk—her mind half-listening, body fully alert. He spoke about cleaning schedules in that low voice that rolled through her like thunder. His sleeves were pushed up just far enough to show the tight curve of his biceps. She caught herself staring, then flicked her eyes away—only to land on the bulge pressing against the front of his pants.

She shifted her weight, her thighs pressed tight beneath her skirt.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” Damon said at last, a knowing spark in his eye. “But if you need anything,” he nodded toward the hallway, “just holler.”

“Thanks,” Rachel managed.

The door clicked shut behind him. She stood frozen in the stillness, the scent of floor wax and something more masculine still hanging in the air. She touched the edge of her desk with her fingertips, as if he’d left something behind. And for a few hot, guilty seconds, she considered locking the door and slipping a hand between her legs.

The rest of the day crawled by. Rachel went through the motions: teaching lessons, giving notes, redirecting chatty students—but her mind was somewhere else entirely. 

She thought about his voice. His smell. The way his uniform fit. And more than once, she had to cross her legs and shift in her seat, chasing relief without giving herself away. 

That night, she couldn’t focus. She made edits to a play script halfheartedly while dinner cooked. Her husband asked how her day went, and she mumbled something about rehearsals running long. When he reached for her thigh under the covers later, she turned and pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, Rachel was up before her alarm. The sky was still dark, but her mirror was already lit. She dressed carefully, choosing a blouse that showed a suggestion of cleavage—just enough to cross the line if someone were paying attention. Her skirt hugged her hips, and her lipstick was a shade bolder than usual. It wasn’t obvious, not to anyone who didn’t know her. But she knew what she was doing.

She got to school even earlier than usual. The halls were still quiet, the doors locked, the hum of the air vents the only sound. She passed Damon’s parked cart outside her office. He was nowhere in sight.

Her breath caught. She unlocked her door, stepped inside, and set down her things. A moment later, she heard the door creak open.

There he was.

He filled the doorway—tall, relaxed, unreadable. His arms folded across his chest, his uniform shirt snug across his shoulders. His eyes moved over her—slow, steady, and utterly unashamed.

“Mrs. Burns,” he said, voice low. “You’re early.”

She cleared her throat, her nipples tightening under her blouse. “Had some papers to grade.”

His eyes flicked to the family photo on her desk. “Bet it’s not easy. Teacher. Mom.”

She smiled faintly. “It’s not terrible. Just… a lot.”

He stepped inside, slow and quiet. The room seemed to shrink. Rachel found herself leaning slightly toward him, as if her body knew what it wanted before her mind caught up.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been staying late,” he said. “Thought maybe I could help out. Make things easier.”

She blinked, her mouth dry. “That’s… very kind.”

They stood there for a moment, the air charged but still calm. Damon glanced at her desk, then back to her. “You take coffee?”

She laughed, too quickly. “Yes. I mean, I love coffee. Caramel macchiato, if I get to be picky.”

He grinned, eyes warm. “Noted.”

Rachel was midway through her first-period lesson when the door opened again. Damon stepped in quietly, a tall paper cup in one hand, steam curling from the lid.

He didn’t interrupt. Just waited near the entrance, catching her eye.

Rachel paused mid-sentence. “Excuse me, class,” she said, crossing the room. She took the cup from his outstretched hand, their fingers brushing—just a moment, but enough to send a jolt up her spine.

Her breath caught.

“Caramel macchiato,” Damon said with a soft smile. “Hope I got it right.”

She stared at him, then laughed lightly, surprised by the sudden warmth in her chest. “You did. Thank you.”

He nodded and stepped back, the door clicking shut behind him.

Rachel turned, holding the cup like it might vanish. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her fingers. She stood in front of her class, rattling off the next lines of the scene they were studying, but her mind wasn’t on Shakespeare. It was on Damon’s hands. His calm confidence. The quiet way he saw her—and remembered.

The rest of the day dragged. Between classes, she found herself reaching for the cup just to see the steam rise, to bring the scent of coffee and caramel closer to her nose. It wasn’t just a drink. It was proof that she was being noticed—thought of.

After the final bell, she made her way to her office. The hallway was nearly empty. When she opened the door, she stopped in her tracks.

Another cup sat waiting on her desk.

Still warm.

A sticky note clung to the side of the cup:

“Going the extra M.Y.L.E. —D”

She stood there, stunned. Smiling.

She had no idea what the acronym meant, but she didn’t care. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she picked up the cup, her fingers trembling slightly. She brought it to her lips and took a slow sip. It was exactly the same—just how she liked it.

Rachel sat down, legs crossed tightly, the room silent around her. The lights above flickered softly. In the quiet, she read the note again. She didn’t want to admit how good it felt to be seen. To be wanted—not in the abstract sense, but by someone real. Someone here.

She told herself it was nothing. A sweet gesture. A little harmless flirting.

Still, when she took another sip and leaned back in her chair, she couldn’t ignore the slow throb between her thighs.

The next morning, Rachel took her time getting dressed.

She told herself it wasn’t for him—not exactly. But the tight black pencil skirt she chose hugged her hips in a way that felt calculated, and the soft blouse she buttoned up just low enough made her chest look a little too intentional for a normal school day. Her hair was curled at the ends. Lipstick just a shade darker than usual.

She studied herself in the mirror, one hand smoothing the fabric over her waist.

It was subtle. Professional. But it was also bait.

She had no plans to act on anything. Not really. She just wanted to drive him a little crazy. That was all.

The halls were mostly empty when she arrived. She walked quickly toward her office, her heels clicking in the early morning quiet.

And there he was—waiting.

Damon leaned casually against the wall beside her door, a coffee cup in each hand. He looked freshly showered, his uniform crisp. On anyone else, the janitorial blues would have faded into the background. On him, they looked fitted. Intentional.

He held one cup out to her. “Your usual.”

She took it, their fingers brushing again. That spark was back—quiet but undeniable.

“Thank you,” she said, forcing herself to stay cool. “But please, call me Rachel.”

