When Ben Carter pictures adulthood, it doesn’t look like this: it’s not the amber light in a two-bedroom apartment, the sound of pasta water bubbling, or the faint chemical haze of laundry sheets. But he doesn’t complain. The ordinary turns out to be comfortable, almost addictive, and after a year of living with Sheila, Ben can’t imagine any other shape for his life.
He finds her in the kitchen, humming tunelessly as she stirs tomato sauce. She’s barefoot, her hazel eyes bright above a pair of plastic-framed reading glasses that have never actually touched a book. Ben is supposed to be folding laundry, but instead, he’s propped against the door frame, watching her like he’s just stumbled on something precious in the wild.
She senses his presence and turns, the spoon dripping the red sauce. “You gonna just stand there, or do you want to taste this?”
He grins as he moves closer. “Is this a trap?”
“Depends,” Sheila says, “how honest you are.” She holds the spoon out, the hot sauce glistening, and he leans in to taste. Her free hand catches his chin, her thumb grazing the edge of his jaw.
He makes a show of smacking his lips. “I think it needs a little more salt,” he pronounces, and she narrows her eyes, then kisses the taste off his lower lip.
Ben likes the way their lives have grown together: small routines that become rituals, like Thursday-night spaghetti or the way Sheila keeps her coffee mug in the freezer to chill. He even likes her weird, earthy scent—something like honey and leaves and, lately, a faint residue of second-grade classroom crayons.
After dinner, they sink into the couch, their legs tangled as Sheila rests her head on his shoulder while her feet tuck under his thigh for warmth.
He scrolls mindlessly through his phone, his eyes darting up every few seconds to the muted TV while Sheila reads a paperback novel.
The apartment hums quietly around them, the way machines do when left to their own devices. For a few minutes, Ben lets his mind blank out, savoring the low, satisfied ache of a full stomach.
However, the spell is broken by Sheila’s phone, chiming insistently from the coffee table. She glances at the caller ID and answers without hesitation.
“Tara!” she says, instantly more alert.
Ben registers the name with a mixture of curiosity and unease. He’s only met Tara twice, and he remembers how wild she is. He gets the impression Tara doesn’t believe in boundaries, or if she does, she only respects the ones she sets herself. He always thinks she is a bad influence on Sheila, but never says anything, knowing she is Sheila’s best friend.
He half-listens as Sheila moves to the kitchen for privacy, her voice soft but urgent. There’s a tension in her posture, an empathy that makes her crumple around the phone.
“I’m so sorry,” she says at least three times in the first minute. Ben wonders what disaster has landed this time.
After a while, Sheila returns, cradling the phone against her chest. She sits, but doesn’t settle, her energy sparking the room like a live wire.
“Everything okay?” Ben asks.
She hesitates, teeth worrying at the soft flesh inside her cheek. “Tara’s mom found a new guy. A real piece of work. He moved into the house while Tara was away at school, and now he’s acting like he owns the place. Making it pretty clear there’s no room for both of them under the same roof.”
Ben nods, waiting. He knows Sheila; her empathy is a freight train, and once it gets rolling, there’s no stopping it.
“She wants to come home but needs a place to crash for a while. You know, just until she finds her own thing.” Sheila’s eyes find his, her lips parting then pressing together before she finally speaks. “So I kind of already told her she could crash here for a while. That’s cool with you, isn’t it?”
He shrugs, suppressing the warning flicker in his chest. “Sure. It’s your place too. She can stay as long as she needs.”
Sheila beams, relief flooding her features. “You’re the best,” she says, and kisses him hard on the mouth. There’s a faint sweetness to the tomato sauce.
Two days later, Tara arrives with the storm. Rain cascades from her clothes onto the welcome mat, her white top clinging like a second skin. Ben finds himself looking straight into her eyes—she’s taller than he remembers. Gone is the halo of wild curls; instead, her hair forms neat, intricate braids framing a face that studies him with cool appraisal. Her extended hand is slender, nails perfectly manicured against deep brown skin.
“Nice place,” she says, scanning the apartment like an auditor. “Didn’t expect you two to go full domestic already.”
She drops her backpack on the entryway floor and shivers as she stands up. The rain has turned her white crop top nearly transparent, her hard nipples jetting beneath the fabric. Tara doesn’t adjust her shirt or seem the least bit embarrassed.
Ben’s gaze jumps to her face with deliberate quickness, a reflexive correction that feels more incriminating than if he’d just looked naturally.
Sheila throws her arms around Tara, the two of them squeezing tight. There’s a strange intimacy in the hug, not quite familial, but beyond mere friendship. Ben wonders if he’ll ever have that with anyone.
They show Tara to the guest room, a small space with a twin bed and a battered IKEA dresser. She takes it in stride, dumping her things and immediately plugging her phone into the wall. “Wifi code?” she asks.
“Written on the fridge,” Sheila calls from the kitchen.
Tara flops onto the bed, scrolling through her phone with the detached efficiency of someone who never expects to be surprised by the world. Ben hangs back, unsure if he’s supposed to offer more hospitality or just let her acclimate.
After a while, Tara emerges, wearing dry clothes and a towel around her neck. She heads straight to the kitchen, where Ben is putting away groceries.
She leans against the counter, arms crossed. “So,” she says, fixing him with that analytic stare. “You two playing house, or is this, like, serious?”
Ben blinks. “I guess it’s serious if we’re splitting the rent.”
She smirks. “That’s adorable.” There’s no malice in her tone, but something about the word adorable makes Ben feel like he’s been filed into a spreadsheet.
He busies himself with the vegetables. “You, uh, looking for work?”
“Already got interviews lined up,” she says. “Don’t worry, I won’t be mooching off you for long.”
He nods, unsure what else to say. He senses Tara wants to press, to see if she can provoke a reaction, but when he doesn’t bite, she just watches him for a long, silent moment.
“You cook?” she asks, gesturing at the pile of peppers and onions.
“Trying to learn,” he says. “Sheila’s teaching me.”
Tara laughs, a quick, sharp bark. “Good luck. She sets the fire alarm off every time she boils water.”
She glances over her shoulder, making sure Sheila isn’t in earshot, and then lowers her voice. “You’re too good for her, you know.”
The words hang in the air, incongruous and almost insulting. Ben doesn’t know how to respond, so he just shrugs.
“Seriously,” Tara says. “You have that golden retriever thing going on. Girls eat that shit up.”
Ben tries to laugh it off, but it doesn’t land. Tara moves closer, not quite invading his space, but definitely testing the borders.
