Chapter 1

I never thought I’d be the kind of guy who ends up telling a story like this. My name’s Tim, and if you saw me on the street, you’d probably forget me two seconds later. Average height, average build—soft around the middle from too many desk hours and takeout nights. Glasses that always slip down my nose, hair that’s starting to thin at the crown even though I’m not even forty yet. I’m the guy who apologizes when someone else bumps into me. Safe. Reliable. Boring, probably.

And then there’s Kristen.

We met at a mutual friend’s boring office party a couple of years back. She was there in this simple black dress that hugged her in all the ways that made my mouth go dry. Curvy hips, full breasts, long dark hair that fell in waves down her back, and a laugh that turned heads. Way out of my league. I still don’t know how I got the courage to talk to her—probably the third beer—but somehow we clicked. She laughed at my dumb jokes, touched my arm when she spoke, and six months later we were engaged. A year after that, married.

She’s still way out of my league. Everyone says it, even if they try to be polite about it. Kristen could have had anyone—guys with six-packs, guys with money, guys who don’t trip over their own feet. Instead she picked me. I tell myself it’s because I’m kind, because I listen, because I make her feel safe. But deep down there’s always this quiet voice whispering that maybe she settled. That maybe one day she’ll wake up and realize she could do so much better.

We got back from our honeymoon just a couple of weeks ago—some beach resort in Central America where I burned like a lobster and she glowed like a goddess. Now she’s officially moved into my apartment in this mid-rise building downtown. Our building. Our life together, finally under one roof. I still get this little rush every time I come home and see her stuff mixed with mine—her perfume in the bathroom, her heels by the door, her lingerie in the drawer next to my plain boxers.

Everything felt perfect. Until that hot Sunday at the building pool.

It was one of those brutal summer afternoons where the air feels thick and the sun bounces off every surface like it’s trying to cook you. Kristen wanted to go down to the pool—she’d bought this new bikini during our honeymoon shopping spree, a bright coral two-piece that tied at the sides and showed off her curves in ways that made my stomach flip. She looked incredible. I threw on my baggy swim trunks (the ones that hide my soft gut) and a loose T-shirt I never took off, because who wants to see pasty dad-bod at the pool?

We grabbed towels, sunscreen, and headed down. The pool area was half-full—families, a couple of kids splashing, some older residents reading under umbrellas. And then there was him.

Brad.

He lives on the floor below us. I’d seen him around before—always with headphones on, carrying energy drinks or pizza boxes, sometimes chatting with the delivery guys like they’re old friends.

Toned arms from whatever gym routine he does between gaming sessions, smooth skin that hadn’t yet learned what real stress feels like, that easy confidence guys like him just seem to be born with. Shirtless most of the time, board shorts slung low, abs that looked carved rather than earned through misery like mine.

He was already there when we arrived, lounging on a chair with his phone, probably watching highlights or memes or whatever guys his age do. When he saw us—saw her—he sat up straighter. His eyes locked on Kristen like she’d just walked out of a dream.

Kristen looked like she belonged on a magazine cover, not in our mediocre apartment building pool. The coral bikini was barely there—two tiny triangles up top that strained against her full, heavy breasts, the ties digging just a little into the soft flesh at her sides. The bottoms were high-cut, showing off the generous curve of her hips and the way her ass cheeks peeked out with every step, round and firm from all those yoga classes she dragged me to (I usually just watched from the couch). Her stomach was flat but soft in that perfect, feminine way—not carved like some gym rat, just smooth and inviting. Long legs, tanned from the honeymoon sun, ending in painted toenails that matched the bikini. She carried a little straw tote with our sunscreen, two water bottles, and a couple of magazines she probably wouldn’t even open. Her dark hair was up in a messy bun, a few strands already escaping and sticking to her neck from the heat. She had this easy, oblivious smile on her face—content, relaxed, completely unaware that the second she walked through that gate, the air shifted. Everything was about to tilt.

I saw Brad notice it too. His eyes tracked her like a predator playing polite. When she turned to spread her towel on the lounger next to mine, he didn’t even pretend to look away. His gaze dropped straight to her ass—those perfect, jiggling cheeks swaying as she bent slightly to smooth the fabric. I swear I saw his tongue dart across his lower lip. Then, casual as anything, he reached down and adjusted himself through his board shorts. Not subtle. His hand cupped the thick outline of his dick for a second—long enough for me to register it—before letting go like it was no big deal. He was already half-hard just from watching her walk.

