It was the kind of July heat that stuck to you the second you stepped outside. Heavy. Humid. The air was thick enough to wear. Inside the house the air conditioning was humming its steady, expensive rhythm but even through the double-paned glass I could feel the weight of the summer pressing against my home.

I should have been doing laundry. I should have been answering the three emails sitting in my inbox for the HOA. Instead I was standing in the shadow of my kitchen curtains watching three strange men dismantle my back porch.

My name is Mindy. I turned 45 last month. When I look in the mirror I see a woman who has held up pretty well against gravity and time but I know what I am. I’m 5’6” and hover around 135 pounds. I have curves. Big ones. My tits are a natural 36DD and they are heavy. They used to sit high and perky but after breastfeeding Emma nearly sixteen years ago they have a weight to them now. A softness. My husband Brian says he loves them. He says he loves burying his face in them because they feel like home.

That’s the problem though. I don’t want to feel like home. Sometimes I want to feel like a vacation.

I took a sip of my ice water and leaned a little closer to the window. The glass was cool against my forehead.

There were three of them out there. We had hired the contractor last week to tear down the old rotting wood deck and build something expansive. Something made of cedar and expensive composite. Brian signed the check without blinking. He wanted his girls to have a nice place to sunbathe.

Two of the workers were young. They couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. They were lean and tan with that wiry muscle that boys get before they fill out into men. They wore their tool belts low on their hips. They moved fast. They laughed a lot. They were loud in that way young men are when they want the world to know they exist.

Then there was the foreman. Rick.

Rick was different.

He was older. Maybe fifty. He had salt-and-pepper hair cut short and a thick majestic beard that somehow didn’t hide the sharp line of his jaw. He was bigger than the other two. Thicker. He wore a gray T-shirt that was soaked through with sweat. It clung to his chest and shoulders like a second skin. You could see the definition of his arms every time he swung a hammer or lifted a beam. He didn’t move fast. He moved with purpose. He looked like the kind of man who knew exactly what to do with his hands.

He looked like the kind of man who would break things just to fix them.

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. Just looking at him made my stomach do a little flip. It was ridiculous. I was a married woman standing in my air-conditioned kitchen ogling the help.

But I wasn’t the only one watching.

I adjusted my angle so I could see the yard beyond the deck frame. There she was. Emma.

My daughter is 16 and she is everything I used to be but amplified. She has my dark curly hair but hers falls in perfect ringlets down to her waist. She has my curves too but everything on her is tight. Her tits stay up without a bra. Her ass is high and firm. I wasn’t jealous but I admit I wished I looked like that again.

She was lying on a lounge chair she had dragged onto the grass and was wearing a bikini that Brian would have had a heart attack over two years ago. Now he just sighs and mumbles something about fashion trends. It was bright yellow. A tiny triangle of fabric covered her crotch. I swear she had to be shaved clean to wear it. The back was even thinner- a string that disappeared between her ample cheeks. The top was barely holding her in. You could almost see the pink of her areola if she shifted her weight.

She was lathering oil onto her legs.

I watched her. She wasn’t just putting on sunscreen. She was performing. She would lift one leg into the air, wiggling her toes, and run her hands slowly from her ankle to her thigh. She arched her back so her tits pushed up toward the sky.

She knew they were watching.

I looked back at the deck. The two young guys—I think their names were Liam and Carter—had basically stopped working. They were pretending to measure a board but their eyes were glued to Emma. They were whispering to each other. One of them said something and the other one laughed a dirty low laugh.

Emma flipped her hair. She knew. She loved it.

I felt a pang in my chest. It wasn’t quite anger. More a resignation that I didn’t get looks like that anymore.

I looked down at myself. I was wearing a pair of yoga pants and a loose tank top. I wasn’t wearing a bra because I wasn’t planning on going outside. My nipples were chafing slightly against the soft cotton of the shirt. I put a hand on my stomach. It was soft. I had a little pouch there. The “mom pooch” that no amount of yoga ever really got rid of.

I watched the young guys staring at her. They looked hungry. Like they wanted to devour her right there on the grass. I bet they had erections. The thought made me tingle.

