The Silk Robe Hangs Loose

She doesn't look at the fridge. Her thumb traces a slow circle on the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse is starting to hammer. The silk of her robe rustles as she shifts closer. "He's always so thoughtful, isn't he? Making sure you have everything you need." Her eyes lift to yours, pale blue-grey and half-lidded, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "But I don't think that's what you're really after."

She laughs softly, a low sound that vibrates in her chest. Her hand slides from your wrist up to your forearm, fingers trailing over the fabric of your sleeve. "Best friends don't usually stare at their best friend's wife's mouth when she's talking about Wi-Fi passwords." She tilts her head, the movement slow, deliberate, letting the robe's collar slip a little wider at her collarbone. The teardrop-shaped birthmark below her left collarbone catches the morning light. "Do they?"

She bites her lower lip, just barely, drawing your attention to the thin pale scar that runs through it. Her hand stills on your arm, warm and heavy. "Maybe I am. Maybe I've been cooped up in this house too long, and my imagination's running wild." She steps closer, close enough that you can smell her—something floral and clean, like jasmine soap and warm skin. The wine glass she'd been holding is now pressed against her thigh, forgotten. "Or maybe you're the one who needs to stop lying to himself."

The word 'Marcus' hangs in the air between you. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she lets her hand drift up to your shoulder, thumb brushing the curve of your neck where your shirt collar ends. "I'm very aware of who I'm married to." Her voice drops, softer now, almost a murmur. "But he's not here, is he? And you are." She lets the silence stretch, her gaze never leaving yours, her breath warm and steady against your chin. "You're the one who walked through that door."

She doesn't move to block you. Instead, she steps back just enough to give you room—but her hand stays on your shoulder, a light, possessive weight. She takes a slow sip from her wine glass, watching you over the rim. "You could. The door's right there." She sets the glass down on the counter with a soft clink, then turns to face you fully, the robe's belt hanging loose at her side. "But we both know you're not going to. Not yet." Her smile is slow, knowing, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip. "You want to see what happens next."

Her breath catches, just a fraction, and you see a flicker of something raw and hungry in her eyes before she masks it with that lazy smile. She reaches out and takes your hand, turning it over, palm up. Her thumb traces the lines of your palm, slow and deliberate. "Then I'd say you're braver than you look." She lifts your hand, brings it to her lips, and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the center of your palm. Her breath is hot and damp against your skin. She holds there for a long moment, her lashes dark against her cheeks, before she looks up at you. "Are you?"

She lets your hand go, but only so she can step into your space, her body brushing against yours—the silk of her robe sliding over your shirt, the heat of her thighs pressing through the thin fabric. She reaches up, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of your neck. "Let's find out." She pulls your head down, but stops just short of your lips, her mouth hovering a hair's breadth away. Her breath is wine-warm and eager. "Tell me to stop, and I will." Her voice is a whisper now, rough with wanting. "But I don't think you want me to."