I sat on the edge of our bed, watching Sarah sleep. Her blonde hair spilled across the pillow, catching the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. She looked peaceful, her chest rising and falling gently under the thin sheet. My heart ached with love for her, but it was tangled with something else--guilt, sharp and twisting, gnawing at me from the inside. Last night, I'd lied to her again. Told her I was working late at the office. But instead, I'd been with Marcus, losing myself in a haze of lust that I couldn't seem to escape.
Sarah and I had been together for two years. We met in college, drawn to each other's laughter and shared dreams. She was my first serious girlfriend, and I'd fallen hard. I'm bisexual--always have been--and before Sarah, I'd dated both men and women. But with her, I thought I'd found everything I needed. Our sex life was electric at first, all fumbling passion and late-night explorations. Over time, though, it settled into something predictable. Comfortable, sure, but missing that raw, wild edge I craved. Lately, I'd been haunted by old fantasies--desires I'd buried since being with her. Desires for men. Specifically, black men. I couldn't explain it, not fully, but the thought of it lit something up inside me, a hunger I couldn't ignore.
That morning, as Sarah stirred and mumbled something sweet in her sleep, I forced a smile and slipped out of bed to get ready for work. I worked at a marketing firm downtown, and today we had a big meeting with a new client, Marcus Johnson. I'd seen his photo on his company's website--tall, dark-skinned, with a jawline that could cut glass and a smile that promised confidence. He was gorgeous, and I'd felt a flicker of something dangerous when I looked at him. But I told myself it was nothing. I was committed to Sarah. I had to be.
At the office, I threw myself into prep work, reviewing stats and slides. When Marcus walked into the meeting room, though, everything shifted. He was even more striking in person--six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored suit that hugged his frame. His voice was deep, smooth, commanding attention as he spoke about his tech startup. Our eyes met across the table, and I felt a jolt, like electricity sparking down my spine. I blushed and looked away, focusing on my notes, but I couldn't shake the heat creeping up my neck.
The meeting went well, and afterward, as my colleagues filed out, Marcus approached me. "Great presentation, Emily," he said, his smile warm and disarming. "You've got a real talent."
"Thanks, Mr. Johnson," I replied, trying to sound professional despite the way my pulse raced.
"Call me Marcus," he said, his eyes lingering on mine. "Hey, I'd love to talk more about your ideas. How about drinks tonight? Say, 7 PM at The Loft?"
I hesitated. It sounded like a business thing, but there was an undertone--a pull--that made my stomach flip. "Sure," I heard myself say. "That'd be great."
"Perfect. See you then." He flashed that smile again and left, leaving me standing there, heart hammering.
I texted Sarah: *Working late tonight--big project. Love you.* The lie tasted bitter, but I sent it anyway. Guilt twisted in my gut, but it was drowned out by a thrill I couldn't name.
That evening, I slipped into a black dress that clung to my curves--nothing too scandalous, but enough to feel sexy--and headed to The Loft. Marcus was already there, leaning against the bar, a glass of whiskey in hand. He looked me up and down as I approached, his gaze appreciative. "You look incredible," he said.
"Thanks," I murmured, sliding onto the stool next to him. We ordered drinks--gin and tonic for me--and started talking. Business at first, but it quickly turned personal. He told me about his travels, his ambitions, his life. I found myself laughing, relaxing, opening up about my own dreams. The air between us crackled.
"You're something special, Emily," he said after a while, his hand brushing mine on the bar. "Smart, beautiful. Sarah's lucky."
Her name jolted me, a reminder of reality. "Yeah, she's amazing," I said, but my voice wavered.
He noticed. "Everything okay with you two?"
I sighed, the gin loosening my tongue. "It's just... things have been stale. I love her, but it's not like it used to be."
Marcus leaned closer, his fingers grazing mine again. "Maybe you need something to shake things up."
His touch sent a shiver through me, and I didn't pull away. Our eyes locked, and then he was kissing me--slow at first, then hungry. I kissed him back, heat pooling low in my belly. When he whispered, "Come back to my place," I nodded, too caught up to think straight.
His apartment was sleek, modern, all glass and dark wood. The door barely clicked shut before we were on each other, hands frantic, mouths crashing. He lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carried me to the bedroom. He set me down and peeled off my dress, his fingers deft and sure. I tugged at his shirt, revealing a chest sculpted with muscle, dark skin gleaming under the low light. My bra came off next, and he cupped my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples into tight peaks. I gasped, arching into him.
"You're gorgeous," he murmured, his mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard. His tongue flicked against it, sending sparks straight to my core. I moaned, my hands sliding over his back, feeling the power in his frame.
He moved lower, kissing down my stomach, hooking his fingers into my panties and sliding them off. I lay back, legs parting, and he settled between them, his breath hot against my pussy. His tongue traced my slit, slow and deliberate, tasting me. I whimpered as he found my clit, circling it with maddening precision. He sucked gently, then harder, and I bucked against his mouth, my hands fisting in his hair.
"Oh God, Marcus," I gasped, already trembling.
He slid a finger inside me, then two, curling them to stroke that spot deep inside. My walls clenched around him, wet and desperate. He pumped his fingers, his tongue relentless on my clit, and I shattered, crying out as an orgasm ripped through me. My juices coated his hand, and he licked me through it, drawing out every shudder.
"Please," I panted when I could speak. "I need you."