“I’m kidding, relax.” She bumps his arm with her elbow. “You’re alright.”
He watches as she moves away, the sway of her hips more pronounced than necessary. For a second, Ben wonders if he’s imagining it, but the intensity of her gaze says otherwise.
Later, after dinner, Tara helps Sheila clean up, the two of them bantering in a rapid-fire shorthand that leaves Ben on the sidelines. He tries not to feel left out, but the apartment suddenly feels smaller, the air dense with inside jokes and glances that he can’t decode.
When Tara finally retires to her room, Sheila collapses next to Ben on the couch, burrowing into his chest.
“She’s a lot, huh?” Sheila murmurs, her lips against his shirt.
“She’s fine,” Ben says, stroking her hair.
“You sure you’re okay with her staying here? I know it’s weird having someone else around.”
He considers telling the truth, but Sheila’s voice is small and tired, and he can’t bring himself to make her worry. “I’m good with it,” he says again. “Besides, it’s only temporary… Right?”
She snuggles closer. “Right,” she says, her voice muffled against his chest. “Just temporary.”
Ben almost believes it, but when he closes his eyes, he sees Tara’s eyes on him, cool and measuring, and feels a strange pulse in his gut—not exactly fear, not exactly desire, but something volatile, primed to combust.
Ben falls asleep that night, listening to the rain, knowing that his ordinary life has just become a lot less predictable.
For a while, Ben’s anxiety subsides. Tara slips into their routine with surprising ease, pouring coffee without a word at breakfast, disappearing after dinner with her laptop, or quietly listening to the television with them in the evening before retiring to her bedroom for the night.
Until the third Friday, when Sheila is in a playful mood, after the three of them finish a dinner of tacos and cheap wine, she drags Ben to the couch and flops into his lap, giggling as he attempts to tickle her ribs through her oversized T-shirt.
Tara is present but mostly silent, curled up in the armchair with a textbook and a highlighter in hand. She doesn’t look up, but Ben can feel her listening, her presence a steady pressure in the room.
When the Netflix episode ends, Tara rises wordlessly and disappears into the guest room, shutting the door behind her. Sheila rolls her eyes and stretches, arms overhead, exposing a sliver of pale thigh where her shorts have ridden up.
“Why don’t we go to bed early?” she murmurs, voice suddenly low.
Ben’s stomach flips. “Thought you’d never ask.”
They brush their teeth together, bumping shoulders at the sink. Sheila spits, rinses, and grins at him in the mirror. “Last one naked is a rotten egg.”
She sprints for the bedroom, peeling off her shirt as she goes, and Ben can’t help but admire the subtle sway of her hips, the curve of her waist. He lingers in the bathroom for a second, listening to the apartment settle: the creak of pipes, the distant hum of traffic, the shuffle of Tara’s footsteps beyond the door.
By the time he enters the bedroom, Sheila is already under the covers, bare-legged and grinning, her hair spread out across the pillow like a sunburst. Ben shucks his own shirt and slides in beside her, their bodies instantly tangling.
She kisses him with purpose, tongue playful and greedy. Her hands are cold, always, and she runs them down his chest, nails grazing his skin in electric trails. She tastes faintly of wine and mint, and when she pulls away to breathe, her cheeks are flushed.
“Missed you today,” she whispers, reaching for the waistband of his boxers.
Ben lets her pull him free, his cock already half-hard. She cups him, stroking slowly, and the heat of her palm makes him shudder. He kisses her neck, bites her earlobe, loves the way she gasps and squirms beneath him.
Sheila rolls on top, straddling his hips, and rocks against him until he’s fully hard. She guides him inside her with a practiced motion, sinking down until her ass meets his thighs, her breath hitching at the stretch.
She starts to move, slow at first, riding him with the same confidence she uses to manage her classroom. Ben lets his hands roam—up her ribcage, over her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples until they pebble, and Sheila moans.
The wet slap of their bodies fills his ears, the bed beneath them shivering with every thrust. But then something flickers at the edge of his vision—a strange shadow, shifting where it shouldn’t. He remembers that, in his hurry to meet Sheila in their bedroom, he hadn’t bothered to close the door all the way. Now, with a slow, complaining creak, the door drifts wider. There in the gap stands Tara, framed by the dim hallway glow, her outline impossible to mistake. Even in the darkness, those curves are recognizable.
Ben’s entire body freezes. For a half second, he thinks he’s hallucinating. But no, Tara is there, watching them, her face lit by the glow of the hallway nightlight. Her expression is hungry, intense, unblinking.
Sheila doesn’t notice. She’s lost in the rhythm, her head thrown back, hands braced on Ben’s chest.
Ben wants to say something, to stop, but the shock of being seen by her best friend sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock. He thrusts up, harder than before, and Sheila yelps in surprise, playfully laughing.
“Mmm, someone’s really eager tonight,” she pants, bouncing faster.
Ben can’t look away from the door. Tara’s hand is at her side, moving in slow, deliberate strokes. She’s touching herself, rubbing over her shorts, her dark eyes locked on Ben’s face.
He feels filthy, exhilarated. The idea that Tara is watching him and getting off on it should disturb him. Instead, he feels a kind of power, a permission to let go.
He grips Sheila’s hips, guiding her down onto him, meeting every grind with a thrust of his own. Sheila’s moans grow louder, echoing off the walls, and Ben wonders if Tara can hear every sound.
He’s close, closer than he should be. He tries to slow down, but Sheila is relentless, chasing her own orgasm with single-minded focus.
“Fuck, Ben, yes, just like that, don’t stop,” she gasps, nails digging crescent moons into his chest.
Ben glances at the door. Tara is still standing there, locked onto him, her gaze hungry and unwavering. He watches as she licks her lips, and they part just enough to let her breath slip out—a tiny, trembling gasp. She pushes her hand beneath the waistband of her shorts, fingers disappearing, and her eyes flutter in a sharp shimmer of pleasure.
That’s what it does. Ben loses control, his hips jerking up as he comes, hot and sudden, his vision blurring at the edges. Sheila’s cunt clenches around him, and she cries out, riding out her own orgasm in perfect tandem.
After, Sheila collapses onto his chest, breathless and giggling. “God, what got you so worked up tonight?” she says, her voice muffled.
Ben tries to answer, but the words stick in his throat. He turns his head toward the door, but it’s closed now, the crack gone, no sign that anyone is ever there.