A flicker crossed his face—surprise, then something softer. “You got it. Rachel.”

He followed her into the office. The door swung shut behind them, and suddenly the small room felt warmer, more intimate than it had before.

“I hope I’m not starting to wear out my welcome,” he said, settling against her desk again.

“Not at all,” she said too quickly. “It’s… nice.”

She tried to focus, to shift the conversation toward safer ground. She set her things down and turned to him with a smile. “I got your coffee yesterday afternoon. That was such a sweet surprise.”

“Anything I can do to make your life easier,” he said, smiling.

Her heart fluttered.

She glanced at the cup in her hand, then at the note on her desk. Going the extra M.Y.L.E. The acronym clicked all at once, and she laughed, covering her mouth.

Damon grinned like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Took you long enough.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, still smiling.

“I’m persistent,” he replied, eyes locked on hers.

Something shifted between them—something low and steady. It wasn’t overt. It didn’t need to be. They were both standing closer than necessary. The silence between sentences stretched longer. Each smile lingered.

But Damon didn’t touch her. Not yet.

He knew better than to push.

And that restraint, Rachel realized, only made her want him more.

The morning moved in a blur. Rachel floated through her first few tasks, barely registering the emails, the lesson plan on her laptop, or the pile of scripts on her desk. Her body was buzzing—too alert, too aware of the man who had just left her office with that easy smile and calm, deliberate stride.

She tried to shake it off, but when Damon returned just before the first bell, her pulse jumped like he’d touched her without laying a hand.

“I’ve got a few more minutes before the rest of the crew gets in,” he said. “Mind if I hang out a second?”

Rachel looked up from her desk, startled but smiling. “Sure. Of course.”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“You’ve been looking a little tense lately,” he said. “Everything okay?”

Rachel exhaled, brushing her hair back. “It’s just the job. Long hours. Constant pressure.”

Damon nodded. “Mind if I try something?”

She blinked. “Like what?”

“Chair,” he said, gesturing behind her.

Rachel hesitated, but her shoulders were tight, her body already halfway to surrender. She stood, and he gently guided her into the seat, placing both hands on her shoulders before she could think better of it.

His thumbs pressed slowly into the muscles at the base of her neck. The pressure was firm, confident—deft in a way that surprised her.

“Oh my God,” she breathed.

He chuckled under his breath. “That bad, huh?”

“I didn’t realize how tight I was,” she murmured, already leaning into his touch.

“Mm-hmm,” he said, continuing to work the knots out of her shoulders, his thumbs gliding in slow, careful circles. “Can’t have you carrying all this weight around.”

Rachel closed her eyes. The stress, the guilt, the anticipation—all of it melted into the warmth of his hands. She hadn’t been touched like this in ages. Not gently. Not with intent.

Damon’s palms skimmed down to the tops of her arms, then back up again. He didn’t linger anywhere inappropriate, not yet. But his touch was deliberate, and Rachel’s body responded before her mind could catch up.

She felt the heat spreading under her skin, a soft throb low in her belly. She wanted more. She was terrified of how much.

His hands slowed, then paused.

“I should let you get to it,” he said, stepping back.

Rachel opened her eyes slowly, her body still humming. “That was amazing,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Anytime,” Damon said, smiling as he opened the door. “I meant it, Rachel—anything I can do to make your life easier.”

She didn’t move. Just watched him go.

And long after the door shut behind him, she was still sitting in that chair, shoulders warm, heart racing.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Rachel went through her classes, but her thoughts kept drifting—to Damon’s hands, his calm voice, the quiet power of his presence. She still felt his touch on her shoulders, a phantom warmth that made her skin ache.

By the final bell, she was restless. Her students filtered out, and she gathered her things quickly, her heart already anticipating something she couldn’t name.

She reached her office door and paused. The light was on.

Her breath caught.

Inside, on her desk, sat a cup of coffee—steam curling in the air like an invitation. Another note was stuck to the sleeve.

“Going the extra M.Y.L.E. —D”

Rachel closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, her chest rising and falling as she stared at the cup. She picked it up slowly, as if it might vanish. The lid was still warm. The caramel scent rose to meet her.

She smiled. She couldn’t help it.

He wasn’t just flirting anymore. He was showing her something—attention, consistency, care. The kind of care that had been missing for years. It was the smallest thing: a drink. A note. But it lit her up in ways her marriage hadn’t in ages.

She sat at her desk, legs crossed, fingers curling around the warm cup. The room was quiet, the building nearly empty. Somewhere in the distance, a door closed. A muffled laugh echoed down a hallway.

But inside her office, it was just her and the silence—and the burn of a man’s quiet devotion still lingering in her hands.

She glanced at the note again, rereading it, imagining him writing it. Not rushed. Not thoughtless. Intentional.

Her thighs pressed together under the desk. She took a long sip and let the heat slide down her throat.

There was no denying it anymore. She wanted him. Not just the fantasy of him, not just the idea. Him.

And when the thought scared her, she told herself it was still just a cup of coffee.

That night, Rachel climbed into bed beside Brad, the house quiet except for the hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the settling floorboards. The kids were asleep. The lights were off.

Brad turned toward her and slid a hand under the covers, resting it on her hip.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” she said, a little too quickly. “Just tired.”

He leaned in and kissed her shoulder, warm and familiar. “We haven’t… you know… in a while.”

She hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.”

He kissed her again, slower this time. His hands moved gently, tracing the curve of her waist, her thighs. Rachel closed her eyes and tried to stay present—to feel his skin, his breath, the rhythm they used to fall into so easily.

But her mind drifted.

It wasn’t deliberate. It just happened.

She saw Damon leaning in her doorway. Heard the deep rumble of his voice in her ear. Felt again the press of his hands on her shoulders, firm and confident. That steady strength. That scent.

Rachel blinked and tried to focus, but Brad’s fingers felt soft now. Hesitant. Familiar in a way that made her ache—not with desire, but with loss.

She shifted beneath him and made the right sounds. Responded when she needed to. Let him finish.

