Falling Head First (Part 4 of Series)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 7: The Wrong Candles
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 7: The Wrong Candles - A continuation of my retelling of my 6 month affair where I cheated on my boyfriend.
Caution: This True Story Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual Reluctant Heterosexual True Story Cheating MaleDom Humiliation Rough Spanking White Male White Female Analingus Cream Pie Food Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting
I drank the last of the pinot grigio in my glass. I set the glass down and looked at the scene I had built.
Eight minutes.
The table was set, the candles waiting. I had bought those candles for a different Friday, a different man, a different version of myself who thought in terms of romance and not carnal pleasure.
Soft R&B leeched from the speaker. I touched the dimmer and looked at the clock. Dinner was nearly done. A second white and a decent red were set up on the sideboard.
Everything was ready. Everything looked beautiful.
The person for whom all of it had been was on a plane.
I went into the kitchen and took off the apron. Hanging it up felt like stepping out of a costume. This was not a quick, stupid hookup I could blame on timing. I had cooked, I had shaved, I had put on heels, and I hated heels. I had done all of it for a man I used to cross rooms to avoid.
“What is wrong with you?” I said to myself.
The question floated through the air like the smell of my marinara sauce. I had no good answer, only a stack of worse ones. The truth was I wanted him. I wanted to see if he would sit through a meal for me. I wanted, God help me, to be looked at the way he had looked at me on a phone screen all week, except in my actual house, with my actual hands shaking.
Serving that lasagna to him sat heavier than the rest. It was not just sex I was offering under someone else’s candles. It was a family recipe. Putting it on a plate for Tyler felt like taking a private language and teaching it to the wrong mouth, just like I had been trying to force on Mike all week with my blowjobs.
Would he even notice the effort? Would he walk in, see the dress, and decide food was unnecessary and take me right then and there? Fuck it, let the asparagus burn, and if the smoke alarm goes off, we will deal with it then. Part of me hoped he would just force himself on me. The week had left me wound so tight that the idea of being taken by a man through my own front door made my stomach dip in a way I was not proud of. The other part, the part that had stirred sauce for an hour, wanted him to sit down and suffer through evening and wanting me. I wanted him restless. I wanted him to wait. I wanted him to see what he was going to have but have to be patient. For once, I didn’t want to be the one who folded first.
I stopped at the hallway mirror, straightened the dress, and smacked my lips together.
I looked like I was doing this on purpose.
I was. That was the problem.
Hair, mouth, black dress, I could feel with every breath, heels already filing a complaint. I oozed sex. There was no gentler way to put it. The doorbell rang while I was still trying to decide whether that made me powerful or pathetic.
Of course, he was right on time.
My nerves went bright hot. A fine shaking started in my hands and then pretended it had always lived there. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Tyler stood on my mat, taking up the entire doorway frame. Even in heels, I had to tilt my head to look up at him in the face, and that stirred other thoughts in my hindbrain and traitorous body.
I had not told him to dress for this. I had simply said I had cooked dinner; it could have been Hungry Man microwave meals in flip-flops and a wifebeater for all he knew. I had not said, “I want you to dress like we are going out on the town.”
But he stood there dressed and looking exactly the way that made so many other women lose their composure. His looks, demeanor, and that God dam crooked smile stared down at me, just challenging me to continue my recent string of bad choices.
He was wearing black slacks, a black shirt open at the throat just enough to draw the eye, a dark blazer, and his dark hair styled to look perfect. And then his eyes, the ice-blue bastards, were already busy. They did not scan the entrance to my condo. They did not politely admire the dress or hair. They went straight into me. There was a heat in them that didn’t bother with manners in the way they scanned me from head to toe. They were hungry, no, ravenous, as they drifted over my body, assessing, analyzing, devouring.
My first thought was not to greet him, or God forbid give him even a chaste kiss. I knew full well that if our lips touched, then the dinner would be nothing more than an afterthought. After last weekend and this week’s text and video exchanges, I knew full well we were both live wires, ready to pop off at a moment’s notice, and I did not trust either of us to be able to control ourselves. No, my first thought upon seeing the way his eyes were consuming me was that if I said the wrong word, or no word, or even hesitated in the doorway for more than a moment or two, he would take me right then and there with the door still open, and I would not stop him.
My knees loosened. My heart missed a step. I put a hand on the wall because dignity is easier to fake when you are not swaying.
‘Do not let him take this from you in the first five seconds. You planned, you cooked, you prepared, you can want him and still make him walk across a room and behave like a rational human and not an animal.” I thought.
I reached out and touched his chest. Two fingers. Light enough to be a joke if I needed it to be.
