The faint clatter of Mia moving through the apartment woke Ethan from his fragile sleep, her silhouette a blur against the Vegas morning seeping through the blinds. It was the start of week three of Mia's new job, their financial salvation, the key to building a life together. He lay still, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling, listening as she shuffled through their modest living space: the scrape of a hanger, the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of her shoes hitting the floor. Her promise after their fight, "I'll stick to desk stuff," was the lifeline his sanity clung to. Or was it "I'll try"?
She shuffled past the bedroom door, her hair catching the faint light as she tugged it into a loose ponytail. The shy sweaters of her first week were gone, replaced by low-cut tank tops that hugged her curves like a second skin, dark leggings molding to her legs in a way that stirred desire and dread in equal measure. She paused, leaning into the room, her voice soft but clipped.
"Love you," she called, the words a reflex that landed flat against the unease churning in his chest.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the apartment fell back into stillness, the murmur of the waking city a distant hum beyond the walls.
The first few days after their fight, she'd kept it tame: spreadsheets, brewing coffee, fixing outfits for the staff that bothered to wear anything, the safe monotony she'd resolved to stick to. "Slow day, just phones," she'd write, or "Spilled coffee all over the desk, classic me." He'd held tight to those messages, letting them blunt the edge of his worry.
But by midweek, her updates turned vague, "Busy day, it's a madhouse," and she'd roll in late, her energy too sharp, her reasons too ambiguous. "Long shift," she'd mutter, kicking off her shoes as she collapsed onto the couch. He'd nod, swallowing the questions clawing at his throat, and turn away. He hadn't touched the security app she'd given him access to. He called it trust. It was dread, heavy and cold, pooling in his bones.
The following day was a gut punch. Her text buzzed: "Crazy night, Celeste needs me to pitch in again. Home late. Love you!" Pitch in. The phrase gnawed at him, a splinter he couldn't dig out. He paced the living room, the worn carpet scuffing under his socks. He lasted barely an hour before he cracked. His fingers shook as he grabbed his phone, the app loading under unsteady taps. He scrolled the feed, found a recording with her and Lola, and hit play.
The screen flared to life, grainy and harsh under the back room's fluorescent buzz. Lola lay naked on a table, her skin glistening with oil, a towel crumpled beside her. Mia stood over her, red hair pulled back, hands slick as they glided over Lola's shoulders, down her back, then over her hips and breasts. Lola sighed softly.
Mia chuckled, "Feeling good?" before wiping her hands.
Then he found another clip, this time with Jake. The clip loaded: Jake sprawled naked on the same table, tanned and slick, towel discarded. Mia stood at his side in a pair of tight shorts that clung to her figure, her top riding up and baring a strip of skin. Her hands, dripping with oil, worked his shoulders, then his thighs, quick and careful at first, staying in safe zones.
Jake's voice cut through, teasing and light "Lola gets the full body treatment, why not me?"
She hesitated, smirking, "You know that's different with the girls."
He grinned back, "What? that's sexist!"
She guffawed, "No it's not!"
Jake pressed, "Defensive? You know I'm right!"
She sighed, "Okay okay, I guess that's a fair point, but don't get any ideas," and her hands slid higher, oil slicking his inner thighs, then wrapping around his stiff cock. She stroked slow and deliberate before pulling back, wiping her hands on a towel with a smirk. Jake thrust his hips higher, grinning. She giggled and rolled her eyes, "Someone's enjoying themselves a little too much," the clip ending on their shared chuckle.
Ethan's heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic thud that drowned out the room's silence. His phone trembled in his grip, the screen dimming as he replayed it, her ease with Jake, casually stroking his hard-on. Ethan sat frozen, the room spinning around him, until the front door banged open. Mia burst in, buzzing with that sharp energy, her scent laced with oil and sweat as she dropped onto the couch beside him, oblivious to the fire raging behind his eyes.
"Hey, you!" she said, her voice bright as she kicked her legs onto the coffee table, her leggings stretching taut. "Tonight was wild, we were so short-staffed, Celeste had me jump in to help."
"Help how?" His voice came out low and sharp.
She faltered, her grin slipping for a beat before she shrugged. "Massages and stuff. Oiling up the crew for clients. Not really a big deal."
He thrust the phone at her, the clip already looping. "You're stroking his dick, Mia. That's your 'no big deal'?"