Afterward, Brad kissed her cheek and whispered, “I love you,” before rolling over.

Rachel stared at the ceiling.

She felt hollow and guilty and strangely hungry.

She reached over and turned out the lamp, the quiet of the room pressing in around her.

And in the darkness, she imagined what it would feel like if the hands on her body weren’t Brad’s at all.

Rachel arrived even earlier than usual.

She hadn’t slept well. Her dreams were a mess of images she didn’t want to name—skin and sweat and hands that didn’t belong to her husband. She’d woken before her alarm, her body still buzzing, her chest tight.

By the time she reached her office, the sky was still streaked with pink and slate gray. The halls were silent.

He was already there.

Damon stood outside her door, a cup in his hand, waiting for her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Good morning, Rachel,” he said.

His voice was soft, but it carried. It always did.

“Good morning,” she replied, trying not to let her smile give too much away.

He handed her the coffee. Their fingers brushed again—longer this time. Neither of them pulled away.

Steam curled up from the lid. The smell was warm and sweet and familiar.

She looked down at the note stuck to the side:

“M.Y.L.E. #4—still going.”

This time, he’d drawn a little winking face next to the initials.

Rachel laughed under her breath. “You’re persistent.”

“I told you,” he said. “I aim to please.”

She stepped inside, gesturing for him to follow. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I’m working on it.”

He leaned against her desk again, arms crossed, watching her as she sipped. His gaze was steady, curious. It wasn’t just about her body—though she could feel the heat in it. He looked at her like he wanted to understand something.

She felt it everywhere.

“I’ve never had someone bring me coffee four days in a row,” she said.

“I like routines,” he replied. “And I like seeing you smile.”

Rachel swallowed. Her pulse fluttered in her neck. She wanted to say something clever. Light. She wanted to keep things safe.

Instead, she said, “You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” he said, stepping a little closer. “That’s why it means something.”

Silence stretched between them, full and charged.

He didn’t touch her. But his presence was close enough that she could feel his body heat.

Rachel glanced at the clock on her desk. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“Not unless you want me to,” he said, then added quickly—gently—“I’m just saying… I can stop. If you want me to.”

She looked up at him. “Do you want to stop?”

His smile was slow, unhurried. “No.”

Her breath caught. “Then don’t.”

Neither of them moved. The air between them felt heavy with things they hadn’t yet done, but were already thinking about.

Outside, a door slammed somewhere in the building.

Damon straightened slightly. “I should get to it.”

Rachel nodded, trying to steady herself. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He lingered at the door, then looked back at her. “Tomorrow?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Rachel sat down slowly, the cup still warm in her hand. Her thighs pressed together. Her lips tingled with the memory of the almost.

It was no longer just flirtation. Not to her.

And she knew it wasn’t to him either.

Rachel sat alone for a long time after the door clicked shut.

The coffee steamed gently in her hands, but her thoughts were loud—too loud to enjoy the drink. The moment had been brief, but unmistakable. There was no ambiguity anymore. Damon wasn’t just being kind or flirty. He wanted her. The look in his eyes made it plain. His steadiness. The careful way he stepped closer, like he was giving her time to step away—and watching to see if she would.

She hadn’t.

That part scared her the most.

It would have been easier if he were reckless or aggressive. But Damon wasn’t pushing. He was waiting. And in that space he left open, Rachel felt herself leaning in further than she ever meant to.

She thought about Brad. About their awkward attempt at intimacy the night before. How she’d gone through the motions with her body while her mind drifted elsewhere. It wasn’t fair to him. But it wasn’t fake, either. She did love Brad. She loved the life they’d built. Their kids. Their history.

But what she felt now was something different. It wasn’t just about sex, or Damon’s muscles, or the little rush of getting attention again. It was the way Damon made her feel—like she was still visible. Still sharp. Still desired not in a passive way, but in a way that was alive. Present. Seen.

She couldn’t pretend anymore that this was innocent.

And she wasn’t going to drift into something reckless just because it felt good. She needed to take control of it—whatever it was.

She wouldn’t play games. No more teenage smiles or shoulder brushes. No more pretending the coffee didn’t mean what it clearly did.

Tomorrow morning, she’d tell him.

She didn’t know what she was going to say. But it would be honest. Direct. And whatever happened after that, at least she’d know she hadn’t run from it.

The next morning, Rachel arrived before the sun had fully risen.

She’d dressed simply—no bold lipstick, no extra perfume. She didn’t want to seduce him. Not today. She wanted to speak clearly, without artifice. Whatever this thing between them was, it needed air. Honesty.

She found him waiting again, just outside her office door. Same uniform. Same easy posture. A fresh cup in his hand.

“Morning,” he said, offering the drink. His smile faltered the moment he saw her expression.

Rachel didn’t take the coffee. Not yet.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

He studied her face for a beat, then nodded. “Of course.”

They stepped inside. Rachel shut the door and leaned against it, arms crossed. Her pulse thundered in her throat, but her voice stayed level.

“I just want to be clear about something,” she began. “This… whatever’s been happening between us—it’s not nothing.”

Damon stayed quiet, listening.

She swallowed. “You’ve been kind. Thoughtful. And I’ve appreciated it more than I know how to say. But I’m married. I have a family. This is dangerous for me. And it’s not fair to pretend it’s innocent anymore.”

Damon nodded once. No defensiveness. No charm. Just focus.

“You’re right,” he said.

Rachel blinked, surprised.

“You’re right to bring it up,” he continued. “And you deserve clarity too. So let me be clear: I’m not playing around. I see you, Rachel. I’m interested. And not just in sex—though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it.”

A smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “I figured.”

“But it’s more than that,” he said. “It’s the way you light up when you talk about your students. The way you hold things together even when no one’s helping you. I respect you. And I want to know you. If I didn’t think you were worth the risk, I wouldn’t be here.”

Rachel looked away for a second, overwhelmed by the sincerity in his voice.

“I don’t want to ruin your life,” he added gently. “But I’m also not going to pretend I don’t want you. I do. Completely.”