I wondered when the last time someone looked at me like that was. Brian looked at me with love. He looked at me with comfort. But hunger? That raw animal starvation? It had been a long time.

Rick shouted something at the boys. “Quit gawking and cut that 4x4. We aren’t getting paid to watch the scenery.”

His voice was deep. Gravelly.

The boys jumped and went back to work but I saw them stealing glances. Rick shook his head. He wiped his forearm across his forehead clearing the sweat from his eyes. He took a bottle of water from a cooler and tipped his head back. I watched his throat work as he swallowed.

He turned toward the house.

I froze. I was standing in the shadows of the kitchen but I felt exposed.

He looked at the patio where Emma was lying. He looked at her long oiled legs. He looked at her thick ass cheeks. He looked for a long moment. Any man would. She was gorgeous.

Then his eyes moved up.

He looked past the patio. He looked up at the sliding glass door. He looked right at me.

I held my breath. I should have stepped back. I should have pretended I was doing dishes or grabbing a snack. But I couldn’t move.

Rick didn’t look away.

He stared right into the kitchen. Our eyes locked. Even from twenty feet away I could see the intensity in them. They were blue. piercing.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave like a polite contractor should.

He looked me up and down. I felt it. It wasn’t a casual glance. It felt like a physical touch. His gaze started at my face, dragged down over my neck, lingered on the curve of my heavy breasts under the tank top, and went down to my hips.

I felt my nipples harden instantly. It was a physical reaction I couldn’t control. My breath caught in my throat.

He saw me. He really saw me.

He looked back up at my eyes. One corner of his mouth twitched up under that thick beard.

He winked.

It was dirty. It was presumptuous. It was completely inappropriate.

And it made my pussy clench so hard I almost gasped.

He turned back to his work, picked up a hammer, and started driving a nail into a beam with confident violently strong strokes.

I stepped back from the window. My heart raced. My face felt hot. My hands were shaking a little bit.

“Jesus, Mindy,” I whispered to the empty room. “Get a grip.”

But I couldn’t. The image of him looking at me—dismissing the young tight body on the lawn to focus on the woman in the window—was burned into my brain.

I walked to the refrigerator and opened it just to feel the cold air on my face. I grabbed the pitcher of lemonade I had made earlier. I told myself I was being a good hostess. It was hot out. They were working hard. It was the polite thing to do.

But I knew that was a lie.

I wanted to go out there. I wanted to see if he would look at me like that again when I was standing right in front of him.

I looked down at my outfit. Yoga pants. Tank top. No bra.

“You can’t go out there like this,” I thought. “You’re a mother. You’re a wife.”

I ran my hands over my breasts. They were heavy. Full. My nipples were pressing against the fabric enough you could see their outline.

If I put a sports bra on it would cover everything. I would look like a mom. I would look safe.

I didn’t put one on.

“Just bring them the drinks,” I told myself. “Don’t overthink it.”

I grabbed four plastic cups and put them on a tray with the pitcher. My hands were still trembling.

I walked to the sliding glass door and looked out.

Emma had rolled over onto her stomach. She had undone the clasp of her bikini top to avoid tan lines. Her back was bare. Her ass was prominently displayed.

The two young guys were practically drooling. One of them had climbed down the ladder and was “looking for a specific drill bit” right near where she was laying.

I slid the door open. The heat hit me. The smell of sawdust and male sweat filled my nose.

“Thought you boys might need a break,” I called out. My voice sounded higher than usual.

Emma lifted her head. She squinted at me. “Hey Mom. Thanks.”

She didn’t cover up. She just let her top hang loose and propped herself up on her elbows. Her nipples were just barely obscured by the towel below her. She was so confident. So unbothered.

The two young guys snapped to attention. “Oh, thank you Mrs. Miller. That’s great.”

They came over immediately. They were polite. Nice boys. But as I poured the lemonade I saw their eyes drift back to Emma. They took the cups, muttered thanks, and went back to their spots where they could watch my daughter.

I felt invisible again. Just the mom with the refreshments.

Then a shadow fell over me.

“Thirsty work,” a deep voice said.

I turned. Rick was standing right there.

