Chapter 8

GINA

Gina adjusted the strap of her carry-on and tugged her coat tighter, even though she wasn’t cold. The terminal air had that stale, recycled taste, but she barely noticed it. Her mind was elsewhere—three days ago, in Chloe’s bed, Hunter panting and dazed beneath them both.

The thought alone made her bite her lip.

She had changed her flight the moment the meeting ended early. One more night in the hotel would’ve driven her crazy. She needed skin. Mouths. Surrender. She needed to hear Chloe whisper her name like a prayer.

Beneath her hoodie and jeans, she wore nothing she’d call casual: a sheer black bra with no cups, nipple rings peeking out from under mesh; panties that were more strap than fabric; and a garter belt she had no business wearing under denim.

She thought about texting Chloe, but felt it better to surprise her.

HEIDI

The blinds were still drawn. Light crept in around the edges, but she hadn’t opened them in days. Her phone was face down on the nightstand. She stared at the ceiling, one hand resting on her chest, the other still between her thighs.

It hadn’t helped. None of it had.

Even wine and toys and whispered fantasies weren’t him.

She sat up slowly, grabbed her phone. A text blinked back.

From Chloe.

She read it three times.

Then once more, aloud.

“I don’t know what you’re going through, but I’ve been there. That kind of hunger? It doesn’t go away on its own.”

Heidi’s hand trembled slightly. Not with fear. With something closer to recognition.

She opened a new message:

Heidi: Found another box. Want to come by again after work?

She stared at it for a moment.

Then sent it.

Then got out of bed.

HUNTER

I knocked. Again.

The porch light was already on, even though the sun hadn’t dipped yet. It made the moment feel staged—like she’d been waiting. And maybe she had.

Heidi answered wearing a clingy navy blouse and yoga pants that didn’t even pretend to hide her body. Her hair was brushed. Makeup subtle. Eyes clear.

Not drunk.

That somehow made it worse.

“Come in,” she said, stepping aside. “The box is in the same place. But I actually wanted to talk. If that’s okay.”

I stepped in. The house smelled like jasmine and laundry softener. Her perfume, or something just as intimate.

We made small talk for a few minutes. She poured me a soda instead of a beer. Sipped her own. No wine.

She led me to the garage and pointed at the box, but neither of us moved. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely. Her chest lifted just a little, naturally, casually.

“I thought I was going to be such a good stepmom,” she said.

That caught me off guard.

She looked down at the floor, smiled at her own reflection in the tile. “I really did. I read articles. Took up baking. Tried to do the PTA thing. And I tried to talk to you about stuff—school, girls, music—remember that?”

I nodded. Slowly. “You were trying.”

“Trying,” she echoed, with a little laugh. “That’s generous. I was ... clueless. Honestly. Too young. Too into myself. I wanted to be liked more than I wanted to be helpful.”

She hugged herself, then—almost in the same breath—let her hands drift upward.

They cupped her chest gently. Thoughtlessly.

“Remember when I got these?”

My throat went dry.

She smiled, still looking down, thumbs brushing the swell of her breasts. “I’d wanted them for a while. Not this big, though. That was your dad’s input. He had opinions.”

“They’re...” I said, then stopped.

She glanced up, still smiling. “They were a gift. To myself. I was proud of them. I still am, I guess, even if they don’t quite fit me anymore.”

She looked off for a moment, then laughed again. “God. I think I even offered to let you touch them once. No wonder you got the hell out of there.”

I should’ve stayed quiet.

Instead: “I thought about that. For years.”

Her head turned slightly. A flush rose along her throat, visible even in the soft light.

She stepped closer.

“Oh God. You poor thing.” She paused, “You can touch them now if you want.”

I didn’t say yes. I didn’t need to.

My hand slid up and cupped one breast gently, reverently. Firm beneath my palm, warm, unreal. She closed her eyes like it meant something. Like it answered a question.

“You’re not that kid anymore,” she whispered.

My fingers squeezed gently. I caressed it for a beat.

I left a minute later. Rattled. Aroused. Barely remembering what box I was carrying.

And I didn’t know if I was more ashamed of what almost happened—or more desperate to go back.

BAILEY

Bailey stepped onto the sidewalk and zipped her coat up to her chin, but it wasn’t the weather she was hiding from—it was nerves. She’d scrubbed every trace of last night’s photos from her work phone. Deleted messages. Cleared history. Even changed the wallpaper.

She told herself it was smart. Responsible.

But the minute she left the office, she stopped being responsible. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Just a soft, clingy top under her hoodie and a skirt that barely covered her thighs.

Hunter hadn’t texted since that morning, but he hadn’t told her not to come by either.

And she wanted him to see her like this. Wanted him to remember what it felt like to watch her ride him.

She stopped by a corner store to grab gum. Checked her reflection in the window. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked ridiculous. And hot.

CHLOE

Chloe was sitting on the couch, pretending to read when the front door opened. Hunter stepped in, keys jangling, looking more like a man walking off a dream than returning from an errand.

He dropped the keys in the bowl by the door, toed off his shoes.

“Where were you?” she asked casually.