Silence hung between them.

Rachel finally stepped forward and took the coffee from his hand. Her fingers lingered on his for a moment—longer than usual.

“You make it very hard to say no,” she said quietly.

“I’m not asking you to say yes,” Damon replied. “Not today. Just don’t pretend you’re not already halfway there.”

That landed hard. True.

She held his gaze, steady now. “If I do this… it won’t be a mistake. I don’t want to get swept up and pretend it ‘just happened.’ I need to choose it. Fully.”

Damon nodded. “Then take your time. I’ll be here.”

The moment was thick with possibility—unspoken but no longer ambiguous.

Then came the sharp clang of the bell.

Rachel startled, blinking. The hallway outside sprang to life: lockers slamming, footsteps, adolescent voices rising in chaotic chatter.

She looked back at Damon. “I have first period.”

He gave her a slow, warm smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Rachel stepped out into the hallway, her coffee warm in her hands, the morning already spinning around her. But inside, she felt something settle.

She had made a decision.

Not yet—but soon.

The next day, Rachel arrived at school earlier than usual. She wasn’t nervous—not exactly. Just alert. Electric. Her thoughts had been sharp all weekend, but her decision had been clear by Sunday night.

She didn’t dress differently than Monday. No extra makeup. No dramatic flair. She didn’t want to lure him in with theater. She wanted to be seen—wanted him to have her, not a performance.

Damon was already outside her office, coffee in hand. He saw her coming and straightened, but said nothing. Just held out the cup, waiting.

Rachel took it, her fingers closing gently around his.

She looked up into his eyes.

And then she stepped inside and left the door open.

He followed.

She closed it behind them.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Rachel set the coffee on her desk, turned, and reached for him.

Their lips met—tentative at first, then hungry. Their bodies pressed close. Her arms curled around his neck; his hands rested lightly on her waist. The kiss deepened, slow and heady, and Rachel felt herself melt into him, her heart thudding in her chest.

She gasped softly when their mouths broke apart.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” she whispered.

Damon smiled, forehead resting against hers. “That makes two of us.”

They kissed again—longer this time. When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Rachel touched the front pocket of his uniform shirt.

“Give me your number.”

He pulled out his phone, handed it to her, and she typed hers in without hesitation. A moment later, hers buzzed. A text.

Damon:  

Just so you don’t forget who’s thinking about you all day.

She laughed, eyes wet. “You’re dangerous.”

He leaned in, brushing her cheek with his lips. “Only if you let me be.”

Rachel taught her first class in a daze.

Her lips still tingled. Her skin buzzed where his hands had rested. The kiss had been nothing wild, nothing X-rated—but it had been real. Hungry. Full of all the things they hadn’t said aloud until now.

She stood at the front of the classroom, reciting blocking notes for a student scene, but her mind kept drifting. Every few minutes, she touched her lower lip, remembering how Damon had pressed his forehead to hers afterward—tender and possessive all at once.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket during second period.

Damon:

Still thinking about that kiss.

Also—your hair smells amazing. Had to say it.

Rachel bit back a grin and slid her phone face-down on her desk. A warmth bloomed in her chest. It had been years since someone flirted with her in such a simple, sincere way.

Later, while her students read silently, she texted back:

Rachel:

Now I’m self-conscious about what shampoo I used.

Don’t distract me—I’m trying to be professional.

A few seconds later:

Damon:

You’re adorable when you pretend you’re not melting.

She was.

She knew it.

But she also felt…steady. As though something inside her had snapped into place.

At lunch, she ate half a salad in her office and turned her phone over again.

Damon:

Didn’t want to bug you. Just letting you know I’m around if you need anything. Or if you just want someone to smile at you for a minute.

Rachel stared at the message for a while, her fingers poised over the screen.

Rachel:

How are you this good at saying exactly what I need to hear?

Damon:

Because I’m paying attention.

That one made her throat tighten.

She tried to tell herself this was just attraction. Heat. Something primal and short-lived. But that message—the way he said it—cut deeper than lust. He saw her. And she wasn’t ready to admit how long it had been since she’d truly felt seen.

By the time the final bell rang, her chest was tight with both anticipation and fear.

She hadn’t made another move. Neither had he. But as she gathered her bag and powered down her computer, her phone buzzed one more time.

Damon:

Still thinking about that kiss.

She smiled, cheeks flushed, and locked her office door behind her.

That night, the house was still. Brad had gone out with a few of his old college buddies—some bar downtown, something to do with March Madness. The boys were upstairs in bed, their doors cracked just enough for Rachel to hear their soft, rhythmic breathing.

She cleaned up the kitchen slowly, trying not to let her mind wander.

But it did.

Over and over again, her thoughts looped back to the way Damon had kissed her that morning. The weight of his body so close. His scent—clean and masculine and deliberate. His voice in those texts, casually carving through the noise of her day with exactly the right words.

Her hands trembled as she dried the last dish. She opened the fridge out of habit. And paused.

Her eyes landed on a long, cold cucumber resting in the produce drawer.

She stared at it for a beat too long.

Then she pulled it out, closed the fridge quietly, and padded up the stairs with it tucked beneath her sweater like it was contraband.

In the master bedroom, she locked the door. The kids were good sleepers. Brad wouldn’t be home for hours. And she couldn’t take it anymore—the ache, the constant pressure between her legs, the memory of how Damon’s hands had gripped her waist like she belonged to him.

She lay back on the bed and peeled off her clothes one piece at a time. Her thighs were already slick, her breath shallow.

Her fingers weren’t enough tonight.

She reached for the cucumber and paused, glancing toward the nightstand. Inside the drawer was a small stash of plastic grocery bags—extras they kept for the upstairs wastebasket.

She pulled out a thin, soft produce bag, and carefully wrapped it around the cucumber, tying it off with a twist to keep things smooth and clean. Then she settled back, legs parting, and guided it into place.

Her hips rocked as she eased it in, inch by inch, her body clenching around the cool shape.