Sheila lifts her head, looking at him with sleepy curiosity. “Seriously, you were… I don’t know. Intense.”
Ben swallows, his heart still racing. “I just… umm. Missed you, I guess.”
Sheila grins, kissing him on the cheek, and snuggles closer. Within minutes, she’s asleep, her arm draped across his chest.
Ben lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He can’t stop replaying the look on Tara’s face, the way she never blinked, the hunger in her eyes. He remembers the way her hand moved, slow and purposeful, as if she were daring him to watch her back.
He feels a rush of guilt, but also a thrill that refuses to fade. He wonders if Tara will bring it up, if she’ll keep watching. If he wants her to.
The apartment is silent, except for Sheila’s gentle breathing and the distant hum of traffic.
Ben closes his eyes, but all he can see is Tara, her hand moving, her gaze burning through him.
He falls asleep hard.
The next morning, Ben wakes before his alarm, groggy but hyper-aware. Sheila is wrapped around him, warm and soft, her cheek pressed to his chest. He tries to focus on her, on her steady breathing, the rhythm of her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his side, but the memory of last night is a stone in his gut.
Tara. Watching. Touching herself.
It’s insane. Ben’s never been the object of that kind of attention. In high school, he was just “that Carter kid,” unremarkable and safe, the type of guy girls trusted to walk them home but never got asked to go up to their room. Even now, with Sheila, he sometimes wonders if she just likes the idea of stability, the promise that he would never break her heart.
But Tara? Tara is dangerous.
He gets out of bed quietly, easing Sheila’s arm off his stomach, and puts on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. He needs a reset, so he heads to the complex fitness room and lets the treadmill burn off some of the confusion and pent-up lust. Thirty minutes later, he’s drenched, his muscles trembling, but his mind is no clearer.
He comes back to the apartment to the smell of coffee and the sound of Tara’s voice—sharp, confident, alive. He finds her in the kitchen, phone clamped to her ear, gesticulating as she argues with someone on the other end. She’s wearing tight black leggings and a tank top that barely covers her bra.
She doesn’t notice him at first, so he lingers in the doorway, studying the lines of her shoulders, the sinew in her arms as she paces.
“No, I don’t care what he said, I’m not coming back as long as he’s there,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. “Tell him nice try. Yeah, I know. Bye, Mom.”
She ends the call with a violent stab, then turns to find Ben watching her. She grins, slow and wolfish, and leans against the counter.
“Morning, sunshine. Is Sheila still out cold?”
He nods, pouring himself coffee. “She had a rough week.”
Tara shrugs. “She always does. Teaching’s a nightmare.” She sips from her own mug, then glances down at his legs. “Nice shorts you got there.”
Ben blushes, suddenly aware of the morning wood pressing against the mesh. He turns away, pretending to read the fridge magnets.
Tara steps closer, voice dropping. “Did you sleep okay?”
He forces a nod, not trusting himself to speak.
Tara tilts her head, watching him with lazy intensity. “You looked… busy, last night.” She lets the silence hang. “Hope I didn’t interrupt your groove.”
Ben nearly drops his mug. He sets it down, hands shaking. “You—um—”
She flutters her lashes, her expression a careful blank slate against her smooth dark skin. “I just needed the bathroom last night. But as I was on my way, I noticed the strangest thing—your door wasn’t quite closed.”
He wants to crawl inside himself and die.
Tara leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “You looked good, by the way. Sheila’s lucky.” She lets her gaze slide down his body, blatantly, then steps away, rinsing her cup in the sink.
Ben doesn’t breathe until she’s gone.
Later, with Sheila up and in teacher mode, the day unfolds with an almost forced normalcy. Tara keeps her distance, lurking in the guest room or taking long walks around the neighborhood.
Ben spends hours on a work project, trying to lose himself in spreadsheets and brand messaging, but every few minutes his mind drifts: to Tara’s voice, her knowing smile, the way she looked at him in the kitchen. He couldn’t shake those words from his head: You looked… GOOD.
By the time dinner rolls around, Ben feels hollowed out, nerves stretched thin.
They go out, the three of them, to a ramen place down the street. The restaurant is crowded, music blasting, every table crammed with twenty-somethings and their half-empty bowls. Sheila squeezes into the booth beside Ben, Tara sitting across from them, her hair twisted into a braid, her earrings sparkling in the light.
The conversation is easy—Tara has stories, always, about weird professors, angry exes, political protests gone sideways, and Sheila laughs at all the right moments, nudging Ben under the table when Tara says something outrageous.
But Ben can’t focus. Every time he looks up, Tara is already watching him, her eyes bright and unblinking. She sips her Sapporo, letting her tongue flicker over the rim of the bottle, and smiles like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.
Halfway through dinner is when it starts.
A shift, almost imperceptible: Tara slips off a sandal under the table, and suddenly Ben feels the warmth of her foot brushing his ankle.
He jerks back, startled, but the pressure returns, more insistent. Tara’s toes run up his calf, stroke the inside of his knee. Ben goes rigid, his hands gripping the edge of the table.
What the fuck is she doing! he thinks as he looks over at his girlfriend.
But Sheila doesn’t notice. She’s too busy ranting about school board politics, her voice growing shriller as she gets worked up.
Ben tries to nod in the right places, but he can barely hear her.
Tara keeps going, her foot sliding higher, her toes dancing along Ben’s thigh, slow and deliberate.
Ben tries to move away, but Tara’s leg just follows, persistently. Then, with no warning, her foot is pressing right against his crotch, her toes curling around his erection through the fabric of his jeans.
He nearly chokes on his beer. Tara’s eyes widen, feigning surprise, but her mouth twitches at the corners.
Sheila notices this, finally, and frowns. “You okay?”
Ben forces a laugh. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
Sheila pats his back, concern melting into affection. “Don’t die on me. You still owe me a movie night.”
Tara smirks, retracting her foot slowly, letting her toes linger for one final squeeze.
After dinner, they walk home in the cool dusk, the city humming around them. Sheila is tipsy, clinging to Ben’s arm, humming the theme to some 90s sitcom while Tara walks a few steps ahead, looking back every so often, her eyes unreadable.
Ben’s gaze locks onto Tara walking ahead of them: the deliberate sway in each step, the short black mini skirt barely concealing the tops of her thighs, her legs stretching endlessly downward like polished mahogany pillars.
Ben hates himself for noticing. He hates the way his own body betrays him, how his cock stiffens, aching, and how he just can’t tear his eyes from her ass, the way it sways and rolls in front of him, so smooth, so fucking sexy.
