Chapter 4: Guilt, Lies & Round Two

The clock on my microwave read 12:07 when her text lit up my phone. “On my way. Work dress still on. I have exactly 45 minutes. Door unlocked?” My pulse spiked the second I read it. Midday light poured through the kitchen blinds, turning the whole apartment into something too bright, too exposed. No lake-house shadows or late-night excuses this time—just the real world humming outside, cars passing, neighbors walking dogs. Mark was at the office, buried in meetings according to her last message. One wrong glance out a window and this could blow up.

I barely had time to straighten the counter before the knock came—sharp, hurried. Emily slipped inside, closing the door with her back against it like she was bracing for impact. The work dress was navy, tailored to hug every inch: knee-length hem that suddenly felt criminal, belt cinched at her waist, modest neckline that did nothing to hide how her breasts strained the fabric after the rush of the drive. Heels clicked on the tile as she stepped closer, cheeks already flushed, eyes darting between me and the clock on the wall.

“I have 45 minutes,” she said again, voice low and breathless. “He thinks I’m grabbing salads with the girls from accounting. If he calls...” She didn’t finish. Instead she crossed the space in three strides and kissed me hard, the taste of her morning coffee and mint gum flooding my mouth. Her hands gripped my shirt like she needed an anchor. The risk hit different in daylight—sun on her ring, glinting every time she moved, reminding us both exactly whose wife was currently pressing her body against mine in my kitchen at noon.

No slow build this time. We both knew the clock was ticking. I spun her toward the counter, her palms slapping down on the cool granite edge. The dress rode up instantly as I pressed behind her, hiking the hem to her hips in one rough tug. Navy fabric bunched at her waist, exposing the lace edges of her panties—black, practical, already damp at the crotch. I yanked them down just enough, the elastic snapping against her thighs. She arched back into me, ass pushing out, a soft gasp escaping when my fingers found her slick and ready.

“Fast,” she whispered, glancing at her phone on the counter. “God, we’re doing this in broad daylight.”

I didn’t answer with words. I freed myself, lined up, and thrust in deep on the first stroke. The angle was perfect—standing doggy, her leaning over the counter, heels still on, legs spread just wide enough. Her walls clenched hot and tight around me, the sudden fullness drawing a muffled moan from her throat. I gripped her hips, the dress fabric bunched in my fists, and started pounding—rough, urgent, the slap of skin echoing off the kitchen tiles louder than it should have been. Sunlight caught the sweat already beading on the small of her back. Her breasts swayed heavy inside the dress with every thrust, nipples hard points visible through the thin material. The counter edge dug into her palms; I could see her knuckles whitening as she held on, pushing back to meet me, greedy despite the ticking seconds.