Chapter 15: Home Session Seduction

Sarah Thompson left the front door unlocked at 9:18 p.m., the house already wrapped in the kind of quiet that only came when the kids were at her mother’s for the whole weekend. Dave’s night shift stretched until dawn, his side of the bed cold and empty as always. She had texted Mike the address an hour earlier, heart pounding against her ribs while she straightened the living room—pushing the coffee table aside, rolling up the rug to bare the hardwood, stacking the throw pillows on the couch. The space felt too intimate now, too familiar: the faint scent of last night’s spaghetti sauce still clinging to the air, a single sippy cup forgotten on the side table, the soft glow of the lamp she’d left on low.

She wore the charcoal tank again, loose enough to look innocent, but beneath it the tiniest black lace bralette and matching thong she could find. The fabric kissed her skin with every breath, already damp from the drive home. When headlights swept across the front windows she froze, pulse leaping, but it was only Mike’s truck pulling into the driveway. He stepped out in his usual black tank and gym shorts, duffel slung over one shoulder, moving with that quiet confidence that always made her stomach tighten.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, hazel eyes sweeping the room before settling on her. “Nice place,” he said, voice low. “Feels different when it’s not the gym.”

Sarah swallowed, cheeks warming. “Kids are gone. Dave’s at work until morning. We have the house.”

Mike set the duffel down and crossed the living room in three strides, pulling her against him without another word. His mouth found hers—slow at first, then deeper, tongues sliding while his hands mapped the curve of her waist under the tank. “We’re still doing the workout,” he murmured against her lips. “Full session. Then I’m fucking you in every room you let me.”

They started right there on the hardwood. Mike guided her through a circuit that turned the living room into their private gym: bodyweight squats facing the big window, lunges across the open floor, glute bridges on the area rug. He corrected her form the way he always did—palms on her hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples above her ass—but now there were no mirrors, only the dark glass reflecting their silhouettes against the streetlight outside. Every time she dropped into a squat the lace thong shifted, rubbing her clit until her breathing turned ragged. Sweat bloomed across her chest, soaking the tank until the sheer bralette showed through like a secret.