Claire pedaled hard up the winding coastal road, the salt-kissed wind whipping through her helmet vents. At 34, she still turned heads in her tight black bib shorts and fitted jersey, her brunette hair tied back in a ponytail that bounced with each stroke. Her quads burned, but in a good way — the kind of burn that reminded her she was alive, strong, reclaiming her body after Luca’s birth two years ago. Those first postpartum pounds had clung stubbornly, but cycling had stripped them away, leaving her with fuller breasts that strained against her sports bra and hips that swayed with a newfound confidence.

Mark, her husband, was a rock. Every Sunday morning, he handled Luca without complaint — diapers, breakfast, playtime — so she could join the local group ride out of Scotts Valley. The rides started as therapy, a way to shed the baby weight and escape the monotony of motherhood. But now? Now they were her addiction. The rhythm of the pedals, the camaraderie of the pack, the endorphin high that left her glowing when she rolled back home around noon. Mark never questioned the extra hours or her flushed cheeks. “You look amazing, babe,” he’d say, kissing her hello. He was good like that — steady, loving. Their sex life was comfortable, familiar. But lately, Claire wondered if comfortable was enough.

The group was a mix: retirees grinding out miles for health, weekend warriors chasing Strava segments. And then there was Theo. At 26, he was the fastest wheel in the pack — lean, tattooed forearms flexing as he pulled the group up hills. His easy smile hid a quiet intensity, and those thin cycling shorts? They hid nothing. Claire had noticed it on her first ride: the prominent bulge in his crotch, heavy and shifting with every pedal stroke. When he stood out of the saddle to climb, it strained against the Lycra, outlining a thick, veiny cock that made her mouth go dry. God, what’s wrong with me? she’d think, pedaling harder to shake the thought. Mark was average — nice, but nothing like that. Theo’s looked ... bigger. Harder. Forbidden.

At first, it was innocent. Theo dropped back during rides to pace her, offering tips on cadence. “You’re killing it, Claire. Those legs are powerhouse.” His compliments were casual, but the way his eyes lingered on her thighs, her ass when she led on flats ... it sparked something. Guilt nipped at her heels. Mark trusts me. I’m a mom, for fuck’s sake. But the attention was intoxicating, a reminder she was still desirable.

Months passed. Sundays became ritual: 50–70 miles along the Santa Cruz coastline, rolling hills dotted with redwoods, the ocean crashing below. The group would stop midway for coffee at a little café in Capitola, helmets off, sweat drying on skin. Theo always lingered. They’d sit close, knees brushing under the table. Conversation flowed easy — from bike tech to life. He was single, freelance graphic designer, lived in a small house near the beach. She talked about Luca, the joys and exhaustion of family. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” he’d say, his voice low, eyes on her mouth. Claire felt the pull, the heat building low in her belly. This is just flirting. Harmless.

But it escalated. During a group ride along the twisting roads above Davenport, Claire felt the telltale thump-thump of a rear flat. She signaled and eased off the pace; the pack rolled on ahead, calling back “We’ll regroup at the café!” Theo, riding just behind her, slowed immediately. “I’ve got spares and a pump. Let’s fix it quick.”

They pulled off onto a wide gravel turnout overlooking the Pacific — quiet except for the distant crash of waves and the occasional car. The rest of the group was already out of sight around the bend. Theo flipped her bike upside down on its saddle and handlebars, efficient and practiced. Claire stood nearby, handing him tools from his saddle bag, watching the muscles in his forearms flex as he worked the tire levers.

He peeled the tire off, removed the punctured tube, and threaded in a fresh one. As he crouched low to seat the bead and pump, his thin bib shorts pulled tight across his hips and crotch. The prominent bulge was impossible to ignore — thick, heavy, shifting slightly with each push of the mini-pump. Sweat from the morning’s effort had darkened the fabric, making the outline even clearer: the defined ridge of his cock, the subtle swell of his balls. Claire’s breath caught. Mark’s never looked like that when he’s working on something. So ... full. So ready. Heat bloomed between her legs despite the guilt twisting in her gut. I shouldn’t be staring. I’m married. This is wrong.