“Patience,” I said.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out. Good.
I turned and walked toward the dining room before I could find out how long my little rule would survive close range. I knew what the back of the dress did. I had stood in the bedroom and watched the fabric drop to just above the base of my spine and thought, “Yes, that will cause problems.” I put a little sway in my step. Let him look. Let him want it.
At the turn, I glanced over my shoulder. He was still in the doorway, one hand holding on the knob with a death grip, looking like someone had hit pause on him.
“Coming?” I asked.
He shut the door harder than necessary. I smiled at the candles so he would not see it.
I lit the wicks and eased the dimmer down one more notch, and the room took on a golden hue.
“Thank you for coming,” I said, and immediately heard every other meaning of the sentence. “Wine. There is white, red, or both if you have commitment issues. I support chaos.”
He looked at the table, then at me again, slower.
“Both is tempting,” he said. His voice had come back, mostly. “I’ll start respectable.”
“That will be a first.”
His mouth ticked. I fled to the kitchen before I kissed him with salad still unserved.
The Lasagna came out, and the asparagus and mushrooms went in. I set the timer for the bread. I tossed the salad and talked to myself like a lunatic.
‘You can do a first course. You can sit in a chair like a normal person. You are not an animal. You are a woman with willpower.”
When I came back to the dining room table, he had hung his blazer over his chair and sat down, which I chose to read as progress. His look from the doorway had been put on a leash. A short leash. I could still feel it when I bent to set his plate down. His eyes followed the line of my dress and did not pretend otherwise.
I sat. He had poured white for me and red for himself. He had remembered what I actually drank. A small thing, but it still landed. I took a long sip because my mouth needed a job that was not his mouth.
He watched my mouth open; he watched the sip; he watched me swallow. I felt it in my throat, and I felt it between my thighs.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was an oaf at the door, and I mean that. I stood there as if I had never seen a porch light. You opened that door and my brain just ... left. Beth. You look stunning. That dress should require a permit. You step off a curb in that and traffic laws become a suggestion.”
I laughed, pinched the fabric, and went for the oldest dodge in the book.
“What, this old thing? I wear it to buy milk.”
“You wear that to buy milk; the cashiers must love to see you coming and even more, to watch you going.”
“Good. Maybe I’ll get a discount.”
He leaned in a fraction. Not touching. Worse than touching.
“If I had known you were walking around with this in your closet,” he said, quieter, “I would have stolen you years ago.”
There it was. The sentence that made my stomach drop and my skin go tight at the same time. Not “I would have asked.” Stolen. As if my years with someone else were a delay in his schedule. It should have made me angry. It did, a little. It also sent a hot, unhelpful flicker down my spine.
“He talks like your yes is a formality. Why does that get to you? I wondered. Why do you want to make him wait if part of you likes the idea that he would not have waited?”
“You clean up all right yourself,” I said. “I was expecting you to arrive in whatever you wear to be a menace in an office.”
“This is what I wear to be a menace at dinner.”
“Noted.”
Our eyes caught and held. I looked away first because the alternative was forgetting there was food still in front of us. Something in my chest was already beating too fast for salad. I told it to sit down. It did not.
We started eating. I asked about his week because silence would have turned into his hand on my knee, and if his hand landed on my knee, the asparagus was going to burn.
He gave me a client story. I gave him a shift story. On the surface it was normal. Under the surface, I was aware of everything: the way his throat moved when he swallowed wine, the candlelight on the open collar of his shirt, my own pulse between my legs like it had been invited to the table. When I licked dressing off the fork, his gaze dropped to my mouth and stayed a second too long.
“You’re staring,” I said.
“You’re sitting there looking like that and eating. I’m a simple man.”
“You are many things. Simple is not one of them.”
Whenever my glass dropped below the line of respectable, he filled it. No flourish. No question. Just the bottle, the pour, his fingers close to mine. I thanked him the first time. The second time I only met his eyes over the rim and felt the thank-you turn into something dumber.
“You are getting giddy. That is the wine and the attention and the fact that you have been half-wild since lunch. It is not a personality change. Do not make it a personality change.”
I stood to clear the salad. He started to get up.
“No.” I put my hand on his shoulder. Warm shirt. Solid body. A bad idea with nice manners. “Stay. I have a system. The system is me bossing you around in my own house.”
“I can live with that system.”
“Of course you can.”
In the kitchen, I plated the next course and tried not to think about how much I liked him watching me walk away. I liked it too much. That was becoming a theme. I carried out the lasagna, the asparagus, mushrooms, and bread, and set them down as if presentation might redeem me.
He breathed in.
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