James admits the truth

His reply seared my screen: *One.* Just that. Raw. Devastating. Then: *Golden in the garden. Twisting under my hands.* My stomach swooped violently—the memory of his fingers digging into my sunscreen-slick hips, his ragged breathing as he fought not to grip harder.

I wet my lips and typed slower now: *Did you fuck your wife afterwards? Did you picture her while you came inside your wife?* The words tasted like poison and honey. Somewhere upstairs, Bella’s playlist throbbed through the ceiling. A buffer. An alibi.

His reply burned through the screen: *Never inside her. Always imagining someone else.* The typing bubble reappeared before I could react. *Someone who teases until I lose control. Someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.*

My pulse hammered against my throat as I tapped out the question simmering beneath my ribs: *Like what? What’s she done to push you this far?* The sent message glowed accusingly—too direct, too dangerous. The bubbles danced... then vanished. Silence stretched like a wire about to snap.

When his reply came, it scalded my fingertips: *Sunlight through her bikini. The way she arches into her own fingers like she’s starving for it. The fucking noises she makes—whimpering “sir” like she knows I’m listening.* My breath hitched—his words mirroring last night’s performance with terrifying precision. *That skirt she wears, the one that rides up when she bends. Christ. The first time I saw the lace peeking over the waistband, I nearly came in my trousers like some fucking teenager.*

Downstairs, the fridge hummed. Sarah’s heels clicked across the tiles. Reality pressed in, sharp as the kitchen knife James had gripped too tightly when I’d “dropped” my spoon yesterday. My thumbs hovered—reckless, drunk on power—before typing: *What stops you from taking what you want?*

Three dots pulsed. Stopped. My stomach dropped, then twisted tight when his answer seared across the screen: *Her age. My wedding ring. The fact that my daughter calls her her best friend.* Each admission landed like a blow, delicious in its brutality. But it was the last line that made my thighs press together: *Not sure I can hold back much more though.*

The fridge kicked on downstairs, its hum syncing with the frantic rhythm of my pulse. I chewed my lower lip, tasting yesterday’s cherry gloss, and typed: *What if she wants you to break? What if she’s been begging for it without saying a word?* My thumb hovered over send—too obvious, too close to tipping my hand—but the thrill of dangling the truth just out of reach was intoxicating. I hit send before I could second-guess.

James’ reply came slower this time, the typing bubble appearing and disappearing as if he kept erasing his thoughts. Finally: *Sarah used to look at me like that. Back when we still fucked more than we fought.* My stomach clenched at the raw ache in his words. *She’d wear those silk chemises, the blue one that matched her eyes, and I’d… Christ. I’d pin her to the headboard just to hear her gasp.* The bubbles paused again. *Now she flinches if I touch her shoulder passing the damn salt.*

The fridge’s hum filled the silence while I digested the confession—the brittle vulnerability beneath his lust. I’d seen the way Sarah’s mouth tightened when James reached for her wine glass at dinner, how she’d perfected the art of sidestepping his touch. My fingers flew across the screen: *How long since she let you in?* Too blunt. Too intimate. But the question had claws.

His reply was instantaneous: *March. After Bella’s uni offer night. She drank two bottles of rosé and cried about getting old.* A beat. Then: *She only spread her legs because she forgot I existed.* The words felt like picking at a scab—bloody and compulsive. Somewhere, Bella’s bedroom door creaked open; I tensed, thumb hovering over the keyboard as her footsteps padded down the hall toward the bathroom. The lock clicked. Safe.

I typed faster: *And since then?* Knowing the answer, craving the confession. The dots pulsed, stopped, pulsed again. My knees pressed together under the desk, fabric whispering against skin.

His reply came in staccato bursts: *Cold showers. Business trips. Pretending not to notice when she takes the spare room.* Then, darker: *And the tease who moved in. Always fucking there in my head since that first day by the pool.* The admission seared through me—his fantasy life laid bare. Water pipes groaned as Bella turned the shower on upstairs. Steam would be fogging the mirror soon, her silhouette moving behind frosted glass while her father confessed to imagining me bent over the patio furniture.

I traced the edge of my phone case, considering my next move. The power dynamic had shifted—his raw honesty a surrender I hadn’t anticipated. *You could have anyone,* I typed, testing. *Why her? Why now?* The bubbles appeared immediately, then vanished twice before his answer split the screen: *Because she’s the only one who looks at me like she really wants everything I can give.*

Bella’s shower drummed rhythmically overhead—a metronome counting down to something inevitable. My thumbs moved without conscious thought: *What would you give her?* The question hovered between us, weighted with implication.