She moaned softly, biting her lip to stay quiet.

Eyes shut, she didn’t picture porn or even her husband. She pictured Damon—his mouth on hers, his hand cradling the back of her neck, the fire in his eyes when he looked at her like he knew exactly what she was about to do.

She moved faster, one hand clutching the sheets, the other gripping the smooth, wrapped shaft. Her breath hitched. Her toes curled.

When she came, it wasn’t explosive—but it was sharp. Hot. A release she hadn’t realized she’d been holding for days. She lay there in the dim bedroom afterward, the cucumber slipping from her hand to the sheets, her chest rising and falling.

She felt relief.

She also felt shame.

But mostly, she felt awake.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel numb.

Monday Morning

Rachel arrived at school with a fire already smoldering low in her belly.

The weekend had been unbearable. Long family outings, idle conversations with Brad, the quiet ache of knowing what she’d tasted and what she hadn’t yet touched. Her body was primed, restless, unsatisfied.

She’d texted with Damon all weekend—small things, check-ins, sly innuendos. But nothing had come close to replacing the way his mouth had felt on hers. Nothing could.

Her heels clicked faster than usual down the deserted hallway as she approached her office. The early hour wrapped the campus in silence.

He was waiting again.

This time, there was no coffee. No pretense.

Their eyes met. Rachel unlocked the door without a word and stepped inside, leaving it cracked just enough to listen for approaching footsteps.

Damon followed.

The moment the door clicked shut, they came together hard—mouths crashing, breath shared. Rachel’s back hit the edge of her desk, and she welcomed it, her fingers threading through the back of his shirt, pulling him closer. Damon’s hands cupped her face, his kiss deep and slow, then urgent, then slow again. Each change in rhythm left her gasping.

She broke away, only to whisper, “I missed you.”

“God, Rachel,” he murmured, his forehead pressed to hers, “I’ve been losing my mind thinking about you.”

They kissed again, longer this time. He lifted her slightly, setting her on the edge of her desk, her knees parting instinctively to cradle his hips. His hands stayed at her waist, firm but still—no wandering. He wasn’t rushing her. That restraint made her want him more.

She nipped his bottom lip. He groaned into her mouth.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about your texts,” she said.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what’s under this skirt,” he replied, breath hot.

She laughed softly, tugging him in again. “Not yet.”

“I’m patient,” he said, grinding once—just enough to make her gasp.

They stayed that way for several more minutes, tangled, lips swollen, hands greedy but careful. It wasn’t a tease—it was a promise.

Finally, when the first wave of student noise echoed through the hallway, Rachel broke the kiss, panting slightly. “You have to go.”

Damon brushed her hair back with surprising tenderness. “Only if you tell me we’re doing this again tomorrow.”

She slid off the desk, smoothing her blouse, trying to catch her breath. “We are.”

He kissed her once more—short but searing—and slipped out, the door barely making a sound.

Rachel stood in the quiet that followed, legs weak, chest flushed.

She hadn’t even touched his belt.

But her body burned like she already had.

Tuesday Morning

Rachel barely slept.

All day Monday, her body had been humming—every thought, every movement traced back to the way Damon had kissed her, the way his hands had settled at her waist with just enough pressure to promise more. She’d spent the evening grading papers, legs crossed tightly, the heat between her thighs pulsing like a quiet drum. She hadn’t touched herself—not because she didn’t want to, but because she wanted him to do it first.

She arrived at school earlier than ever.

Damon was already there.

There was no coffee today. No small talk. Just heat in his eyes and a door that closed softly behind them.

Rachel turned to him the moment the latch clicked. Their mouths met in a clash of breath and urgency. Damon pressed her back against the wall this time, not bothering with the desk. His hands were already on her hips, pulling her in tight.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you last night,” he murmured against her lips.

“Then don’t,” she whispered.

He lifted her slightly and pressed his thigh between hers. Rachel moaned, clinging to his shoulders as she ground down against the pressure. Their kisses deepened, hands greedy, breath hot and tangled.

Then his fingers slipped beneath her blouse, skimming her waist, her ribs. She gasped, arching into him, but didn’t stop him.

When his hand finally slid down and beneath her skirt, she froze—not in fear, but anticipation.

Damon looked at her. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Rachel met his gaze, chest heaving. “Don’t stop.”

His fingers moved higher, grazing the edge of her panties—silky, damp. He palmed her slowly through the fabric, pressing the heat of his hand into her sex until she whimpered. She clung to him, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, nipping her earlobe. “Is this all for me?”

Rachel bit her lip, nodding.

His fingers stroked her through the fabric, back and forth, teasing the spot that made her knees shake. He didn’t rush. He didn’t slide under yet—just circled, pressed, coaxed her toward the edge like he had all the time in the world.

“Please,” she breathed, clutching the back of his neck.

Then, finally, his fingers slipped beneath the lace. Found her.

She gasped—a sharp, open sound—and rocked against his hand as he touched her in slow, confident circles. Two fingers slipped inside her, and she gripped his arms as her body trembled. Her moans were soft but desperate, each one stifled against his shoulder.

It didn’t take long.

Her climax hit like a wave—tight, breathless, rising from deep inside and cresting in a rush. Her body clenched around his fingers, her thighs squeezing tight. She buried her face against his chest to muffle the sound, riding it out as he held her firmly in place.

When she came down, she was panting, trembling, lips parted against his shirt.

Damon withdrew his hand slowly, then kissed her temple.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered.

She couldn’t speak—only leaned against him, shaky and dazed, her panties damp and askew.

A soft knock echoed down the hallway. Voices in the distance. The school was waking up.

Rachel stepped back, legs unsteady, and adjusted her skirt. “Tomorrow,” she whispered.

He smiled. “Tomorrow.”

Wednesday Morning

Rachel barely made it through the night.

She kept reliving the way Damon had touched her—the skill in his fingers, the way he’d waited until she begged. The way her orgasm had surprised her with its intensity, the way she’d clung to him after like she’d forgotten how to stand.

She wanted to give something back.

