Delivery

The truck rumbled into the driveway, a white box van with a logo Stacy didn't recognize. She watched from the window as the driver climbed out, his boots hitting the concrete with a lazy confidence. He was young—mid-twenties maybe—with a sharp jaw and a grin that said he already knew he was the best-looking person in any room.

The box on his hand truck was massive. He wrestled it up the walkway, the wheels bumping over each crack.

Stacy pulled the front door open wide. “Hi, I’ve got a delivery for Stacy Miller.” His tone was bored, his eyes already drifting past her.

“That’s me.” She offered a polite smile, the practiced one she used for vendors and difficult clients. “Wow, that’s bigger than I expected. Would you mind bringing it inside for me? Right there by the entryway is fine.”

“Certainly,” he said, the word dripping with a smug charm.

The air left her lungs.

He grunted, maneuvering the hand truck through the doorway. The box landed with a heavy thud that shook the floorboards.

Her body locked. Her smile froze, then slackened. Her eyes found a fixed point on the wall—a scuff mark near the baseboard—and stayed there. The fog rolled in, warm and familiar, but this time it carried a different current. Something electric. Something dangerous.

No. Not him. Not here. This is insane.

But the thrill was already there, flooding her veins before her mind could catch up. She’d stopped arguing with herself days ago. She’d stopped pretending she had any intention of stopping.

She let herself fall into the trance.

The driver straightened, turning back to her. “Whoa, hey. You okay?”

Silence.

He waved a hand in front of her face. She didn’t blink. Didn’t track. He glanced down the hallway, then back at her. His lazy grin sharpened, turning into something hungrier.

“No way,” he murmured.

He kicked the front door shut. The latch clicked, loud in the sudden quiet. They were alone.

“Touch your nose.”

Stacy’s hand rose. Her index finger pressed against the tip of her nose.

“Lift your skirt.”

Her fingers found the hem and pulled it up, exposing her thighs, the damp fabric of her underwear.

A wide, triumphant grin spread across his face. “Holy shit. It’s real.”

He didn’t waste time. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t hesitate.

“On your knees.”

Her body obeyed. She sank gracefully, her knees meeting the hardwood floor, her hands resting on her thighs. Her skirt pooled around her waist. She looked up at him with empty eyes.

This is really happening. He’s not gentle. He’s not curious. He’s just going to take me.

The rawness of it terrified her. The rawness of it electrified her.

He unzipped his fly. The sound was loud—metal teeth parting, fabric rustling. He pulled himself out, already hard. He stepped closer, one hand tangling in her dark hair, gripping tight.

“Open.”

Her mouth opened.

He pushed inside.

The taste was salt and skin and something bitter. He thrust forward, filling her mouth completely, his hips pressing against her face. His hand tightened in her hair, holding her in place. He didn’t ask if she was comfortable. He didn’t check her position. He just took.

Stacy’s internal voice, distant but clear: He’s using me. Just like I wanted.

She kept her hands on her thighs. Her jaw ached as he moved, his pace rough and uneven. He grunted above her, his breath quickening. The sounds of the room narrowed to that—his breathing, the wet rhythm of his movements, the creak of the floorboards as he shifted his weight.

He pulled almost all the way out, then thrust back in, deeper. Her throat contracted. She didn’t gag. She didn’t resist. She stayed still, a vessel, a warm mouth that knew only to receive.

How long are you going to last?

His grip tightened. His hips stuttered. A low groan escaped his throat, and then he was coming—hot pulses against her tongue, her throat, the back of her mouth. She swallowed without being told. The instinct surprised her, but her body moved on its own, accepting everything he gave.

He pulled back. The absence was sudden and cold. She heard the zip of his fly.

A car horn blared from the street. His head snapped toward the door.

He grabbed his hand truck. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t say a word. The door flew open, then slammed shut.

The silence returned.

Stacy stayed on her knees. The taste sat heavy on her tongue. The ache in her jaw was a dull, pleasant burn.

She blinked.

Her eyes snapped into focus. She looked at the closed door. At the box near the wall. At the empty space where he had stood.

She got to her feet, a dark, fiery energy humming through her veins. Her legs trembled. The taste in her mouth, the ache in her jaw—they weren’t marks of shame. They were trophies.

She was so incredibly, overwhelmingly aroused she could barely think straight.

She turned and walked. Not a stroll. Not a walk. A near-run down the hallway, past the living room, past the bathroom, straight into her bedroom. The door clicked locked behind her.

She didn’t bother removing her clothes. She fell onto the edge of the bed, her hand diving between her legs. The fabric of her underwear was soaked through. She pressed hard, her fingers finding the swollen peak through the damp cotton.

The way he used me. The way he didn’t care.

She circled fast, desperate. Her hips bucked against her hand. The memory of his grip in her hair, the roughness of his thrusts, the casual way he’d left her on the floor—each detail fed the fire building in her core.

She pushed her underwear aside and touched herself directly. Wet. Slick. Ready.

Her fingers worked, two then three, pressing inside, curling against that spot that made her vision blur. She didn’t hold back. She didn’t wait. She chased the release with single-minded focus.

It hit her like a collapsing wave. Her back arched off the bed, a raw cry tearing from her throat. Her body shook through the pulses, her fingers still buried inside herself, riding every tremor until the last one faded.

She collapsed onto the mattress, breath ragged, the taste of him still in her mouth. The fact that she had just given a blowjob to a stranger while her husband was at work never even entered her mind.

Her thoughts drifted through the memory, replaying each second. The click of the door. The command. The rough grip. The way he finished and left without a word.

He hadn’t woken her.

He’d just used her and discarded her.

A slow smile spread across her lips.

And it was the hottest thing that has ever happened to me.

She lay there, legs spread, skirt still bunched around her waist, feeling the sticky evidence of both their climaxes cooling on her skin. The afternoon light streamed through the window, casting her in gold.

She had no idea who he was. She’d never see him again.

The thought made her pulse quicken all over again.