Up close he was immense. He smelled like cedar and musk. His arms were covered in a layer of dust that stuck to the hair on his forearms. He was looking down at me.

I poured a cup. My hand shook. A little lemonade spilled onto the tray.

“Sorry,” I flustered. “I’m a little shaky today.”

Rick reached out. His hand was large, the fingers thick and calloused. He didn’t take the cup. He put his hand over mine on the pitcher handle to steady it.

His skin was rough. Hot.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He didn’t pull his hand away. He stood there, his large hand covering my smaller one, guiding the pour.

He was standing close. Too close for a stranger. I could feel the heat radiating off him.

“You got a nice place here,” he said. His voice dropped an octave. “Nice view.”

He wasn’t looking at the yard. He was looking at me.

“Thank you,” I breathed.

He took the cup from me. Our fingers brushed. Electric.

He took a long drink, draining the cup in one go. A drop of lemonade caught in his beard. I had an insane urge to reach out and lick it off.

He lowered the cup and looked over my shoulder at Emma. She was giggling at something one of the boys had said.

Rick looked back at me. He stepped in a little closer.

“Boys like the snacks,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “But I prefer a meal.”

My thighs clenched together involuntarily. I could feel myself getting wet. Very wet.

He grinned. He knew exactly what he was doing to me.

“Thanks for the drink, Mrs. Miller,” he said.

He turned and walked back to the deck. As he walked away, I saw him adjust the crotch of his jeans. He was heavy there. Thick.

I stood there on the patio holding the empty tray. My knees felt weak.

Emma looked up at me. “Mom? You okay? You’re soaking wet.”

She meant the sweat. I was glistening. But she was right in more ways than she knew.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just ... hot.”

I turned and walked back into the house. I felt Rick’s eyes on my ass every step of the way. I exaggerated the sway of my hips just a little. I couldn’t help it.

I got inside and shut the door. The silence of the house enveloped me again but my skin felt on fire.

I put the tray on the counter, leaned back against the granite island and closed my eyes.

I pictured Rick’s hand over mine. The way he looked at me. A meal.

I looked down at my chest. Through the thin white tank top the dark areolas of my breasts were clearly visible. My nipples were hard points. I hadn’t realized just how sheer the shirt was in the bright sunlight.

He had seen everything.

And he liked it.

I looked out the window again. Rick was up on the ladder now hammer in hand. He was pounding a beam into place. The muscles in his back bunched and released with every strike.

Wham. Wham. Wham.

The rhythm settled deep in my belly.

I looked at Emma. She was applying more oil. She was perfect. Tight. Young.

But Rick didn’t want her. He wanted me.

I shouldn’t be feeling this. I was a mother. I was a wife to a good man who worked hard to pay for this deck. Brian was a good lover. He was kind. He was gentle.

But looking at Rick ... gentle was the last thing on my mind. I wanted rough. I wanted my husband to pound me like Rick pounded that beam. And if he didn’t have the courage ... I watched Rick work for another minute. He stopped and wiped his brow. He looked at the window again. He knew I was there.

He didn’t wink this time. He just stared. He grabbed his crotch, adjusted himself openly, and went back to work.

A shockwave went through me. It was crude. It was dirty.

I turned away from the window but I didn’t leave the kitchen. I stood there, listening to the hammers, my hand drifting down to the waistband of my yoga pants.

I was 45 years old. I had a daughter in high school and a mortgage. My husband was upstairs working from home. And I was standing in my kitchen dripping wet because a stranger made me feel sexy.

I needed release.

I looked at the clock. Brian wouldn’t be done for hours. Emma was occupied outside.

I moved back to the window. Just to the side where the curtain hid me from the yard but gave me a slit of a view. I watched Rick’s back muscles ripple.

My hand slid inside my pants. My panties were soaked. It was shocking. I hadn’t been this wet since ... God, I couldn’t remember.

I touched my clit. It was swollen. Sensitive.

I shouldn’t.

But I was going to.

I kept my eyes on the men outside and began to rub. I didn’t think about my husband.

It was three days later before the humidity broke. The air was slightly more breathable but inside the house I felt feverish. Every time I heard a hammer strike or the grind of a power saw my stomach did a little flip.