Back at the apartment, Sheila declares herself exhausted and disappears into the bedroom to grade papers. Ben is left alone with Tara, who sprawls on the couch, feet propped up, flipping through TV channels with detached boredom.
He hovers in the kitchen, unsure what to do. He’s afraid that if he gets too close, she’ll touch him again. He’s more worried that he’ll let her.
After a few minutes, Tara calls out, “You hiding from me?”
He tries to play it cool. “No, just cleaning up.”
She turns, crooking a finger. “Come keep me company. Sheila’s gonna be busy for hours.”
He hesitates, then sits at the far end of the couch. Tara grins, patting the cushion beside her. “Closer, Ben. I don’t bite.”
He scoots closer, feeling like a teenager caught at his first party.
They watch a trashy reality show, making fun of the contestants, and slowly relax into a rhythm. After a while, the space between them evaporates. Tara tucks her legs under her ass, letting her knees brush against Ben’s thigh.
She leans in, her voice low. “So… You gonna tell me the truth?”
Ben tenses. “About what?”
“About last night,” she whispers, her eyes locked on his. “I know you saw me.”
He flushes, can’t look at her. “I—yeah.”
Tara smiles, delighted. “So tell me. Did you like it?”
He doesn’t answer.
She moves closer, lips almost brushing his ear. “I liked watching you.”
Ben’s heart is a drumline in his chest. He wants to run, but he’s rooted to the spot.
Tara puts a hand on his thigh, casual but firm. “You don’t have to pretend, Ben. I know you want me. Want this.”
He doesn’t know what to say. Every logical part of him screams no, but his cock is already swelling, hungry for attention.
Tara’s hand slides higher, her fingers grazing the outline of his dick through the thin fabric.
Ben bites his lip, hard, as his head swings towards his bedroom.
“Sheila won’t come out,” Tara says, her hand moving in slow circles. “She’s obsessed with her papers. We have hours.”
Ben shakes his head, but he doesn’t push her away.
Tara leans back, grinning. “It’s okay, Ben. You don’t have to do anything. But if you ever want to watch me again… just leave your door open.”
She gets up, stretches, and saunters down the hall, hips swaying. She glances back once, gives him a look that is pure challenge, pure invitation.
Ben sits frozen for a long time, staring at the TV but seeing nothing. Finally, he slinks into the bedroom, finds Sheila asleep on top of the covers, red pen still clutched in her hand.
He lies beside her, sleepless, pulse pounding in his ears.
He thinks about Tara’s foot, Tara’s hand, Tara’s mouth so close to his ear.
He wonders what it would be like to let himself go for her.
He wonders how long he can hold out.
The days start to pass in a haze. Ben throws himself into work and picks up every extra project his manager offers. He answers every email within five minutes and spends his lunch breaks running laps around the office park—anything to keep from being in the apartment, where Tara’s presence vibrates against every surface.
It doesn’t help. No matter how late he stays out, he comes home to find her on the couch, her legs draped over the armrest, scrolling through her phone or watching trash TV. She’s always there, always waiting, and always—always—looking up with that half-lidded smirk, like she knows he’s trying to avoid her.
Sheila is oblivious, content in a way Ben has never seen her before. With Tara around, she’s lighter and more energetic, singing along to pop songs as she makes dinner, and calling her dad to gossip about work drama. She plans group outings—movie nights, trivia at the bar, lazy weekends at the park. Ben can’t help but be swept along by her enthusiasm.
But under it all, the tension is a living thing.
Ben tries to convince himself that nothing will happen. That he’s stronger than this, loyal enough to keep his hands to himself. But he can’t shake the memory of Tara’s foot on his thigh, the way her hand lingers over his hard-on, the promise in her eyes.
The next time it happens, it’s so blatant he can barely process it.
Sheila is out grading essays at the kitchen table, and Ben is in the living room, attempting to focus on the NBA game. Tara pads in, barefoot and braless under an oversized hoodie, and sits beside him on the couch. She doesn’t say a word, just tucks her knees to her chest and leans into his space, her shoulder pressing against his arm.
At halftime, she sighs, loud and dramatic. “So are you really gonna ignore me forever?”
Ben glances at her, caught off guard by the naked challenge in her voice.
“I’m not ignoring you,” he says, too defensively.
She scoffs. “Please, you’re avoiding me like the plague. Makes a girl feel unwanted.”
She twists to face him, pulling one leg under herself. The movement hikes her hoodie up, exposing the curve of her thigh, the smooth expanse of skin that Ben can’t look at.
Tara notices quickly.
“You know, Ben, it’s not healthy to bottle up feelings.” She says it with a smirk, but her eyes are sharp. “Especially the fun ones.”
His throat tightens as he glances toward the kitchen, praying for Sheila to appear, for the smoke alarm to shriek, for any divine intervention to save him from himself.
Tara leans in, her voice dropping. “I liked what we did last time.”
Ben shakes his head. “We didn’t do—”
“Shhh,” she shushes as she touches his arm, gently but deliberately. “It’s okay, Ben. I’m not mad. You can want things.” She smiles, slyly. “It’ll be our little secret.”
She pulls away before he can respond, stretches, and goes to the kitchen to get water. Ben stays rooted, sweat prickling his scalp.
After dinner, Sheila declares a “mandatory cuddle pile” for movie night. She makes popcorn, picks a sappy rom-com, and drags Ben and Tara onto the couch, insisting that all three of them fit under the old college blanket.
It’s suffocating. Ben is wedged in the middle, Sheila curled under his right arm, her hand lazily stroking his stomach. Tara sprawls against his left, her bare leg thrown over his, her body a furnace against his side. She’s so close he can smell her skin—something sharp and clean, a little like grapefruit.
They watch the movie in near-silence, except for Sheila’s occasional laughter and the wet crunch of popcorn. Ben tries to focus on the screen, but he’s hyper-aware of every movement from Tara, every shift of her weight, every brush of her foot against his calf.
An hour in, and Sheila falls asleep, her head resting on Ben’s shoulder, her breathing slow and even.
Ben glances down at her, his heart heavy with guilt.
Tara shifts, pressing herself even closer. Under the blanket, her hand finds Ben’s thigh, her fingers tracing slow circles.
He tenses and whispers, “Tara!” His eyes dart to Sheila, but she’s dead to the world.