She wanted him to be undone.

By the time she reached her office, her stomach was tight with nerves and anticipation. She’d dressed in a soft gray pencil skirt and a black blouse, simple and clean—but beneath it, she wore her most delicate lace panties. It made her feel powerful. Ready.

He was already there, leaning casually against the wall beside her door. No coffee. Just a knowing look.

“Morning,” she said, unlocking the door.

Damon followed her inside and shut it behind them. She turned to him and kissed him without a word—open-mouthed, hungry. He pressed her back against the desk again, one hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her waist.

But this time, she pulled away first.

“Let me,” she whispered, her breath catching. “Let me take care of you.”

Damon paused, studying her face. His voice dropped low. “You sure?”

Rachel nodded. “I want to.”

He stepped back just enough to give her room.

Her hands moved to his belt, and even that felt electric—unbuckling the leather, unfastening the button, lowering the zipper. He was already hard, the outline of him thick and stretching the fabric.

When she pulled him free, her breath hitched.

He was big.

Long, thick, heavy in her hand. Not porn-star exaggerated, but substantial—more than she was used to. The kind of size that made her pulse spike with both excitement and hesitation.

“Wow,” she murmured without meaning to.

Damon smiled, his voice gentle. “Take your time.”

She stroked him slowly, fingers wrapping around the base, marveling at the heat, the weight of him. Her body ached just from touching it. Her mouth watered.

She knelt between his legs, hair falling forward, and looked up at him once.

His hand brushed her cheek. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

“I want to,” she said, and leaned in.

Her lips brushed the tip, soft and warm. She kissed him first—small, exploratory presses of her mouth along his length. He exhaled, hips twitching slightly, and she felt a rush of pride.

Then she took him into her mouth.

Slowly.

She wasn’t in a hurry. She worked him inch by inch, adjusting to his size, letting herself relax into the rhythm. Her tongue circled the head, her hand pumping what her mouth couldn’t reach. Damon’s hand settled gently on the back of her head—not forcing, just steadying. His breath came faster now, a low groan vibrating in his chest.

Rachel moaned around him, aroused by the power in the act, the control. The way she was doing this to him.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, voice ragged. “Just like that…”

Without warning, he tensed—hips jerking slightly—and the first hot spurt hit the back of her throat.

Rachel gagged.

She pulled back quickly, coughing, her eyes wide. The next pulse spilled out onto her lips, down her chin, and splattered onto the carpet.

“Shit—sorry,” Damon gasped, grabbing the base of his cock.

He stepped back and angled himself toward the edge of her desk, groaning as the last few thick ropes spilled across the wood grain in creamy streaks.

Rachel stared, stunned, still on her knees. Her lips were parted, her chin glistening. “God… it’s a lot,” she whispered, a little dazed.

Damon chuckled, breathless. “Yeah. Been holding back.”

She wiped her chin with the back of her hand, half laughing. “Sorry. I didn’t expect—”

“You’re fine,” he said, tucking himself away and grabbing a rag from his belt. “My bad. Should’ve warned you.”

He pulled a spray bottle of cleaner from his pocket—standard issue—and spritzed the desk, then crouched to blot the carpet. Rachel watched, still catching her breath, equal parts amused and turned on by how casually he handled it.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said with a wink. “Custodian perks.”

She stood, smoothing her skirt, her face flushed. “That was… intense.”

“You’re amazing,” he said. “Mess and all.”

She laughed, heart pounding, and kissed him once—sweet and grateful.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

Her answer was a quiet nod.

Thursday Morning

Rachel had barely made it out of bed.

Her thighs still ached from kneeling the day before—half from the position, half from the aftermath of what they’d done. Her dreams had been soaked in heat: Damon’s hands, his mouth, his voice thick with praise as she took him. She woke damp and aching, but she didn’t touch herself.

She wanted to save that edge for him.

The halls were dim and quiet as she made her way to her office, heart thudding with anticipation. Damon was already there—leaning against the wall in that same casual stance, but the look in his eyes was anything but calm.

No coffee. No words. Just heat.

She opened the door and stepped inside. He followed and locked it behind them.

This time, he didn’t kiss her first.

Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rachel froze. “Wait—what are you—”

“Shh,” Damon said, already pushing her skirt higher, his hands firm on her hips. “Let me.”

Her panties were black lace today, damp already. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, slow and reverent. Rachel’s breath hitched, fingers knotting in his shirt.

He nuzzled the thin fabric between her legs, inhaling deeply, and smiled. “You’re so ready.”

She trembled. “Damon…”

He peeled the panties aside and licked her slowly—broad and unhurried. Rachel nearly collapsed. Her back arched as his mouth latched onto her clit, tongue circling, teasing, exploring.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, eyes wide and unfocused.

He moaned into her, the vibration making her knees weak. His arms wrapped around her thighs, steadying her as he went deeper—tongue sliding lower, then back up, drawing soft, wet circles until she was shaking.

Rachel grabbed the edge of the desk behind her to keep from falling.

He didn’t rush.

He built her up like he had all the time in the world, until her legs were trembling and her breathing came in short, desperate gasps.

When she came, it was sudden and intense—her body curling inward as pleasure pulsed through her. Damon held her steady, kissing her through it, gentle now, letting her ride it down.

She sagged against the desk, flushed and dazed.

“Jesus, Damon…”

He stood, lips glistening, eyes dark with heat.

Rachel reached for him, fumbling at his belt. “Now me.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

She dropped to her knees again, this time without hesitation.

She freed him quickly and took him into her mouth with newfound hunger. The taste of herself on his skin made her moan. Damon groaned above her, hand resting lightly at the back of her head as she worked him slowly, then faster, then back again—teasing him the way he had teased her.

She didn’t finish him this time. She pulled back just as he tensed, and he understood immediately.

“Tomorrow?” he asked, breathless.

She nodded, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, still grinning. “We take turns now.”

He kissed her hard—fast and deep—before slipping out the door to start his shift.

Rachel stood alone in her office, heart pounding, skirt damp and misaligned.

