Chapter 2: Deeper Into the Habit

The alarm cut through the dark at six-fifteen, and I was already awake, staring at the ceiling while Lisa breathed slow and even beside me. My mind had been looping the server closet for hours—the damp cream thong pressed to my face, that thick, living scent of her flooding my lungs, the wet drag of my tongue across the fabric while I stroked myself raw. By the time I finally came in the tissue, my body was spent, but the ache in my gut refused to fade. I slipped out of bed without waking her, showered in silence, and drove to the office with the radio off, the city traffic a dull blur outside the windows.

By the time I reached the sixth floor, the open-plan space was waking up in its usual rhythm: the low murmur of early arrivals booting up laptops, the clink of mugs in the break room, the faint metallic tang of the elevator doors opening down the hall. I grabbed coffee from the communal pot—black, bitter, nothing like the warmth I craved—and traded the usual small talk with two guys from claims. “Traffic bad on the bridge again?” one asked. I nodded, smiled the right amount, but my thoughts were already two rows over, waiting for her.

Sarah arrived at eight-twenty in a charcoal pencil skirt that clung to the generous curve of her hips and the soft thickness of her thighs like it had been tailored for sin. The white blouse was crisp but sheer enough that when she moved, the heavy sway of her natural D-cups shifted beneath it, nipples faintly outlined against the fabric in the cool office air. She carried her usual leather tote and a stack of printouts. As she passed my desk on the way to the printer station, she bent at the waist to clear a paper jam. The skirt stretched tight across her ass, the fabric pulling smooth over the full, rounded cheeks and the subtle dip where her thighs met. My cock stiffened instantly, thick and heavy against my thigh, trapped by my slacks. I shifted in my chair, pretending to study my screen, but my eyes stayed glued to the way the material rode up just enough to hint at the warm skin beneath.

She has no idea, I thought, the familiar twist of resentment and hunger knotting low in my stomach. She walks around like this every day—professional, put-together, married with kids—and I’m the one losing my mind over the scent she leaves behind. Eight years with Lisa, and the spark between us had cooled to polite routine long ago. Sarah didn’t even know my name beyond the occasional ticket request, yet she owned me in ways my wife never had.