“Shh…” Tara says, “You don’t want to wake her, do you?” Her hand slides higher, grazing his crotch, and Ben bites his lip, hard. She keeps her eyes on the TV, feigning innocence, but her fingers are anything but innocent.
She cups him through his jeans, squeezing gently.
Ben’s breath hitches. He should push her away, but he can’t move without waking Sheila. Tara’s fingers rub, up and down, a maddening tease over his crotch until she suddenly unbuttons his jeans with elegant dexterity. The metallic click, the slow slide of the zipper—Ben is frozen, pulse thundering in his ears.
“Tara, please,” Ben implores. “This is… Is… Going too—”
Sheila shifts, murmurs something in her sleep, and her hand slides lower on Ben’s stomach. For a moment, her hand and Tara’s are less than six inches apart. Ben’s pulse roars in his ears.
Tara only grins, her eyes flicking with excitement as she works Ben’s zipper down past the resistance of denim and draws his cock out into the cool air, finding he’s already hard.
“Good boy,” she murmurs, her thumb rubbing over his cockhead in slow, approving circles.
Ben tries to breathe when her fingers wrap around his cock, drawn out and deliberate, jerking him off under the blanket as Sheila sleeps inches away.
The movie ends. But Tara keeps going, her strokes getting bolder, her palm hot and soft. Ben’s hips jerk, desperate for release, and Tara’s eyes shine with triumph.
He’s so close—so close—
Sheila stirs, snuggles deeper into Ben’s side, then lets out a tiny snore.
Tara bites her lip, her eyes on Ben. She leans in, whispering in his ear. “Come for me, Ben.”
It’s so filthy, so wrong, that Ben can’t stop himself, and he grunts when the first onset of his climax hits him.
Only before he can erupt, Tara quickly bends over and takes him in her mouth, swallowing his cock like she’s been practicing the motion for years. The heat and shock of it nearly knock Ben unconscious—one moment, Tara’s hand is stroking him, and the next, her lips are wrapped around his shaft, her tongue working circles under the head, her cheek pressed dangerously close to Sheila’s sleeping face.
Ben’s cock pulses in her mouth, the pleasure so sharp it nearly makes him sob. He tries to resist, but Tara’s tongue is relentless. He feels his body tense, then he’s coming—hard, breath caught in his chest, white shooting behind his eyes. Tara swallows his release to spill onto her waiting tongue, her eyes darting up to meet his with a look of pure mischief. Ben is too stunned to move, his body spent and paralyzed by the intensity.
Sheila snuggles deeper into his side, never waking, her mouth open in a gentle, guileless O of oblivion.
Tara sits up, wiping her mouth, her eyes shining with wicked victory. She buttons his pants, pats the bulge, then stands, stretching like a cat. “I’m going to bed. G’night, lovers,” she says, voice sugary-sweet.
She’s gone before Ben can even react.
He sits there, Sheila breathing against his chest, his heart thundering like it wants to rip itself out of his chest.
He doesn’t sleep that night.
He barely sleeps the next.
He is caught in Tara’s gravity, and it’s only a matter of time before he falls.
Ben lasts exactly three days.
Three days of pretending not to see the glances Tara shoots him over breakfast. Three days of averting his eyes when she wanders into the bathroom in nothing but a towel, water beads running down her collarbone. Three days of waking up in the middle of the night, cock so hard it aches, hand already moving before his brain even registers what’s happening.
He tries to avoid her, and Tara lets him. She leaves him alone, she stops touching him, and keeps her hands to herself. He thinks maybe the storm has passed.
It hasn’t.
The morning it happens, Sheila leaves early for a staff meeting, kissing Ben goodbye with a squeeze of his shoulder and a whispered “be good.”
Ben watches the door click shut behind her, and then he just stands in the quiet of the apartment, not sure what to do with himself.
He showers, dresses, starts a load of laundry, and then camps out at the dining table with his laptop, telling himself he’ll get ahead on next week’s deliverables.
Tara doesn’t emerge from her room until close to noon. When she does, she’s dressed in a white T-shirt that’s three sizes too big and what look like men’s boxer briefs.
She pours herself coffee, leans against the counter, and watches him with a look that’s hard to read.
“Morning,” she says. Her voice is rough, like she has only just woken up.
Ben keeps his eyes on his screen. “Hey.”
She slurps her coffee, then: “Can you help me with something?”
His heart thumps. “With what?”
“My bed frame. It’s all wobbly. I think one of the legs is loose.” She shrugs, putting on a show of nonchalance. “Can you take a look?”
Ben wants to say no. He wants to run.
Instead, he closes the laptop and follows her down the hall, into her room.
It’s a mess—suitcase half-unpacked on the floor, clothes everywhere, the sheets tangled and pulled halfway off the mattress. Tara points at the far side of the bed.
“It’s that one, I think. It keeps creaking when I move on the bed.”
He kneels, pretending to study the bedframe. He’s not a handy guy, but he knows enough to tighten a screw. He reaches for the bracket, and that’s when it happens:
Tara drops to her knees behind him and wraps her arms around his waist.
Ben freezes. “Tara—”
She presses her cheek against his back, her breath hot through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she whispers.
Ben’s whole body locks. He stays perfectly still as Tara’s hands slide up under his shirt, palms flat against his stomach. She moves slowly, slow enough that he could stop her at any second—but he doesn’t.
She slips her fingers under the waistband of his shorts, finding him already half-hard. Her grip is feather-light, tentative, but it’s enough. He gasps, and Tara laughs, the sound bright and wicked.
“Let me,” she murmurs.
He turns, meaning to push her away, but instead she’s right there, her face inches from his. She kisses him; her lips are soft and sweet, causing him to pause long enough for her tongue to dart out and taste him.
Ben’s mind is a wreck. Dangerous, coiled tight, he’s ready to snap, and he says, Tara… This is wrong. Sheila—
But Tara, as if reading both his mind and his body, puts a finger to his lips, silencing him.
“She’s not here,” Tara says, her teeth grazing the shell of his ear. “And I won’t tell if you don’t.”
He tries once again to resist her, his hand on her shoulder pushing back even as his fingers curl into her skin. When she kisses him again, his body betrays him—half of him still fighting while the other half surrenders. He kisses her back with Sheila’s name caught in his throat, his movements desperate and rough, gripping Tara’s arms hard enough to bruise, as if punishing them both for what they’re doing.
She breaks away first, a string of saliva connecting their lips. Her eyes are wild.
“That’s it, Ben,” she says. “Give in to what your body wants, what we both want.”