She didn’t know how long they could keep this up.

But she knew one thing for certain:

She didn’t want it to stop.

Friday Morning

Rachel woke early with a flutter in her stomach.

She assumed they would keep their rhythm. Another quiet morning. Another stolen moment of pleasure—his mouth between her thighs, her fingers gripping the edge of her desk, her body melting into his name.

But something about today felt different.

For the first time, she shaved more carefully. Smoothed lotion over her legs. Picked a fresh pair of soft, pale-pink panties trimmed in lace—prettier than usual, and easier to slide aside. She sprayed just a hint of perfume between her thighs and pressed her skirt flat against her hips, making sure she looked—and smelled—inviting.

She didn’t know exactly why she was going the extra mile.

But some part of her expected him to notice.

When she arrived, Damon wasn’t waiting outside her office.

Her stomach dipped for a moment, until she turned the corner and spotted the cracked door to the small custodial office tucked beside the Landscaping storage shed.

She knocked gently.

He opened it and pulled her inside without a word.

His office was cramped—clean but cluttered, with a mop bucket in the corner, a couple of shelves lined with cleaner bottles, a tiny desk with a beat-up rolling chair. It smelled like citrus and something earthy. Like him.

He closed the door behind her and smiled.

“Morning. Thought we needed a change of scenery,” he said.

She smiled back. “Hi. Okay.”

There was a pause, quiet and warm.

Then he kissed her—sweetly this time. Slowly. No rush, no teeth. Just lips pressing gently, hands resting at her hips. Rachel melted into him, her fingers sliding up to cradle the back of his neck.

When their mouths parted, she was breathless.

She reached between them and ran her palm over the front of his jeans.

He was already hard.

“I thought we had a routine,” she whispered.

“We do,” he said, his voice low. “But I want more today. If you’re ready.”

Her breath caught. She met his gaze. There was no pressure in it. No push. Just an invitation.

She nodded.

Damon kissed her once more, then took her hand and led her out the side door.

They crossed a narrow walkway behind the building, moving quickly and quietly. The sky was still dark, a heavy pre-dawn blue with just a faint orange glow beginning to soften the eastern horizon. The world felt suspended—quiet, expectant.

Damon unlocked the door to the Landscape department shed and pulled it open.

Inside, the air was cool and still. The only light came from a small workbench lamp in the back corner, its bulb casting a narrow cone of warm yellow across a cluttered table. The rest of the shed remained in shadow—stacks of soil and fertilizer bags, coils of hose, rust-flecked tools lining the walls in quiet silhouette.

Damon shut the door behind them and flipped the bolt.

Rachel’s breath caught. It felt private in here. Hidden. The kind of place where secrets could safely live.

He turned to her, hands gentle as he guided her deeper inside. She followed wordlessly, her heels clicking softly on the concrete floor until they reached a short tower of sealed fertilizer sacks. Damon gave them a pat.

“Up.”

She smirked. “Seriously?”

“They’re stable,” he said, lifting her with ease.

She settled atop the bags, her skirt riding high as her legs parted to keep balance. The cool air kissed her thighs, made her nipples tighten beneath her blouse. She could barely see his face in the dark—but she could feel his eyes on her.

“I thought you might go down on me again,” she whispered, voice teasing but breathless.

“Oh, I am,” he said, dropping to his knees.

The soft glow from the workbench lamp barely reached them, but she felt the warmth of his breath as he pushed her skirt higher. Fingers hooked the edge of her lace panties and peeled them slowly down her legs.

“You shaved,” he murmured, lips brushing her inner thigh.

“I wanted to be smooth for you.”

He groaned quietly. “You are.”

Then he buried his face between her legs.

Damon’s tongue found her slowly, with the same patience he’d shown all week—but now with a deeper hunger. He licked in long, deliberate strokes, savoring every reaction, every twitch of her thighs. His hands gripped her hips, keeping her steady as he pressed in, his mouth claiming her inch by inch.

Rachel leaned back on her elbows, her chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. The fertilizer sacks crinkled softly beneath her, a makeshift bed that felt more intimate than any hotel suite.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

His tongue circled her clit, then flicked faster—just enough to make her gasp. Then slower again. Deep, teasing passes, in and out, in and out, until her back arched off the bags.

“I’m close,” she gasped.

Damon groaned into her, pulling her closer. He flattened his tongue against her, sucking gently as she shook. Her body tensed, every muscle winding tight, her orgasm cresting—

Then he stopped.

Rachel whimpered, blinking down at him, confused and desperate.

“What are you—”

“I want to be inside you when you come,” he said, rising from his knees.

His voice was low. Rough. Absolute.

Rachel’s breath caught.

He climbed up carefully, bracing one hand beside her head as he positioned himself between her legs. The tip of his cock nudged her opening, slick and ready. She wrapped her legs around his waist, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other covering her mouth as he pushed in—slow, thick, stretching her with each inch.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned against her palm.

Damon grunted, eyes locked on hers. “You feel… incredible.”

He bottomed out with a slow, grinding thrust, her body yielding around him.

They stayed like that for a beat—still, trembling, adjusting.

Then he began to move.

The sacks beneath them shifted slightly, crinkling with each rhythm. His strokes were deep and steady, rocking her against the bags, each one hitting just right. Rachel clung to him, her face flushed, her mouth open but silent, trying not to make noise.

The desk lamp in the corner glowed like a secret witness.

She felt the pressure return—fast and sharp. Her body rose to meet it, every nerve lit, her breath breaking apart in quiet gasps. She curled into him, trembling.

“I’m gonna—Damon—”

“Let go,” he whispered. “Give it to me.”

She came with a soft cry muffled against his shoulder, her thighs locking around his hips, her whole body pulsing in waves. Damon didn’t stop. He held her through it, thrusting harder now, riding the tight squeeze of her climax until he groaned and came deep inside her, his release spilling hot and thick.

They stayed tangled together on the fertilizer sacks, breath slowing, hearts pounding, still coming down from the intensity of their shared climax.