We settled in. Kristen stretched out on her stomach first, cheek resting on her folded arms, sunglasses hiding her eyes. Brad dragged his chair over without asking—close enough that his knee almost brushed mine when he sat. Too close.

“Hey, I forgot my phone upstairs,” Kristen said suddenly, sitting up. Her breasts shifted in the top, drawing both our eyes for a split second. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone steal my spot, okay?” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek—sweet, wifely—then stood and walked off toward the building entrance, hips rolling naturally. Brad watched every step. So did I.

The second she was gone, he leaned toward me, elbows on his knees, that easy grin still plastered on his face.

“Timmy,” he said.

“She is,” I said, quieter than I meant to. My throat felt dry. “Kristen. We just got married.”

He let out a low whistle, eyes flicking toward the direction she’d disappeared. “No shit. Congrats, Timmy. Seriously.” He clapped me on the shoulder again—harder this time, like he was testing how solid I was. I wasn’t. “But damn ... that ass? Jesus. The way it jiggles when she walks ... I could watch that all day.”

My face burned. Part of me wanted to snap at him—tell him to watch his mouth. But another part—the quiet, shameful part—felt that same twist in my gut from earlier. Heat. Not anger. Something lower. My swim trunks felt tighter than they should have.

“She’s ... yeah, she’s beautiful,” I managed. It sounded weak even to me.

Brad leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head so his chest and abs flexed. The front of his shorts tented noticeably now—thick, obvious. He didn’t bother hiding it. “You’re a lucky guy, Timmy. Real lucky. Most dudes would kill for a piece of that. Bet she turns heads everywhere she goes, huh?”

I stared at the water, at the kids splashing, anywhere but at him. “Yeah. She does.”

I swallowed. My heart was thudding too hard. I wanted to tell him to back off. I wanted to stand up and walk away. But I just sat there, laid out on the stupid plastic lounger like a beached whale, feeling the way he talked down to me without even raising his voice. And the worst part? I didn’t correct him when he called me Timmy again.

I kept my eyes on the rippling water, pretending to watch the kids cannonballing off the edge, but Brad wasn’t done. He shifted in his chair, leaning even closer, like we were old pals swapping secrets. The bulge in his board shorts hadn’t gone down—if anything, it looked more pronounced now, the thick outline pressing against the damp fabric like it had a mind of its own.

“So, Timmy,” he said, voice casual, almost lazy, “where’d you two meet? Gotta be a hell of a story. Girl like that doesn’t just stumble into a guy like ... well, you know.”

I swallowed. My mouth tasted like chlorine and nerves.

“Office party,” I mumbled. “Friend of a friend. She was there with some coworkers. We just ... talked. Hit it off.”

He nodded slowly, like he was picturing it. “Yeah? Bet she turned every head in the room. You must’ve felt like you won the lottery that night.”

I forced a weak chuckle. “Something like that.”

He didn’t laugh back. Just kept watching the door Kristen had disappeared through, like he could will her to come back faster.

“What’s she do, anyway?” he asked next. “For work, I mean. She strike me as the type who could do anything. Model, influencer, something hot like that.”

My stomach twisted tighter. “She’s ... between jobs right now. Nothing permanent since before the wedding. She’s taking some time off.”

Brad’s grin spread wider—slow, knowing. He let out a low, appreciative hum.

“Between jobs, huh? So she’s got plenty of free time on her hands.” He said it loud enough that the older couple two chairs over probably heard, but he didn’t care. “Lucky you, Timmy. Wife like that, home all day ... plenty of time to keep things interesting.”

I felt my face go hot again. I wanted to say something. Anything to shut it down. Tell him it wasn’t like that. Tell him she was my wife, not some fantasy for him to drool over. But the words stuck. All I managed was a quiet, “Yeah ... she likes having the downtime.”

He nodded, satisfied, then his eyes lit up like he’d just remembered something.

“Hey, speaking of downtime, what about the building gym? You guys ever hit it? I’m down there almost every afternoon. Weights, cardio, the works. She looks like she takes care of herself. Bet she’d kill it on the squat rack.”

