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I haven’t been properly fucked in four years.

Four. Years.

Mark tries. God bless him, he tries.

He kisses my neck, does the little swirl thing with his tongue he read about in some magazine, lasts maybe six minutes if I’m lucky, then rolls over and starts snoring before I’ve even caught my breath. I fake it so he feels good about himself. I fake it so well I should get a goddamn Oscar. Meanwhile I lie there staring at the ceiling, clit throbbing, pussy aching, imagining it’s someone else’s weight pinning me down, someone else’s thick cock stretching me open instead of Mark’s polite, predictable five-and-a-half inches.

I’ve used up three vibrators in the last eighteen months.

The last one died last week while I was riding it on the shower floor, picturing Derek’s huge hand wrapped around my throat.

Derek.

Mark’s best friend since they were eight.

Forty-three, six-four, shoulders that don’t fit through doorways without turning sideways, forearms corded from years hauling hoses, dark hair going silver at the temples in a way that makes me want to lick it.

Derek, who was best man at our wedding and caught my bouquet toss “by accident” while staring straight at me.

Derek, who texts Mark dumb memes at 2 a.m. and somehow ends up shirtless in half of them.

Mark left for Germany yesterday morning.

Three weeks of leadership training.

Before he even got on the plane he said, “Derek’s gonna crash at the house to finish the basement. Saves him the commute. You cool with that, babe?”

Cool with that.

I almost laughed in his face.

I spent all day at work clenching my thighs under my desk, counting hours until I could come home and finally, finally touch myself without pretending it was for Mark’s benefit. I had it planned: wine, bathtub, that new suction-cup dildo I hid in the tampon box, two hours of screaming Derek’s name into a towel.

I walked in at 6:47 p.m. and every fantasy detonated.

Derek was in my kitchen.

Shirtless.

Low-slung gray sweatpants, bare feet, tattooed chest glistening with sweat, sawdust in his hair from the basement. One thick arm braced on the counter, the other pouring Mark’s twenty-five-year-old Glenlivet like it was water. The muscles in his back flexed as he moved, and when he turned around the front was worse: abs cut so deep I could see the shadow under each ridge, that perfect V disappearing under the waistband, and the clearest, fattest outline of a half-hard cock I have ever seen in real life.

He didn’t flinch. Just looked me dead in the eye and said, “Hey, gorgeous. Your husband said make myself at home.”

My panties were ruined in two seconds.

I dropped my keys so I had an excuse to bend over. The skirt I wore today is tight, pencil-style, and when I straightened up I swear I felt cool air hit the wet spot on my thighs.

“You couldn’t find a shirt?” I snapped, because anger was safer than the truth.

He took a slow sip of whiskey, throat working, eyes never leaving mine. “Too hot down there. Hope that’s not a problem.”

It was a problem.

It was the biggest problem of my entire life.

I stormed past him to the fridge, yanked out a bottle of wine, and poured it with shaking hands. He watched every second.

“Mark says you’ve been stressed,” he said, voice low and amused. “Work kicking your ass?”

I laughed, sharp and bitter. “Sure. Work.”

Not the fact that my husband fucks me like he’s afraid I’ll break.

Not the fact that I come hardest when I’m picturing his best friend splitting me open on this exact counter, making me cry and beg and forget my own name.

Derek leaned back against the island, arms crossed, biceps flexing. “You look tense, Sarah.”

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to climb him like a tree and sob, Please, just fuck me until I can’t walk.

Instead I snapped, “I’m fine.”

He tilted his head. “Liar.”

One word.

One fucking word and my clit pulsed so hard I had to grip the counter.

He pushed off the island and walked toward me, slow, deliberate. Stopped when he was close enough that I could smell sweat and sawdust and whatever cologne he wears that makes me stupid.

“Three weeks,” he said quietly. “Just you and me in this big house. Think you can play good little wife the whole time?”

I couldn’t breathe.

I swear my pussy clenched so hard I felt it drip down my thigh.

don’t remember walking upstairs.

I only remember the slam of my bedroom door and the click of the lock that suddenly felt pointless.

I leaned back against the wood, chest heaving, skirt twisted high on my thighs. My skin was too tight, my pulse between my legs so hard it hurt. Derek’s words kept looping in my head, low and rough:

I’ve been real good for a real long time, gorgeous. And I’m getting real tired of it.

I couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think.

All I could do was slide down the door until my ass hit the carpet, knees falling open like they had a mind of their own.

I was soaked.

Embarrassingly, shamefully soaked.

My fingers found the hem of my skirt and pushed it higher. I wasn’t gentle. I shoved my hand into my panties and gasped at how slick I was, two fingers sliding through my folds like I’d already been fucked for hours. I pictured Derek’s huge hand instead of mine, those thick rough fingers spreading me open, pushing inside, curling just right while he watched my face with that smug look that says he knows exactly what I need.

I bit my lip to stay quiet, but a whimper slipped out anyway.

I circled my clit slow at first, then faster, hips rocking up into my own hand. I imagined him kicking the door in, catching me like this, legs spread on the floor like a desperate slut. I imagined him dropping to his knees, yanking my panties aside, and licking me clean while I cried and begged for more.

“Derek…”

It came out broken, needy.

I shoved two fingers inside myself, then three, stretching, fucking myself hard and fast the way Mark never does. My palm ground against my clit and I couldn’t stop the sounds anymore: little gasps, soft moans, his name over and over like a prayer.

“Please… please… Derek…”

I was so close, right there, thighs shaking, back arching off the floor, when every light in the house went out.

Pitch black.

The sudden darkness swallowed the room. My orgasm stalled on the edge, cruelly yanked away. I froze, fingers still buried inside me, panting into the silence.

Then I heard it.

The basement saw had stopped the second the power died.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Deliberate.

Another step. Another.

He was coming up.

I yanked my hand out of my panties so fast I almost cried, scrambled to my feet, skirt still twisted, heart trying to punch through my ribs.

The hallway was black. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel him: the heat, the size, the way the air changed when he got close.

A flashlight clicked on, low and golden, pointed at the floor between us.

He stood at the top of the stairs in those same sweatpants, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on me like he’d heard every filthy second.

“Power’s out,” he said, voice rough. “Generator’s fucked. Gonna be a long, dark night, gorgeous.”

He took one step closer. The flashlight beam slid up my legs, over my rumpled skirt, my hard nipples, and finally my face.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

He smiled, slow and wicked.

“Better find some candles,” he murmured. “Or we’re gonna have to keep each other real warm.”

Then he turned and walked away, flashlight swinging, leaving me in the dark with my own heartbeat and the smell of my arousal thick in the air.