She pushes him onto the mattress, the frame groaning beneath their weight. Ben’s knees knock the floor, then the bed, and he lands awkwardly, propped up by his arms. Tara follows, crawling over him, her hair loose from its braid and falling in black ropes across her face. She kisses him again, this time biting his lower lip, and he tastes blood and coffee and something feral and unfamiliar.
He wants to tell her this is wrong, dangerous, that Sheila is everything to him—but his cock is throbbing painfully against his zipper, and Tara’s fingers are already working his belt open. She yanks his shorts and boxers down in one rough motion, his erection springing free, flushed and rigid. She wraps her fingers around the base, squeezing until a bead of precum forms at the tip, then lowers her head and engulfs him in the wet heat of her mouth, her tongue swirling around his sensitive head.
It’s instant electricity. Tara is nothing like Sheila—she’s urgent, greedy, messy. She moans around his dick, tongue swirling, saliva pooling at the base. She bobs her head in quick, hungry motions, fingers wrapped tight around the shaft.
Ben can’t think, can barely breathe. He wants to tell her to stop, but the words get lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Her mouth and tongue are magical and relentless, each flick and suck a calculated assault on his willpower. He tries to focus on something, anything, but all he can do is clutch the twisted bedsheets and groan as she works him deeper and deeper into her throat.
Tara looks up at him, her eyes locked on his, and then she takes him all the way to the back of her throat. Ben’s hips buck. She gags, then recovers, never breaking eye contact.
He’s going to cum. He’s going to cum in her mouth, and he’s not sure if he’s ever going to feel this alive again.
He tries to warn her, but Tara just smiles and speeds up, hand pumping in time with her lips. He explodes, moaning louder than he means to, and she swallows every drop, licking him clean.
Ben lies there, boneless, as Tara wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She laughs, delighted, and crawls up beside him.
“See?” she says. “Was that so bad?”
He doesn’t trust himself to answer.
But Tara isn’t finished.
She kisses him again, this time slower, lingering, then moves down his body, kissing his neck, his chest, his stomach. She takes him in her mouth again, sucking gently, coaxing him back to hardness.
Ben doesn’t know how she does it, but within minutes, he’s stiff again, harder than before. Tara grins, pushes her panties down, and climbs onto his lap, guiding his cock to her entrance. Her pussy is slick and inviting, a perfect contrast to her dark, supple skin.
She lowers herself onto him in one smooth motion. She’s hot and slick and impossibly tight. She sits there for a moment, eyes fluttering, then starts to ride him, slow at first, then faster, bouncing up and down, breasts jiggling under the thin shirt.
Ben grabs her hips, trying to steady her, but she won’t be controlled. She fucks him like it’s the only thing she’s ever wanted, grinning down at him, her hair falling in her face.
He’s never felt anything like it.
Sheila is sweet, caring, and all about mutual pleasure. Tara is an animal, selfish, single-minded. She takes what she wants and makes no apologies.
Ben loses himself in it, matching Tara’s rhythm, thrusting up to meet her. The room smells like sweat and sex and something sharp, like ozone before a thunderstorm.
He’s ready to come again, his balls tightening against his body. He tries to pull her off, but Tara snarls, “Oh no you don’t—your cum belongs inside my pussy!”
She slams her hips down hard, clenching her vaginal muscles around his throbbing cock. Her clit rubs against his pubic bone as she grinds down, her own orgasm making her cunt spasm around him.
With a final thrust, he erupts deep inside her, rope after rope of hot semen flooding her womb. Tara moans, digging her nails into his chest as she rides out her climax.
“Yes! Oh fuck yes! I can feel your cum shooting inside me, Ben! Fill my tight little cunt with that thick load!”
She collapses onto him, panting, then rolls to the side, her face flushed, her eyes shining.
Ben stares at the ceiling, unable to move. He feels satisfied and regretful at the same time.
“We shouldn’t have done this,” he says. “I betrayed Sheila.”
Tara reaches over, runs her finger down his chest, collecting the beads of sweat that have formed.
“You can have both of us, you know,” she says, voice dreamy. “It doesn’t have to be either-or.”
Ben closes his eyes, guilt and euphoria warring inside him.
But Tara is right about one thing.
He wants them both.
He wants everything.
Tara’s words haunt Ben.
He wants both. He wants everything.
He can’t have it, but he wants it, and it’s all he thinks about, day and night. The guilt is a splinter under his skin, a slow poison, but it’s nothing compared to the hunger that builds every time Tara walks past him, or texts him something filthy from the next room over, or mouths “later” across the breakfast table.
They become experts in the art of sneaking around. Short, desperate fucks in the laundry room while Sheila is on the phone with her sister. Handjobs under the table at midnight, Ben biting a dish towel to stifle his moans. Once, Tara pulls him into a closet at a house party, grinds on him until he’s throbbing, then leaves him hard and gasping, promising to finish him later.
Every time, Ben swears it’s the last. Every time, he lets her pull him back in.
The sex is never gentle, never sweet. Its teeth and nails, urgent and greedy. Tara marks him—hickeys on his thighs, scratches on his back, a fading bruise just below his navel. Ben lives in constant fear that Sheila will see, but the risk only makes it hotter.
The first time they fuck in the shower, Sheila is six feet away in the living room, laughing at reruns and shouting for Ben to bring her a beer. Tara slips into the bathroom without a sound, naked and dripping from her own shower, and slides the curtain aside.
She steps in behind him, her hands cold on his hips.
“Jesus—” Ben hisses, but Tara clamps a hand over his mouth.
“Shh,” she whispers, voice low and bright with excitement. “Don’t you want me?”
He does. Of course he does.
She spins him, backs him into the tile, and drops to her knees. The shower is already running, the hot water stinging his skin. Tara takes him in her mouth, sucking hard, and Ben braces himself on the soap dish, desperate not to make a sound.
She’s ruthless. He cums in less than a minute, and Tara swallows, then stands and kisses him, her tongue salty and sharp.
He wants to hate her. He wants to hate himself.
But when Sheila knocks on the door, Tara just winks and mouths, “See you soon,” before slipping out, leaving Ben panting and boneless.
After that, everything ramps up. Tara gets bolder, more reckless.
She starts sending Ben photos: a bare shoulder, the curve of her hip, a close-up of her fingers buried between her legs. She texts him at work, teasing, taunting, reminding him of every filthy thing they’ve done.
He stops deleting the messages. He starts looking forward to them.