I shook my head too fast. “No, she doesn’t really use it. She does yoga sometimes at home, but the gym’s not her thing.”

Brad tsked, like I’d just said something ridiculous. Without breaking eye contact with me, he reached down again—slow, deliberate—and palmed himself through his shorts. Not a quick adjustment this time. He squeezed the thick length once, twice, letting his hand linger so I couldn’t miss it. The fabric stretched tight over the head, outlining every ridge. My breath caught. I looked away, but not fast enough.

“Nah, man,” he said, voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial. “We gotta fix that. Girl with an ass like hers? She belongs in that gym. Squats, deadlifts, hip thrusts ... I’d spot her myself. Make sure she gets the form right.” He gave himself one last slow squeeze before letting go, the bulge now straining obscenely. “Tell her I said so. Tell her Brad’s happy to help her get in a real workout.”

I stared at my lap. My hands were clenched on the arms of the lounger so hard my knuckles were white. My heart hammered against my ribs. Part of me wanted to stand up, grab our stuff, and drag Kristen back upstairs the second she came through that door. Part of me wanted to disappear.

But another part—the quiet, sick part I didn’t want to name—felt that same shameful heat pooling low in my gut. The way he talked about her. The way he touched himself right in front of me while he did it. The way he called me Timmy one more time, like I was nothing.

Brad leaned back in his chair, still smirking, phone already in his hand like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“What’s her full name, Timmy? First and last. I wanna see if she’s on Insta.”

My throat closed up. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, hot and prickly. I should have said no. Should have told him it was none of his business, that she was my wife and he needed to back off. Instead my mouth opened and the words came out small and obedient.

“Kristen ... Kristen Almeida.”

He tapped the screen a few times, eyes lighting up almost immediately. A low chuckle started in his chest, building until he was laughing out loud, not even trying to keep it quiet. Heads turned from a couple of the other chairs. He didn’t care.

“Oh man. Oh shit, Timmy. This is her, right? Profile’s wide open. No privacy settings or anything.” He tilted the phone toward me just enough that I could see the grid of photos loading. “Holy fuck. Look at this.”

I didn’t want to look. I looked anyway.

The feed was full of her. Bikini shots from our honeymoon, golden sand behind her, water lapping at her thighs. Close-ups of her cleavage spilling out of low-cut tops, the kind of angles that made her breasts look even fuller. A mirror selfie in yoga pants that hugged her ass so tight you could see the outline of her thong. Another one bent over in the kitchen, shorts riding up, captioned something cute like “morning stretch goals.” Dozens of them. All public. All there for anyone to scroll through.

Brad kept laughing, scrolling faster now, thumb flicking. “Your wife is a total freak, Timmy. Straight up exhibitionist vibes. These pics? She’s begging for attention.”

I felt my stomach drop through the lounger. My voice came out thin, almost a whisper.

“She’s ... she just likes taking pictures. She worked as a photographer’s assistant for a couple months last year. She got used to being in front of the camera too. It’s not ... it’s not like that.”

He snorted, still staring at the screen. “Sure, Timmy. Whatever you say. But come on. Look at this one.” He turned the phone again, showing me a shot of her on all fours on a beach towel, back arched, ass high, looking over her shoulder with that same easy smile she gave me every morning. “That’s not ‘I like taking pictures.’ That’s ‘come and get it.’”

I stared at the image until it burned into my brain. My hands were shaking a little on the armrests. I wanted to grab the phone, delete the app, tell him to fuck off. I wanted to disappear into the concrete. Instead I just sat there, meek and frozen, while he kept scrolling and chuckling to himself.

Kristen came walking back through the gate with that same peaceful smile she always wore when she was relaxed, like the world was exactly the way she wanted it. Her iPhone dangled from one hand in its bright pink case, the kind with little rhinestones around the edges that caught the sunlight every time she moved. She looked completely at ease, hips swaying gently, breasts bouncing just enough with each step to remind me how perfect they were.

Brad had maybe thirty seconds before she reached us. He didn’t waste them.

“Timmy,” he muttered under his breath, eyes locked on her chest now, “those tits look even better up close. Fucking delicious. Same energy as that back view, man. You think they’re real or she got some work done?”

My mouth went dry. I could barely get the words out.

“They’re ... natural,” I said, voice so low it almost disappeared into the sound of splashing water. “All natural.”