Claire starts bringing dates around.
Late that evening, as I sat in my office pretending to work, the sounds started drifting through the walls.
Soft laughter. A muffled thud against the hallway. The unmistakable murmur of voices, low and breathless.
I tightened my grip on my pen, staring at the screen in front of me, but the words blurred.
I knew Claire had brought someone home. I'd seen them come through the front door earlier--her, draped in a sleek black dress that hugged her hips, her date following close behind, hand pressed against the small of her back. She had given me a look as they passed. Nothing obvious. Just a flicker of her gaze, the hint of a smirk.
And now--now I was sitting here, listening to her, caught in some sick form of self-inflicted torture.
A muffled moan.
My throat went dry.
I told myself I should move. Get up. Turn on music. Walk outside. Anything to break the tension crawling under my skin, the slow, twisting heat pooling low in my stomach.
But I didn't move.
I stayed.
The faint creak of bedsprings. A sharp intake of breath.
I closed my eyes, my hands flexing uselessly on the desk. I couldn't see them, but I could imagine.
Claire, spread across the sheets, her auburn hair wild against the pillows. That same smirk playing on her lips, taunting, knowing. The way her skin flushed when she was aroused, the slow roll of her hips as she let someone else touch what I wanted to claim.
The pressure in my chest tightened, a dull ache that radiated downward.
I hated this.
I hated how much I wanted it.
The rhythm started to build--soft sounds punctuated by the occasional gasp, the shifting of sheets.
I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering as I pressed my hands flat against the desk, willing the tension away. But it was no use.
Because I wanted to be in that room.
I wanted to be the reason for those sounds.
I wanted to be between her thighs, to feel her nails dig into my skin, to watch her come undone beneath me.
I clenched my jaw, a rough exhale leaving my lips. My office suddenly felt too hot, the air too thick.
Another moan--higher, breathless.
I shoved my chair back and stood abruptly, my body tight, strung too thin. I needed space. I needed air.
Claire was bringing men home more frequently now, and Sarah only laughed when the sounds carried through the walls late into the night.
"She's insatiable," Sarah had joked one morning over coffee, stirring cream into her cup with a smirk. "Maybe we should try to keep up."
I nearly choked on my coffee.
Sarah had always been confident, relaxed about sex, but this was something else. She didn't mind Claire's behavior--if anything, she admired it. Encouraged it.
And Claire? She fed off it.
She knew Sarah wasn't bothered, and that made her even bolder.
She would lounge in the living room after her dates, still flushed, wearing nothing but a robe loosely tied around her waist. She would lean against the kitchen counter in tiny shorts and a thin camisole, stretching in ways that made the fabric shift, just enough to expose more than she should.
One Morning Claire came down to breakfast like nothing had happened.
She wore one of Sarah's oversized t-shirts--just that. No shorts, no leggings, nothing but the soft, thin fabric barely covering the tops of her thighs. Her damp hair was pulled up lazily, a few loose strands curling around her collarbone.
She stretched as she reached for a mug, the shirt lifting just enough to show the bare curve beneath.
I swallowed hard, gripping my coffee mug like a lifeline.
Sarah, blissfully unaware, was scrolling on her phone at the kitchen table. "Late night?" she teased, glancing at Claire with a smirk.
Claire poured herself coffee, shooting her sister a playful grin. "Something like that."
Sarah laughed. "You're going to run out of guys at this rate."
"Oh, I doubt that," Claire mused, stirring sugar into her mug. "Some men are insatiable."
I nearly choked on my coffee.
Claire turned, leaning against the counter, watching me.
Sarah grinned. "You should give Mark some tips," she joked. "He never lets himself have any fun."
Claire tilted her head, her smirk growing. "Oh, I don't know about that."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "No, seriously. I think he's forgotten how to let loose. We should match your pace, Claire. Maybe some of your energy will rub off on him."
Claire hummed, taking a slow sip of her coffee, still looking at me.
I forced a tight smile, shifting uncomfortably in my chair. "I think I'll pass."
Claire smirked. "Shame."
Sarah huffed. "Mark, we really do need to have more fun. Maybe Claire should start picking our date nights."
Claire's lips curved as she set down her mug. "Oh, I'd love that."
The weight behind her words sent a ripple of heat through my chest.
Sarah, completely oblivious, just laughed.
That night, I told myself I wouldn't watch.
I wouldn't let Claire get inside my head again.
But the moment I heard the soft creak of the sliding glass door, I knew.
From where I stood in the hallway, I had a perfect view of the pool deck, just like before. But this time, she wasn't alone.
A man stood with her. Tall. Broad. Confident. He leaned in, his hand resting on her waist, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered something.
Claire laughed, soft, breathy, teasing.
I should have walked away. I should have turned around, gone to Sarah. But my feet wouldn't move.
And then--she looked at me.
Not directly. Not obviously. But as she reached for the knot at her waist, her gaze flickered toward the window. A flicker of a smirk. A whisper of knowing.
And then, with excruciating slowness, she let the robe slide from her shoulders.
The silk pooled at her feet.
Completely bare.
The man pulled her into him, his hands roaming, his lips tracing the curve of her neck. She tilted her head, exposing more, offering herself.
I swallowed hard, my breath ragged, my pulse hammering in my ears.
I shouldn't be seeing this.
But Claire knew I was watching. She wanted me to.
She turned in his arms, her hands splaying over his chest, sliding lower. The fabric of his swim trunks shifted as she pushed them down, freeing him.
He sat on the edge of the pool, and she knelt before him.
The view was blocked--but not entirely.
Her auburn hair swayed, rocking in a steady rhythm. His fingers curled into it, guiding her movements, his head falling back as a low groan escaped him.
Claire didn't stop. She was slow, deliberate, taking her time.
I stood frozen in place, watching. Feeling.
My own breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, my body aching, straining, pulsing with heat.
And then--she looked at me.
This time, fully. Directly.
Her eyes locked on mine through the glass, her lips curving around him, her expression unreadable--except for the knowing.
She didn't stop.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't look away.
And neither did I.
The man sat before her, his fingers buried in her hair, his head tipped back in pure surrender.
She was taking her time. Deliberate. Skilled.
The movements of her mouth, the slow pull of her lips, the way her shoulders dipped and rose--it was hypnotic.
I felt it.
I imagined it.
Her lips.
On me.
My breath grew shallow, my pulse pounding in my ears as my own fingers drifted downward, matching her rhythm.
Each slow descent. Each measured rise.
I was there.
Not the man. Me.
Her mouth, hot and slick, stretching around me.
Her tongue teasing, stroking, taking.
I exhaled sharply, gripping myself tighter, feeling the tension coil in my gut.
Her lips worked over him with slow, practiced control, her throat tightening as she took him deeper. The man's fingers tensed in her hair, his entire body going rigid as a low, guttural groan spilled from his lips.
And then--release.
I saw it in the way his chest heaved, the way his grip slackened, the way Claire didn't pull away.
She took it.
Swallowed.