One night, Sheila falls asleep early, exhausted from a field trip and two hours of wrangling lesson plans. Ben lies awake beside her, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, but it’s useless. He can’t stop thinking about Tara, two doors down, probably naked, probably waiting.
At 1:12 a.m., his phone buzzes.
Tara: Come to my room.
Ben glances at Sheila, who’s snoring softly, then gets up, careful not to wake her.
Tara’s door is open just a crack. He slips inside, closes it behind him.
She’s on the bed, thighs parted, a black thong cutting a thin line across her hips. Moonlight catches on her dark skin, turning the fabric translucent where it stretches over her pink pussy, already wet and flushed beneath the delicate mesh.
Ben’s dick is instantly stiff.
She stands, crosses to him, and kisses him hard, grinding her hips into his. She smells like vanilla, sweat, and a hint of weed.
She pushes him onto the bed, yanks down his boxers, and climbs on top of him. No words, no foreplay—she guides him inside her and fucks him like she wants to break him.
She rides him fast and rough, her nails digging into his chest, her breasts bouncing in his face. Ben grips her ass, desperate for any kind of control, but Tara has all the power.
He cums inside her so hard he sees stars.
After, she bites his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.
“Good boy,” she whispers.
He sneaks back to bed and lies awake, his heart hammering.
The next morning, Sheila frowns at the bruise on his shoulder.
“What happened there?”
Ben shrugs. “Basketball at work. Elbowed.”
She accepts it, and he hates himself for how easily the lie comes.
The next time, Tara doesn’t wait for him to come to her.
It’s late, after midnight. Sheila is dead asleep beside him, mouth open, breath sweet with toothpaste and melatonin gummies. Ben is lost in a half-dream, floating between guilt and longing.
The door creaks open.
He sits up, but Tara is already beside the bed, in a ratty T-shirt and nothing else.
She slides in next to Ben, lifts the covers, and snakes her hand down his shorts.
He jerks, panic rising. “What are you doing? Sheila—”
Tara cuts him off, her lips on his, her hand squeezing his cock.
“She won’t wake up,” she whispers. “She never does.”
Ben is shaking, but he can’t stop her. Tara strokes him, slow and firm, and it’s only seconds before he’s hard. She climbs over him, straddling his hips, and lines herself up.
She lowers herself onto his cock, muffling her moans in the crook of his neck. The heat of her, the wetness, the insane risk—it’s overwhelming.
He tries to push her off, but she clamps her thighs around him, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Don’t fight it,” she breathes. “Just fuck me.”
She rides him slowly, rocking her hips, her hair falling around their faces like a curtain.
Sheila stirs beside them, but doesn’t wake.
Tara speeds up, hips slapping against Ben’s thighs. He’s terrified, but it only makes him harder. He thrusts up into her, matching her rhythm, biting his tongue to keep from groaning.
Tara cums first, shuddering and clamping down on him.
Ben follows, spurting inside her, and Tara milks every drop, holding him deep.
When she finally climbs off, she kisses him, soft and tender, then slips out as quietly as she came.
Ben lies there, pulse racing, sweat cooling on his skin.
He’s crossed a line he can’t uncross, and he knows it.
In the morning, Sheila wakes up smiling, kisses him on the cheek, and says, “You were really restless last night. Bad dreams?”
Ben just nods, unable to meet her eyes.
That day, he got a text from Tara.
u tasted so good last night
He deletes it, but only after reading it five times.
From then on, Ben’s life becomes a cycle of lust and guilt. Tara ambushes him everywhere—the pantry, the car, even the movie theater with Sheila mere feet away.
He lets it happen. He wants it to happen.
He starts to see Tara in his dreams. He starts to see her when he’s with Sheila, the two of them blurring together in his mind. He feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.
But it doesn’t matter.
He needs them both.
He needs everything.
Then it happens on a Tuesday.
Sheila’s after-school professional development runs long, and Ben doesn’t expect her back before six. He and Tara are alone, and they both know it, the air between them prickling with anticipation. They spend the first hour pretending to mind their own business—Tara on the balcony with her vape, Ben on the couch with his laptop and a conference call he’s only half-hearing.
At 4:30, Tara strolls in from the patio, pulls her shirt off over her head, and drops it on the floor. “You’re done, right?” she says, even though she can see the “Meeting Ended” screen glowing on his laptop.
Ben nods.
Tara climbs onto the couch beside him, straddling his lap. She doesn’t kiss him—not at first. Instead, she grabs his hand and slides it up her bare thigh, no panties, nothing between them. Her skin is hot and electric.
She grinds down, her cunt slick and needy. Ben moans, already hard, and Tara laughs low in her throat, a sound he’s learned means she’s going to ruin him.
She frees his cock, pushes her hips down, and takes him inside her in one smooth, practiced movement. The room is bright with late-afternoon sun, and for a moment Ben feels suspended in time—floating between guilt and ecstasy, between what he’s supposed to want and what he truly needs.
They fuck like animals. No blankets, no covers, just the slap of skin and Tara’s sharp little moans. She claws at his shoulders, bites his neck, and rides him fast and brutally. Ben thrusts up to meet her, the world shrinking to the shape of her body, the smell of sex thick in his nose.
Neither of them hears the key in the lock, the front door swinging open. Neither of them notices Sheila’s footsteps in the hallway.
Not until Sheila is standing in the doorway, her mouth open, her face white as paper.
Ben is too far gone to stop. Tara is cumming, hard, her hips jerking, her hands tangled in Ben’s hair. Ben’s orgasm rips through him, violent, and he empties himself inside her, gasping her name.
And then: silence.
Sheila stands there, her work tote sliding from her shoulder, landing on the floor with a soft thud. Her eyes are huge, rimmed with red, her lips trembling.
For a full ten seconds, nobody moves.
Ben pulls out of Tara, still half-hard, cum leaking down his shaft. Tara makes no effort to cover herself. She turns, meets Sheila’s gaze head-on, her chin lifted.
Sheila’s voice is barely a whisper. “What the fuck.”
Ben tries to speak, but his mouth won’t work.
Tara stands, stretches, then pads to the bathroom, naked, like nothing just happened.
Ben tries to follow, tries to say anything, but Sheila bolts, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
He sits there, stunned, his cock still wet, the room suddenly freezing cold.
He’s lost everything.
The hours that follow are a blur.
Sheila doesn’t come out of the bedroom. Ben hears her crying, the muffled shudders that tear through walls and into his bones. He wants to follow, to beg, to explain, but he can’t even move.