Then came the sound—footsteps outside. A door opening nearby. Voices.

They froze.

Damon covered Rachel’s mouth gently with his hand, still buried inside her. She clung to him, wide-eyed, both of them holding perfectly still as the steps moved past the shed.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

The voices faded.

Rachel exhaled hard when he lifted his hand. “Jesus Christ.”

“You okay?” he asked, brushing the hair from her cheek.

“Yeah,” she said, still breathless. “I think so.”

He pulled out slowly, and Rachel gasped again at the warm spill of his release trickling from between her legs. It dribbled down onto the fertilizer sacks, thick and sticky.

Damon grabbed a rag from a nearby shelf and cleaned her up gently, then blotted the mess on the bag with practiced ease. Rachel slid down to stand on shaky legs, smoothing her skirt and tucking herself back together.

They exited the shed carefully, moving with quiet urgency, and returned to his office. It was still early. Still dark outside. But the world was beginning to wake.

Inside, the cramped space offered a moment of privacy.

Damon locked the door, then turned to her with a grin. “We’ve been playing with fire.”

Rachel let out a breath, half-laughing. “That was… a lot.”

“Worth it,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “But yeah. We need a smarter routine.”

She nodded, wiping a smudge of dirt from her knee. “We can’t keep this up on campus.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Damon said. “Come to my place. Twice a week. Before school. I’ll cook. We can take our time. No fertilizer sacks.”

She blinked, surprised. “Your house?”

He nodded. “Nobody will bother us there. Just mornings. You’ll still get to work on time.”

Rachel hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Brad and I have each other on tracking apps.”

Damon’s brows lifted slightly, waiting.

“But… I could say I’m doing early yoga with a few teacher friends. At someone’s house. A group thing.”

Damon gave a small nod. “He doesn’t know which address belongs to who?”

“No,” she said, thinking it through. “He barely knows their names. If I say I’m going to Amanda’s or Jen’s before school a couple times a week, he’ll just assume I’m trying to be healthy.”

She paused, considering.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Damon stepped closer, brushing his thumb across her hip. “We’ll go slow. No pressure. Just you and me. And coffee, if you want it.”

She smiled, heart still fluttering. “I always want coffee.”

He kissed her again, sweet and warm.

Outside, the morning was brightening—but inside, they were already building a new rhythm. A quieter one.

A more dangerous one.

Saturday Afternoon

Rachel wasn’t sure when “I could probably get away with it” had turned into “I want to get away with it.”

It started as a simple errand—an excuse to get out of the house while Brad took the boys to the park. She told him she needed to pick up a few things for school, which was technically true. But once she parked at the strip mall and stepped inside the athletic boutique, her intentions sharpened.

She moved through the racks with purpose.

Tight yoga pants in smooth black and slate gray. A fitted tank with a dipped neckline. A long-sleeved half-zip in moisture-wicking fabric that hugged her arms like a second skin. Pieces that could pass for modest, practical exercise wear—but worn together, they left very little to the imagination.

She held the tank top against her body in the mirror. Thought of Damon’s hands sliding it up over her ribs.

Then, on a whim, she made a quiet detour to the lingerie section of the department store across the street.

She chose three pairs of panties. Lacy. Barely-there. Black, wine, and a warm blush pink. Not for functionality. Not for her husband.

She knew exactly who they were for.

When she got home, the house was still quiet. She took a few minutes to peel off her jeans and try on the new workout set in the mirror—leggings snug and high on her hips, the tank clinging to her breasts like it had been poured on.

She took a picture in the mirror—just her torso, from shoulders to thighs. A second one followed: the wine-colored panties, visible beneath the curve of her tank, her hand tugging the waistband just slightly lower.

Then she sent them.

Rachel:

Thought I should dress appropriately for our yoga sessions.

It took Damon less than a minute to respond.

Damon:

You’re trying to kill me.

That second pic? I had to sit down.

Rachel:

Then wait until you see the black pair.

Damon:

I’m going to ruin you in those. Be ready.

Her stomach flipped at his words. She lay back on the bed for a moment, phone still in her hand, her heart pounding with a dangerous, delicious thrill.

She wasn’t just letting this happen anymore.

She was choosing it.

And Monday couldn’t come fast enough.

Sunday Night

Rachel sat on the couch with her legs curled beneath her, a glass of white wine sweating on the end table beside her. The TV murmured in the background—some game show Brad liked to half-watch while scrolling through sports scores on his phone.

She waited for the right moment, letting the conversation drift from weekend plans to sleep schedules.

Then, casually: “Oh—by the way, I’m going to start doing morning yoga before school a couple times a week.”

Brad glanced over, mildly interested. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. A few of us from work. Jen and Amanda and a couple others. Nothing serious. Just something to get the blood moving, you know?”

He nodded. “Where at?”

“Amanda’s place. Near the west side of town. She’s got a basement studio and all the gear.”

Brad smirked, thumb flicking up his screen. “Look at you. Overachiever.”

Rachel laughed softly. “Trying to keep the stress in check.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Good for you. Just don’t wake me up when you leave.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

He went back to his phone.

Rachel reached for hers.

She pulled up her contacts, scrolled to Damon’s name, and edited it. Deleted his real name. Replaced it with a safe, forgettable label:

“Custodial Service.”

She changed the text tone to something generic. Disabled previews on the lock screen. Then opened their message thread and reread his last response.

I’m going to ruin you in those. Be ready.

A chill moved down her spine, low and sweet.

She stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard, then tapped out a reply.

Rachel:

“Custodial Service” has a nice ring to it. See you at 6:15.

He replied instantly.

Damon:

I’ll have coffee. And plans.

Rachel silenced her phone and tucked it under the couch pillow, just as Brad shifted to lie down beside her.

She smiled faintly and sipped her wine.

Tomorrow, she wouldn’t be sneaking around a school shed.

Tomorrow, she’d be stepping through the front door of his house—clean, calm, and entirely them.

TO BE CONTINUED…