The Days Pass By

The day passes in its usual rhythm: school run, work bits, dinner, kids’ bedtime. By the time you climb into bed, the house is quiet, lights dimmed.

You’re lying on your side, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, when Tom shifts closer. His arm comes around your waist, his breath warm on the back of your neck.

“Been thinking about that thing you told me that morning,” he murmurs.

You smile to yourself, still facing away. “Thought you might.”

He chuckles softly. “Can’t get the picture out of my head. You, lying there… touching yourself… thinking about someone else.”

You put your phone on the bedside table and turn to face him. “I told you, it was just a silly thought.”

“Doesn’t sound silly to me,” he says, eyes locked on yours. His hand rests on your hip, thumb moving in slow circles. “Tell me what was in your head.”

Your cheeks warm. “You really want to know?”

He nods once.

You let out a breath, hesitating. “It wasn’t even… about someone specific. Just… the idea of being looked at like that. Like I was… dangerous.”

His lips twitch into a faint smile. “Dangerous, huh?”

You reach down, fingers brushing over the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He’s already half-hard.

“Dangerous enough for this?” you tease softly, wrapping your fingers around him.

He exhales sharply, hips shifting just slightly into your touch. “Keep talking,” he says, voice low.

You start stroking him slowly, the weight and heat of him familiar in your hand. “I imagined… being somewhere I shouldn’t. Letting someone get close. Feeling their hand on me, knowing it was wrong.”

His eyes darken as you speak, his breathing getting heavier. “And you were in bed next to me, thinking about that?”

You nod, squeezing a little firmer. “Mm-hmm.”

His hand slides under your top, palm warm on your waist. “Jesus, Em…”

You keep your strokes slow, deliberate, your thumb circling lazily over the tip. The air between you feels heavier now, not rushed, not frantic, just thick with the unspoken.

“You know I’d never do it,” you murmur, leaning in so your lips almost brush his.

“I know,” he says, a hint of a growl in his voice. “But it’s bloody hot knowing you thought about it.”

You smile, your hand still moving in that slow, steady rhythm, the conversation weaving between breath and touch until neither of you can hold back any longer.