He sits on the couch, his pants still around his ankles, staring at the empty space where Tara just fucked him, the air still thick with her scent.
He hates Tara, hates her for ruining everything, hates himself even more for wanting her even now.
A long time passes. Ben is about to knock on the bedroom door when it opens. Sheila stands in the doorway, red-eyed, cheeks streaked with mascara. She’s in her favorite hoodie and nothing else, legs bare, arms crossed over her chest like a shield.
She glares at Ben. “You have ten seconds to start talking.”
He starts to, but all the words are gone. He just stares, and she stares back, waiting. He’s never seen her so still.
The silence is shattered by the opening of the bathroom door. Tara emerges, freshly showered, hair dripping, and draped in a towel so small it barely covers her ass. She pauses in the hallway, taking in Ben, pantsless, and Sheila, livid, and then smiles like this is just another fucked-up Tuesday.
Sheila whips her head toward Tara. “Get out.”
Tara cocks her head, unfazed. “Why? Because I fucked your boyfriend? Or because you know he liked it?”
Sheila doesn’t flinch. “You’re a sociopath.”
Tara walks closer, letting the towel slip lower. “Don’t pretend you don’t want it, too.”
For a second, the whole world tilts. Ben can’t tell if Tara is talking about herself, about him, or about something deeper that he’s never understood.
Sheila’s lip trembles. “You! You! You ruined us!”
Tara shakes her head. “Nnn hnn, he ruined it. I just… sped things up.”
She’s right. Ben knows it, Sheila knows it. The triangle was always here, in the spaces between them, in every look and every secret wish.
Sheila steps forward, her eyes blazing. “You want him so bad? Fine! Take him.” She shoves Ben hard. He stumbles, nearly falling.
Tara laughs while shaking her head. “You still don’t get it, Sheila. It was never just about him. I’ve also wanted you. Ever since we were both in college.”
Sheila freezes and replies, “W-w-what? That’s… That’s crazy talk.”
Really? Tara says, stepping closer to Sheila. “So, those vibes you were giving off back then were only in my head? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes!” Sheila says, forcing herself to sound sure. “You are… I mean… You were my friend. That’s all.”
Tara is close now, the towel barely hanging on, her skin glowing in the dim light. She reaches out, touches Sheila’s face, wipes away a tear with her thumb. Sheila wants to slap her, but she doesn’t. She stands there, trembling.
Tara leans in and whispers, “Then this shouldn’t bother you,” and then, in front of Ben, she kisses Sheila. Not a peck, but a full, deep, hungry kiss.
Sheila gasps, she’s shocked, but doesn’t pull away. Tara’s lips are soft, almost reverent, and Ben feels his cock stir even as his soul cracks in two.
Sheila’s hands clench at her sides, then, slowly, tangle in Tara’s wet hair. She kisses back, fiercely, her teeth flashing. The towel falls away, and Tara is naked, her body pressed against Sheila’s, their breasts flush, skin to skin.
Ben can’t move. He watches as Tara kisses down Sheila’s neck, as Sheila tilts her head back and moans, as Tara’s hand slides under the hoodie and finds Sheila’s nipple, rolling it between her fingers.
Sheila pulls back, panting. “Tara…”
Tara grins, wild and beautiful. “You want it.”
Sheila shakes her head, but her body betrays her. Her legs part, her hips rolling forward, seeking contact.
Tara drops to her knees and lifts the hoodie, exposing Sheila’s bare cunt. She kisses up Sheila’s thighs, licking a stripe from knee to hip, and Sheila moans again, louder this time.
“Fuck,” Ben whispers, his cock swelling, blood roaring in his ears.
Tara looks over her shoulder at him, eyes bright with challenge. “Watch how hard I’m going to make her cum.”
He can only watch as the scene unfolds.
Tara spreads Sheila’s legs, kisses her inner thigh, then licks her clit in one slow, deliberate motion. Sheila shudders, grabbing Tara’s hair, forcing her closer while her ass backs against the wall. Tara eats her out with an almost feral intensity, her tongue flicking, sucking, probing. Sheila rocks her hips, riding Tara’s face, her moans rising in pitch.
Ben jerks off, barely aware he’s doing it, watching his girlfriend succumb to Tara’s tongue, his own orgasm building in time with Sheila’s.
Sheila’s voice broke into pieces. “Oh! Oh! Oh, fuck!” she cried, her hands clutching at Tera, desperate and shivering with need. “Tera, p-p-please! I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” Her legs started to tremble, knees giving out, teetering on the edge. “Oh, GOD!” she howled, surrendering to the climax that crashed through her, and nearly sent her collapsing to the floor.
Tara steadies her, tongue still working, then rises to her feet with a gleam on her lips. She draws a thumb across her mouth and presses it against Sheila’s, letting her taste herself before leaning in to murmur words that float just beyond Ben’s hearing.
Sheila turns to Ben, her whole body trembling, her pupils wide and black. “Get over here,” she orders, her voice thick with something tangled up between rage and need.
Ben doesn’t think; he just moves.
Sheila kisses him, her tongue invading his mouth, and he tastes Tara on her lips, on her skin. She pushes him down onto the couch, straddles him, pulls his cock over her pussy, and slides down onto it without hesitation.
She rides him with savage fury, her body a weapon of vengeance and desire, her nails drawing blood as they tear down his chest. Behind her, Tara becomes a shadow, her teeth grazing Sheila’s neck, her hands everywhere at once.
When she reaches between their bodies, her fingers find Sheila’s clit with brutal precision, circling relentlessly until Sheila’s back arches impossibly, her scream primal as her orgasm rips through her, then another, then another—each one more violent than the last.
Ben cums inside Sheila, moaning her name, but Tara isn’t done.
Tara pushes Sheila off, climbs onto Ben, rides him herself, grinding down until she cums, shrieking with a violence that leaves Ben’s thighs sticky and trembling, his cock spent but somehow still throbbing with every aftershock of the girls’ pleasure.
Silence stretches between them, broken only by ragged breathing. They lie tangled and trembling, the air thick with the musky aftermath of what they’ve done.
Finally, Sheila looks at Tara. “You’re a monster.”
Tara grins, curls up against her. “You love me.”
Sheila almost smiles.
Ben lies on his back, spent, empty, but for the first time in weeks, whole.
The future is a mess. Everything is broken.
But for now, here in this room, with these two gorgeous, wickedly sexy women lying on either side of him, he has everything he’s ever wanted.
